We cannot leave the granting of food to employees, so when the Superintendent and his wife are absent we have some pathetic cases. Mr. Gordon found a little fellow crying at the door. “What is the matter, little man?” said the big man. “Mother gave me ten cents to buy food for our family, and I have lost the money.” You may be sure Mr. Gordon obtained much more than ten cents' worth of food for the child. Very many families live in one furnished room and get all their food at the penny lunch counter. Seamstresses, all the dollar a day men for many squares, girls from the Agricultural Seed Bureau, come in and buy at cost the luncheon at the middle of the day. Many well-to-do people come in and take luncheon to watch the various grades of humanity who solve the cost of high living by taking meals at the Mission. All the street peddlers, the umbrella man, the shoestring and pencil man, the rag gatherers, eat at the counter, the better class sit at the tables. Mr. Gordon saw a little altercation between a waiter and a customer, the waiter demanding four cents while the man had but three cents. “But you should not have ordered food unless you could pay for it.” The poor man looked dreadfully embarrassed, at last he looked up and said, “Will you lend me a cent, sir?” which was gladly done. Many who come only for the cheap meal are induced by the kindness shown and by the good music and bright lights in the chapel, to go in to the services. There some song, some word from the speaker, some devout prayer, touches the chord of memory of what a mother, a faithful teacher or almost forgotten preacher has taught years ago, and, backed by the Holy Spirit, a prodigal son or a prodigal daughter returns to the Father's house. Mr. Kline reports the meals furnished in the Penny Lunch Room from May 12, 1912, to May, 1913, to be 87,856, at an average cost of four and one-third cents per meal. THE DISPENSARY was opened February 1, 1912, after the need was very apparent, and further neglect of this branch of work seemed impossible. Never will I forget the day when I first called up Dr. C. H. Bowker, one of the leading physicians of the city, living on Massachusetts Avenue, near Thomas Circle, the very heart of the city, and told him of a man who had pneumonia, and of a woman in the shelter with a severe cold, and asked him to go to the Mission free of charge. I waited with bated breath for the reply. It was, “I am an exceedingly busy man, but I shall try to go within an hour.” Very much emboldened, I said, “Could you stop in once a day to see if anyone there has a contagious disease, or if anyone should be sent immediately to the hospital?”