“But what do you want to do with me?” I asked. “Travel with you. I would go as your secretary, as your maid, as anything if you would only take me. I would pay all my own expenses and promise to be useful.” “Maids sew on buttons and lace up boots,” I replied, laughing. “I’ll do all that and more, if you will only take me. I have your books, and I know I should love you, and I do so want to travel, to really travel as you do.” She was delightfully enthusiastic; but, alas! I could not take her; the responsibility of a headstrong girl was too great. It might have turned out an ideal arrangement, but, again, it might have been a hideous failure, and when travelling to write books one has no time to tackle needless worries. To end this list of letter-samples that more often tease than gratify the recipient are constant demands for subscriptions; appeals for gifts of books to poor clubs; letters from comparative strangers asking if they may bring a particular friend or a foreigner to call, as they wish to have a talk with me, or see over my house. In fact, no one who does not peep into a busy woman’s letter-box can have any idea of the amount of correspondence on all conceivable subjects it contains. No doubt other workers have likewise helped—or are helping—the young or shiftless beginners who have not yet found foothold on the lowest rung of the ladder, round which so great a crowd is struggling. But do all, one wonders, learn, as has been my experience, how quickly eaten bread is sometimes forgotten by the eater: how often so-called gratitude is only the hope of fresh favours to come? Does it ever strike people that it hurts? A girl of my acquaintance was once very, very poor. She wrote asking my advice; saw me, and finally started in a small way as a manicurist. No move was made without claiming my advice at all times and seasons. She called and sat for hours asking this and that. She brought agreements to be looked over, earnings to discuss, address-books for suggestions; Heaven knows what she did not bring. At my persuasion she saved shillings and put them into the Post Office Savings Bank. Then it became pounds, and I arranged with a bank to open a little account for her, and later asked my stockbroker to invest her first saved hundred pounds in something _very_ safe. That first hundred saved, in a year or two became a thousand, and quickly doubled itself. She deserved it all, for she worked hard and saved diligently, but—well! the protectress was wanted less and less, the protestations of affection and admiration slowly ceased, and when my help could no longer be of use they came to an end. Gratitude. Where is it? The people one helps most generously often turn away the moment they are firmly established.