The hunger of my heart drove me to the night-school. Again my dream flamed. Again America beckoned. In the school there would be education, air, life for my cramped-in spirit. I would learn to think, to form the thoughts that surged formless in me. I would find the teacher that would make me articulate. I joined the literature class. They were reading “The De Coverley Papers.” Filled with insatiate thirst, I drank in every line with the feeling that any moment I would get to the fountain-heart of revelation. Night after night I read with tireless devotion. But of what? The manners and customs of the eighteenth century, of people two hundred years dead. One evening, after a month’s attendance, when the class had dwindled from fifty to four, and the teacher began scolding us who were present for those who were absent, my bitterness broke. “Do you know why all the girls are dropping away from the class? It’s because they have too much sense than to waste themselves on ‘The De Coverley Papers.’ Us four girls are four fools. We could learn more in the streets. It’s dirty and wrong, but it’s life. What are ‘The De Coverley Papers?’ Dry dust fit for the ash-can.” “Perhaps you had better tell the principal your ideas of the standard classics,” she scoffed, white with rage. “All right,” I snapped, and hurried down to the principal’s office. I swung open the door. “I just want to tell you why I’m leaving. I--” “Won’t you come in?” The principal rose and placed a chair for me near her desk. “Now tell me all.” She leaned forward with an inviting interest. I looked up, and met the steady gaze of eyes shining with light. In a moment all my anger fled. “The De Coverley Papers” were forgotten. The warm friendliness of her face held me like a familiar dream. I couldn’t speak. It was as if the sky suddenly opened in my heart. “Do go on,” she said, and gave me a quick nod. “I want to hear.” The repression of centuries rushed out of my heart. I told her everything--of the mud hut in Sukovoly where I was born, of the Czar’s pogroms, of the constant fear of the Cossack, of Gedalyah Mindel’s letter, of our hopes in coming to America, and my search for an American who would make America real. “I am so glad you came to me,” 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. You have so much to give--” “Give--that’s what I was hungering and thirsting all these years--to give out what’s in me. I was dying in the unused riches of my soul.” “I know; I know just what you mean,” she said, putting her hand on mine. My whole being seemed to change in the warmth of her comprehension. “I have a friend,” it sang itself in me. “I have a friend!”