Of all the unfortunates on the face of the globe there is none so worthy of real all-wool pity and yard-wide sympathy as the woman of nerves. Yes, and her family needs a dash of consolation, too. One nervous woman can create more nervousness among other women than could a cageful of mice or a colony of cows suddenly let loose. It is not for herself that the fuss-budget should mend her ways, but for the great good of humanity at large. We are all of us more or less nervous, and it is really interesting to observe what strange outlets woman's natural nervousness chooses. "I'd walk from Hyde Park to the city hall at midnight and never be a bit scared. But let me stay in the flat alone after dark and I'm in a state of terror that would make you weep were you to behold me," confesses nervous lady No. 1. "I have nerves of iron," pipes up nervous lady No. 2. "Except when there is a thunderstorm. Then I wish I were as dead as Julius Caesar." "Well!" drawls nervous lady No. 3. "I don't believe in ghosts at all, but I'm scared to death of 'em. Sometimes I not only keep the gas burning all night, but I sit up in bed so as to be right ready to run away from 'em." Some people have contempt for the nervous ones. I have only pity. Any one who has gone through the tortures of hearing imaginary burglars three nights in the week for ten or twelve years on an endless stretch needs consolation and then a good, straight talk on the beautiful convenience of horse sense. Most women are always hearing burglars. Probably one in a thousand turns out to be a real, live housebreaker. Whenever the wise woman hears one fussing with the lock on the front door or trying to squeeze into the pantry window, she just says: "Same old burglar. He'll be gone in the morning," and he always is. That's a heap better plan than arousing the household and suffering the unmerciful torture that a family given to ridicule can inflict.