Virginia said: “When I want to do some kind or good thing which it is hard to do, because I lack courage, I make up my mind that I will do it anyway, without thinking; I walk right in, and then the rest is always easy and pleasant.” “In other words,” I answered, “you manage yourself. I do believe it is good to know what you want to be, and how you want to be it, and then to avoid strenuously everything that interferes.” We spoke of wasted and worthless conversation with “outsiders,” and I warned them all against boring people, or allowing themselves to be bored. It is better not to talk at all. Virginia said she always made people amuse her, which seemed to us a good way. I suggested getting people to tell of themselves, since all human nature is interesting. But Ruth objected that people who did it were the worst bores, and only conceited people _would_ do it. “At any rate,” I said, “please don’t get into the habit of making flat conversation, for then you yourselves will degenerate into bores.” And we decided that merriment would cover many ills. We spoke of the worth of knowledge. The boys and girls have to study subjects unprofitable to them, for the sake of passing certain examinations. This, of course, is a definite sacrifice for a definite reason. But it is necessary, in all studying, to choose some subjects and to sacrifice others. I said I would very much like to know everything. “Yes,” Henry answered, “I always wish I might know everything there is to know.” “But, of course, we can’t,” I said, “and so we have to choose first that knowledge which we need, which will make our life as we wish it to be.” Alfred told us how he had chosen to study French and German instead of Latin, because they seemed more necessary to him, though he would like to know them all. “And,” I said, “the thing you love you shall seek with your might. You must definitely want to be a certain sort of a person in life, else you may be no sort of person. Have you noticed how some people, who were quite charming in youth, ‘peter out’ when they grow older, how they lose all interest in things, and become dull? To me that seems unnecessary. Age may be just as full, interesting and active as youth, to those whose life has a definite aim and meaning.” Henry said: “Yes, I wish to live long. I have heard people say they would not like to be old, and to be a burden to others.” “But you,” I answered, “mean to live long and not be a burden to others.” “Yes,” he said. “You must concentrate,” I went on; “you must get out of life only what you need and want.” Florence said she couldn’t concentrate in her studies, except when she loved them. Naturally, I answered, it was strong love that made us concentrate. Virginia said: “I used to study, only instead of studying I looked out of the window.” “But now, at your art,” I answered, “you work with concentration, because you love it.”