“Of this I am convinced: men are never to be uplifted permanently, except by human sympathy, intelligently directed and expressed, and by personal contact with those who do not come to them to dole out ‘charity,’ but who come as brothers to lend them a helping hand. “There are a few who begin the work; there are fewer still who continue it. The other day a gentleman, who is giving his life to the rescuing of street children, told me of the faintheartedness of his voluntary helpers, who come a half dozen Sundays to his mission, but who rarely come longer when they discover that, to use his own coarse but forcible words, which you will pardon my quoting verbatim, ‘_they must be willing to pick lice off those children for Christ’s sake_.’... “Well, dear friend, we are both working in very different ways. You would tear down; I would build up, or ‘patch up,’ as you say. Which of us is the wiser, time will tell; but however differently we may labor, it is for the same end after all that we are striving,—‘putting society on a just and rational basis,’ as you would phrase it, or bringing God’s kingdom upon earth, as the Christ called it,—and so I bid you God-speed.”... CHAPTER VII. One morning in April we had risen from a leisurely, late breakfast, a luxury which, with our press of work, we did not often allow ourselves, except when, as in this case, we had been up late the previous night. Hélène brought in the usual bulky bag of mail matter, and we settled ourselves to our morning’s task, I taking charge of all letters that were not of a private nature, and consigning to the waste basket innumerable quires of paper devoted to more or less roundabout appeals for aid, and lectures and advice _ad libitum_. Occasionally we stopped to read aloud to each other bits of the letters, and discuss or laugh over their contents. This morning I remember I was examining a document in regard to a prison reform society, containing a request that Mildred would allow her name to be used as vice-president of it, when an exclamation from her startled me into dropping the letter and turning round. “Well, what now?” I asked, in response to the intimation from the puckered forehead and pursed-up lips that something was the matter. “Another love-sick poet? or is it a count this time? It must be time for another suitor; you haven’t had an offer of marriage for at least ten days, have you?” “Indeed, Ruby, this is no joke, I assure you,” replied Mildred, gazing blankly at the letter in her hand. “It is from General Lawrence.” “What!” I exclaimed; “that distinguished-looking man who has written all those books upon political economy? He talked with me in such an entertaining way the other night and told the funniest stories. I was afraid he would be awfully erudite and dry, but he wasn’t at all.”