Dickens tells of a character whose unworthy life had apparently extinguished the divine spark, and yet, down deep within her, at the end of a tortuous passage, there was a door, and over this door was the word womanhood. Nannie had such a door, and at sight of that tiny article of clothing it opened. The girl's heart--the woman's heart was crying out now, and her eyes were dim with tears she did not understand. All unconscious of the pathos of the scene, Constance plied her dainty needle, and in a sweet low voice talked with a young girl (Gertrude Earnest) who sat at her feet. "A story?" "Yes, please, Mrs. Chance." Constance, you must know, was a story teller--not of a reprehensible sort, but a legitimate, orthodox one, and locally she was not without honor on this account. "Well, then, long, long ago," she began, "in the dim dawn of creation, the gods looked down upon man whom they had made, and realized that he was but a poor piece of work. "'He needs other gifts,' said one. "'Yea, verily,' murmured another, 'but they are fraught with such peril!' "'Nevertheless he must have at least one more. He must not continue unconscious even of what is taking place around him--the acts of which he himself is a part.' "And so they sent a spirit whose eyes were large and somber, and mankind received her with open arms, not knowing that her name was Realization. Endowed with this immortal gift, they no longer groveled, for they knew what was passing around them--knew what part they were playing in the great drama, Life. And when she turned her happy face toward them they waxed merry, but when they saw her sterner visage they wept. "Still they lacked painfully, living as they did wholly in the present, sending never a backward glance along the echoing corridors of the past--never a swift shaft of sight along the dim shadowy vistas of the future. And the gods noted this lack. "'It must be remedied,' said one. "'Nay! nay!' pleaded another. 'Let them be as they are. They are spared so much of grief.' "'They are also denied so much of joy,' said the first with gentle firmness. 'They must receive their gift and must pay its price.' "'Ah the price! So heavy!' still pleaded the other. "'The end is worth the pain,' was the reply. "And so another spirit was sent to earth, and she too had a double aspect. One face was lighted by a happy, dreamy smile; the other was lined with sharpest pain, for her name was Memory. "'One more gift and the trio is complete,' the gods decreed. "'Let them alone; in mercy let them alone!' pleaded the pitying spirit. 'They have enough to bear--enough of joy; enough of grief.' "'Nay, nay. They are but imperfectly endowed. They look about them at the waves that lap the beach on which they stand, and look backward o'er the sands of Time, but send never a glance forward over the great misty ocean of the Future.'