“Meshugeneh! Where--what? How come you to her? What will you say for your reason? “What’s the difference what I’ll say! I only want to give a look on her ...” And so I kept on restlessly debating. Should I follow my heart and go to her, or should I have a little sense? Finally the desire to see her became so strong that I could no longer reason about it. I left the factory in the middle of the day to seek her out. All the way to her school I prayed: “God--God! If I could only find one human soul that cared ...” I found her bending over her desk. Her hair was gray, but she did not look tired like the other teachers. She was correcting papers and was absorbed in her task. I watched her, not daring to interrupt. Presently she threw back her head and gave a little laugh. Then she saw me. “Why, how do you do?” She rose. “Come and sit down.” I felt she was as glad to see me as though she had expected me. “I feel you can help me,” I groped toward her. “I hope I can.” She grasped my outstretched hands and led me to a chair which seemed to be waiting for me. A strange gladness filled me. “Bessie showed me the poem you told her to learn ...” I paused bewildered. “Yes?” Her friendly eyes urged me to speak. “From what Bessie told me I felt I could talk myself out to you what’s bothering me.” I stopped again. She leaned forward with an inviting interest. “Go on! Tell me all.” “I’m an immigrant many years already here, but I’m still seeking America. My dream America is more far from me than it was in the old country. Always something comes between the immigrant and the American,” I went on blindly. “They see only his skin, his outside--not what’s in his heart. They don’t care if he has a heart.... I wanted to find some one that would look on me--myself ... I thought you’d know yourself on a person first off.” Abashed at my boldness I lowered my eyes to the floor. “Do go on ... I want to hear.” With renewed courage I continued my confessional. “Life is too big for me. I’m lost in this each-for-himself world. I feel shut out from everything that’s going on.... I’m always fighting--fighting--with myself and everything around me.... I hate when I want to love and I make people hate me when I want to make them love me.” She gave me a quick nod. “I know--I know what you mean. Go on.” “I don’t know what is with me the matter. I’m so choked.... Sundays and holidays when the other girls go out to enjoy themselves, I walk around by myself--thinking--thinking.... My thoughts tear in me and I can’t tell them to no one! I want to do something with my life and I don’t know what.” “I’m glad you came,” she said. And after a pause, “You can help me.” “Help you?” I cried. It was the first time that an American suggested that I could help her. “Yes, indeed! I have always wanted to know more of that mysterious vibrant life--the immigrant. You can help me know my girls.”