Another case of ingratitude came to me just the other day: One man asked another for a loan of $200. It was taking great risks to loan the fellow anything, but the friend took chances and loaned him half as much as he asked for. Now the fellow hasn’t a single kind word to speak of the generous lender. This is not only injuring the man who so kindly befriended him, but the abuse may sour the lender against humanity in general, as some day some other honest but unfortunate man may be turned away empty handed, on account of the wound made by the ingratitude of the human parasite. Those who are not thankful for small favors, are absolutely barren of gratitude, and deserve no favors at all. And where there is no gratitude there are no generous impulses, no spirit of charity, no love for humanity, either dead or alive. And the world is full of them. I have only referred to two cases—two of the most common cases—every reader knows of a dozen other cases. Ingratitude is the white man’s great sin against humanity. ORPHAN EVA Sitting at the window one cold frosty morning I saw little Eva Yarnell passing the house with a bundle of clothes under each arm. Eva is a girl of twelve years, and an orphan. Her mother died when she was but six years old. I’ve always been interested in the child because she had been shifted from pillar to post, as the saying goes, one relative keeping the little girl as long as their means lasted, when she would be moved on to another aunt or uncle or cousin or grandmother. Her relatives were all poor, and it seemed as though Providence was forcing little Eva to share all the poverty and want of her relatives. She has at times been a schoolmate of my boy, so when he came into the room I asked him where little Eva was moving to. “Oh, she’s all right now, papa!” the boy exclaimed. “She’s going to live with Bingman’s, just above town, on a farm. She’s such a good worker, and I believe Mrs. Bingman will appreciate Eva and make it pleasant for her. The poor child is just about naked, and I’m sure Mrs. Bingman will dress her better than she was ever dressed in her life.” I caught my boy’s hopeful feeling and inwardly rejoiced over little Eva’s good fortune. But after sitting for a time thinking about the life of orphan Eva, it struck me forcibly about the child’s recommendation. “She’s such a good worker,” my boy said. Working her way through life “at the age of twelve.” “What an age! What a stern life for a girl of twelve! God help you, child, and send you a kind mistress!” I said aloud, as I turned to my desk with a queer sad feeling tugging at my heart.