ot what I thought about love of man, when I
read the old stories of the saints and those greater than saints who
came to redeem. It does not look like love; for love draws one nearer,
clasps its arms about one; is it not so? This is a kind of business
appointed for certain days in the week, just as one attends church on
Sunday. They "go down" to obscure streets and visit, and they even make
reports afterwards; but it is something like the German lessons three
times a week or the piano practice every day. But who am I to blame
them? I have walked through the poorer streets. I have looked boldly
into the faces there, and, father, I hate them. I would not touch them
for worlds, those deformed, dirty, ugly, loathsome creatures. They are
so unbeautiful! And there surely can be no need of that. They might at
least have the beauty of cleanliness and of lovely thoughts. Apparently
I cannot get the habit of philanthropy, however well I may do with
church-going. For how can we help being repulsed by what is repulsive?
As well expect the bees to seek carrion instead of roses. But what do
the books mean when they talk about love of men? The more men need
love, the less one can love them. Write me, father. I feel as if I
should know a different side of you through your letters.

Later: O, I am glad I came, if only for this one thing--a little cat, a
little mangled cat, gaunt, wounded, dying. I killed her--mercifully.

[Sidenote: _Mrs. Montrose to Ernest Hume_]

Dear friend,--Only a word, to save my honor: for we lunch and tea and
dine with the world to-day. Your barbarian is more than perfect. He has
become a social sovereign, sweeping all before him; and he doesn't even
know it. He stands there in a circle of pretty girls and strenuous
spinsters, looks at them gravely with those great soft eyes, answers
their questions, and walks away in absolute unconsciousness. He says
people are so kind. On the contrary, they are enraptured with his
beauty and his miraculous truth-telling. And I begin to think Zoe may
really be in love with him. If nobody interferes with them, perhaps
they'll make a model Darby and Joan.

[Sidenote: _Ernest Hume to Francis Hume_]

Dear son,--So you don't love the poor! Well, don't force it. They are
not invariably beautiful. Don't trouble about them until you have found
out why they haven't Greek profiles, as a rule, and why they sometimes
fail in expressing their lovely thoughts. Why did the cat appeal to