Am I not right? Is it the sparkling bright apostle of pleasantry to whom you go to borrow that ten dollars, or to the serious, kindly dub who never sees the point? Which dentist is most apt to drill that horrid millimetre too far into a shrieking nerve--he who tells you diverting anecdotes, the while, or the solemn conscientious drudge? To whom do you tell your troubles-- the agile wit, or the bromide-minded, solid, respectable Philistine, your uncle, with the shoestring tie? No, no; oh, no, my friend, you can’t be too quick on the comic trigger, if you would have the Educated Heart! There is “a time to weep, and a time to laugh,” said the Preacher; the Educated Heart knows well how to control his mirth. YOU call once or twice at the hospital. Do you ever call again? Not unless you have the Educated Heart. Yet the patient is still perhaps quite as ill. The plain truth is, if you must know it, most people really dislike illness. It bores them. It interferes with their happiness and convenience. It thrusts upon them, too, a disagreeable burden of sympathy. But, one there was--d’you remember? will you ever forget?--who used to bring that cute scrapbook, every morning, pasted in with funny newspaper items of the day’s news. One there was who wrote you letters every day. One who rescued the clock that _always_ had something in front of it, so you couldn’t see the time, who was careful never to hit the bed, who talked to you, yes, to poor sick _you_, instead of to the distinguished caller who happened to be present. But still I insist I don’t mean mere kindness. Others were kind to you. They bought you things. But such acts as these required more thought and invention than the others spent, when they sent the jelly and champagne. And oh, what do these Uneducated Hearts do at your first brave smile (though the effort kills you), at your first would-be, will-be cheerful letter, or at your first timorous step on crutches? They beam. Oh, how they beam! “Oh, you’re all right now, aren’t you!” It may pain you for months to breathe, you may limp on that broken ankle to your grave--but it’s much more convenient for them to have you well again. And so, isn’t it lovely you’re cured! ASK any invalid. Ask poor Luraine. “I’m afraid I’ll have to wear glasses,” wept poor Luraine, after that accident when her eye was injured. “Well, my dear,” said her would-be comforter, “I do hope you’ll get some of those smart tortoiseshell goggles--they’re so becoming!” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what often passes for sympathy. Ask any partially deaf person who is the cruellest of her would-be friends. Isn’t it that kind and thoughtless one who says, so sweetly: “Why, I think you get along awfully well, you know. Really no one would ever know you can’t hear!” No one but the Educated Heart ever knows or cares for the tearful nights of wild revolt, the days and years of stoic suffering that remain, just the same. Yes, just the same.