“Yours, “CYNTHIA GRANT, M.D. “_P.S._—I am particularly anxious for interesting tumors.” Muriel thought for a moment, then laughed, and wired back: “Please come, plenty of interesting tumors.” It was the first day of October before the two women settled to work. Life opened before them full, arduous, engrossing. Around them in teeming factories and crowded dust-yards lived the people into whose lives their own brought knowledge, health, horizon. Year after year these sordid lives go on, working until dead-tired they stumble home and stand an hour or two in the close streets full of the dangers and temptations of the city; the holidays’ rough carnivals of over-feeding and drinking. Death, disease and sin the only breaks in the grim monotony of passing years, and now slowly and gradually the change was taking place. From their work the young people streamed into the clubs, and were taught little by little lessons of life, courtesy, truthfulness, honesty; and these not by confronting them with strange virtues, but in developing their own, generosity, kindliness and the marvellous quality of “straightness,” the shield of so many of the poor. Men found billiards and other games, even cards, though gambling was not allowed; they could pass their evenings in social good fellowship without spending their wages or staggering home drunk. Their wives, too, in another part were not less well cared for, and their sons and daughters, kept out of the streets four or five nights out of the seven, were all the more inclined to stay at home on the other two. More than all this, living among them and sharing all they suffered was a “lidy,” who if she had chosen need never have done a stroke of work, or given a thought to anything but pleasure and ease and beauty. Though some of the more hardened jeered at her for her sacrifice, the greater part were drawn in generous animation and gratitude into the work, and even those who jeered left her alone and would have fought any who tried to do her an injury. “You only touch the fringe,” Cynthia said to her one day. “So what’s the use? When you die it will all sink back again!” “Do you know,” said Muriel smiling, “I believe there is healing in the very hem of His garment, and that all these children in whom we start a larger life will in time permeate the apathetic multitude. As for ourselves, don’t doubt that when we die the work will not go on. Truly I should be very despairing if I dreamed that such tremendous purposes rested on my shoulders. We just fit in here, that’s all, and make the room larger for the next comer!” “Humph!” said Cynthia dryly; “after I’d made the room larger, I should prefer sitting in it myself.” “Nonsense,” laughed Muriel; “you would go on to make an addition to the house!”