ing of politics or stock-jobbing. All she could reason from 
was data which Stener gave her, and he did not know. 
Worst of all, she now realized in a rather clear way that 
he did not know—that he was an implement—a tool in 
the hands of other people. 
If life presents a more painful spectacle than this, one 
would like to know it. The damnable scheme of things 
which we call existence brings about conditions whereby 
whole masses suffer who have no cause to suffer, and, on 
the other hand, whole masses joy who have no cause to 
joy. It rains on the just and the unjust impartially. 
We suffer for our temperaments, which we did not make, 
and for our weaknesses and lacks, which are no part of 
our willing or doing. Who by taking thought can add 
one cubit to his stature? Who can make his brain better? 
His thoughts swifter ? His courage greater ? Who is it 
that can do anything it was not given him to do ? All 
good things are gifts. There are no creations of the mind 
alone. Creations, achievements, distinguished results 
always sink back into so many other things. They have 
their roots in inherited ability, in environment, in fortune, 
in a lucky star. There is no possible contradiction of this. 
It is so. So was it ever. So will it be from everlasting 
to everlasting. 
The little woman, watching her husband this morning, 
experienced a sinking of heart at the evidence of his 
"Is there something in the paper ?" she asked, coming 
over—suspecting—really knowing full well that there 
"No," he said. "Yes, there is, too—a little mention." 
She picked it up and read the long, solemn rigmarole 
concerning the state of her husband's office, which had 
been issued by the Citizens' Municipal Reform Associa- 
tion. An expert was going over his books. There was 
as much as five hundred thousand dollars missing. She 
had not known that.