When he returned to his business, with his mind braced to stand any disasters that he might discover, he was astonished to find everything in perfect condition, and that his assistant had even corrected the errors he had himself made in the last weeks of overworked body and fagged brain. It was at first a blow to his pride that he was not essential to the success of his own business, but, as he realized how big a price he had paid to learn this simple lesson, he made a decision that showed how far he had advanced beyond his former condition. Turning to his assistant, he said: “Smith, as you can carry on this business so well, I shall take three months’ vacation every year, and have no more expensive breakdowns; and, as I want you to continue to carry it on as well while I am away, you would better take three months’ vacation every year, too, so there shall be no breakdowns for you.” He had really learned two lessons in one—what things were not worth doing, and what things could be done by somebody else. He still had left “the things that were quite enough for any man to attempt.” No man is really indispensable to any undertaking, however much it may seem so to him. When James Alexander controlled the Equitable Life Assurance Society, he made it his rule to discharge anybody who seemed to be indispensable. His reason for this was that, the longer such a man was retained, the more indispensable he would become, until the association would be in danger of going to smash if anything happened to that one man. Common prudence dictated the advisability of getting rid of him while the company could manage to get along somehow without him. There was once a Dutchman who was of much the same opinion as Mr. Alexander. His manager applied for an increase of salary. “I t’ink I buys you bretty dear, alretty, Hans.” “Yes,” said Hans, “I get a good salary, but then I am worth it. I know everything and do everything about the business; in fact, you couldn’t get along without me.” “Ach, ish dot so? Vell; vat I do if you vas deat, Hans?” “Oh, well! if I were dead, you’d have to get along without me.” “Ach!” replied the Dutchman, slowly, “den, Hans, I t’inks we gonsiders you deat.” It is well to think sometimes of how nicely the world got along before we came to it, and how likely it is to do just as well after we have left it. If, when we are rushing around, weighed down by anxiety and a feeling of our own importance, we should “consider ourselves dead” for a few moments, we might find that the fever of life had subsided.