Lately I had written a sketch describing the heart-aches of Foster’s colored boy, of whom he sang in the tender words of “The Old Folks at Home,”—the far off home on the Suanee river; and I had cried over the boy I had pictured in my mind, because I, too, have suffered with heart-aches and loneliness and soul hunger. But here was a little homeless girl who could never more dream of a mother back in the old home. There was no one at home to wish her back again, not even a home. There was no one waiting with heart-aches to see her, unless there are heart-aches beyond the grave. I opened the door to catch a last glimpse of the little orphan and saw her bravely trudging up the wet street, occasionally shifting the bundles from one arm to the other, for one of the bundles was much larger than the other—so large that it cramped her chubby arm while holding it close to her body. “Such a good worker!” The words persisted in coming back to me, leaving a sadness at my heart that could not be shaken off. How long has she been a good worker? When did she first learn how to work? Such an age for such a grand reputation! I thought of the drones all over the country who never win such a reputation, though they live on the fat of the land, and feel as far above little Eva Yarnell as the gods are supposed to feel above a toad. In whom, I wonder, do the gods feel the most interest—in Eva Yarnell, or in the fat and sleek drones who sit in upholstered chairs and try to mold the opinions of the world. I do not know—I can not believe that this world is ruled by the hand of love, no odds whether that hand is divine or not. Law is stern, severe and unrelenting; the one side padded with the down of mercy, but the reverse side rough with cruel thorns and painful projections. And the reverse side seems always turned towards the weak and the helpless—towards the motherless orphan I had in my mind—little Eva Yarnell. “Such a worker!” Such an age! God send her kind mistress and a sheltering home! LOVING THE WORLD There is a difference between loving the world for the world’s wealth’s sake, and loving the world for the sake of humanity. There is often this difference between the patriotism of men. Some patriots love the surface of the world where they are located far more than they love the people who share it with them. Some patriots love the wealthy of their neighboring countries, while they are totally indifferent towards the toiling poor of that same country. In America the people who love humanity for humanity’s sake, give their sympathies to the plundered and outraged peasantry of Russia, while those who love the world for wealth’s sake give their sympathies to Emperor Nicholas and the parasitical royalty of that unhappy country.