d got everything, the gift of blanket and
coals, the warm mufflers, and "a shawl for granny" showed them what
ungrateful souls they were.

Women have dispensed charity for many, many years, but gradually it has
dawned upon them that the most of our charity is very ineffectual, and
merely smoothes things over, without ever reaching the root. A great
deal of our charity is like the kindly deed of the benevolent old
gentleman, who found a sick dog by the wayside, lying in the full glare
of a scorching sun. The tender-hearted old man climbed down from his
carriage, and, lifting the dog tenderly in his arms, carried him around
into the small patch of shade cast by his carriage.

"Lie there, my poor fellow!" he said. "Lie there, in the cool shade,
where the sun's rays may not smite you!"

Then he got into his carriage and drove away.

Women have been led, through their charitable institutions and
philanthropic endeavors, to do some thinking about causes.

Mrs. B. set out to be a "family friend" to the family of her washwoman.
Mrs. B. was a thoroughly charitable, kindly disposed woman, who had
never favored woman's suffrage and regarded the new movement among
women with suspicion. Her washwoman's family consisted of four
children, and a husband who blew in gaily once in a while when in need
of funds, or when recovering from a protracted spree, which made a few
days' nursing very welcome. His wife, a Polish woman, had the
old-world reverence for men, and obeyed him implicitly; she still felt
it was very sweet of him to come home at all. Mrs. B. had often
declared that Polly's devotion to her husband was a beautiful thing to
see. The two eldest boys had newspaper routes and turned in their
earnings regularly, and, although the husband did not contribute
anything but his occasional company, Polly was able to make the
payments on their little four-roomed cottage. In another year, it
would be all paid for.

But one day Polly's husband began to look into the law--as all men
should--and he saw that he had been living far below his privileges.
The cottage was his--not that he had ever paid a cent on it, of course,
but his wife had, and she was his; and the cottage was in his name.

So he sold it; naturally he did not consult Polly, for he was a quiet,
peaceful man, and not fond of scenes. So he sold it quietly, and with
equal quietness he withdrew from the Province, and took the money with
him. He did not even say go