In one’s freshman year one would be taught, perhaps, not to present an $85 inlaid umbrella with a gold dog’s-head handle with rhinestone eyes to a gentleman of culture like Mr. Richard Mansfield, for instance, as was once done one Christmas by an ardent but unillumined friend. If a lady has saved your son’s life, the Educated Heart doesn’t reward her by offering her chastely appointed apartment a two-ton carved ebony chair upholstered in red plush. Oh, no, it’s not easy. People nowadays haven’t the artless gratitude of that easily-satisfied girl who used to sing: _“He promised to bring me a bunch of blue ribbons To tie up my bonny brown hair!”_ The people I know usually prefer to select their own ribbons--and gloves and boudoir caps and neckties--rather than have them chosen, however expensively, by--well, by those who do sometimes have the audacity to choose them for you. Now taste, you will say, cannot be disputed. Each one has his own. Perhaps it can’t even be educated. We’ll see, later. But imagination surely can be brought to bear. Suppose we suggest a few ways, in illustration. ARE you sailing for Italy? Ah, it isn’t the basket of fine fat fruits that brings the tears to your eyes, nor the flowers with trailing yards and yards of red ribbon--all that’s mere kindness, ordinary everyday kindness. Even the Vanderbilts can do that. But it’s the things--oh, it’s the things Mr. Rockefeller never would think of--it’s that little purse full of Italian currency, bills and small change all ready for you when you first trip ashore at Genoa. It’s the little nest of spools of colored silk Minnie made for you to catch up the first threatened run in your stocking. I may, oh, yes, I may forget the three hundred dollars you lent me that time I was broke; but the little corkscrew you so thoughtfully added when you gave me that bottle of your pet malt extract--that I shall never, never forget! No, he didn’t have much style, I admit, to his dented, dusty derby, poor old Westrose, but, God bless him, his heart was certainly up to date. He may have got a lady’s coat upside down occasionally when he helped her on with it--but he understood the Fourth Dimension of Kindness, all right. Never a friend of his wife’s did he ever puffingly put aboard a street car, but he’d tuck, apologetically, into her hand the nickel to save her rummaging in her bag. Real elegance, the gesture of inherent nobility, I call that. It’s like the flourish to the signature of Charles Dickens. It’s kindness with a kick to it. In short, it’s the manner and custom of the Educated Heart, that makes you turn over at night and decide to add a codicil to your will--why should brother Fred have it all?