Now, I hold no brief for any Church—I believe in Justice. In all my dealings with the two “Ys” I never saw the slightest indication that any creed was discriminated against. Is it because the two “Ys” stand for progress that Catholics abuse them, belittle their work? It may have been because of my long hours in the basement of the International Headquarters, or it may have been subsisting on such scanty meals—in any event soon after giving up my position in the multigraph department I was taken with a heavy cold. I know I had fever, for twice a day my pillows and sheets were saturated with perspiration. My head felt as big as a bushel measure, and was chockful of ache. Struggle as hard as I might, and I did struggle, I couldn’t get up sufficient strength to get down-stairs, even though after hours of struggle I succeeded in putting on my clothes. The first Sunday of this illness I think I must have been in a measure delirious, for I was obsessed by the idea that no hospital would take me in, that I must wait until Monday. With that idea planted firmly in my mind, I pinned a note on the pin-cushion—the name of the physician I wished called on Monday, and to which hospital I was to be taken. A ten-cent bottle of vaseline being all I possessed in the way of medicine, I put it beside my pillow and between dozes ate it. Sunday night I began to cough up the phlegm that had made my chest feel so painfully tight. Then I fell asleep, such a good, sound sleep. When I wakened it was Monday forenoon, my head had become normal in size, and all the ache had disappeared. How weak I was! Trying to walk from the bed to the window I almost fainted. If it had not been for Jack Harland, who also had a room on the top floor, I really don’t know what would have become of me. Miss O’Brien never came near me, neither did Hildegarde Hook. Jack, my tall, long-legged boy, as I used to call him, came twice a day, morning and evening, to ask how I felt and learn what he could get for me in the way of food. Later, when I was able partially to dress and keep my eyes open, he would come in evenings and read to me—the daily paper and parts of “Les Misérables” and of “Ninety-Three.” Wonderful Victor Hugo! When read by a sympathetic boy’s voice these books become wonderful indeed. The first time I was able to creep out, on returning, mounting the four flights of stairs to my room, I realized that something was the matter with my heart. Instead of hunting a job next day, as I had planned, I knew that I must wait until I got stronger. Working with a fluttery heart like that I might drop in my tracks at any moment. I had paid a week’s rent and still had five dollars in my pocketbook, so why worry? Of course I would be fit before the end of the week. When that time came not only was my heart as fluttery as ever, but I realized that I had gained precious little, if any, strength.