took her for a fool. Not merely for a person wanting in intelligence, or slow-witted, but for a downright fool. She must think so, or she would have taken more pains, at least some pains, to make her schemes a little less transparent. Anna hated herself for feeling mortified by this; but mortified she certainly was. Even a philosopher does not like to be honestly mistaken during an entire fortnight for a fool. Though he may smile, he will almost surely wince. Not being a philosopher, Anna winced and did not smile. "I think," she said to Manske, when he came in one morning with a list of selected applications, "I think we will wait a little before choosing the other nine." "The gracious one is not weary of well-doing?" he asked quickly. "Oh no, not at all; I like well-doing," Anna said rather lamely, "but it is not quite--not quite as simple as it looks." "I have found nine most deserving cases," he urged, "and later there may not be----" "No, no," interrupted Anna, "we will wait. In the autumn, perhaps--not now. First I must make the ones who are here happy. You know," she said, smiling, "they came here to be made happy." "Yes, truly I know it. And happy indeed must they be in this home, surrounded by all that makes life fair and desirable." "One would think so," said Anna, musing. "It is pretty here, isn't it--it should be easy to be happy here,--yet I am not sure that they are." "Not sure----?" Manske looked at her, startled. "What do people--most people, ordinary people, need, to make them happy?" she asked wistfully. She was speaking to herself more than to him, and did not expect any very illuminating answer. "The fear of the Lord," he replied promptly; which put an end to the conversation.