waited, leaning against
the glass counter, while I priced the flannel shirts. To be sure, my own
costume promised little bounty. The price of the shirt was seventy-five
cents, and as soon as he heard this the poor man said:

"Oh, you mustn't spend as much as that."

Looking first at the pauper, then at me, the Italian leaned over and
whispered to me, "I think I understand. You can have the shirt for
sixty, and I'll put in a pair of socks, too."

Thus we had become a fraternity; all were poor, the stronger woe helping
the weaker.... When his toilet was complete the poor man looked half a
head taller.

"Shall I wrap up your old cap for you?" the salesman asked, and the
other laughed a broken, long-disused laugh.

"I guess I won't need it any more," he said, turning to me.

His face had changed like the children's valentines that grow at a touch
from a blank card to a glimpse of paradise.

Once in the street again we shook hands. I was going back to my supper.
He was going, the charity directors would say, to pawn his shirt and
coat.

The man had evidently not more than a few months to live; I was leaving
Chicago the following day. We would undoubtedly never meet again.

As his bony hand lay in mine, his eyes looked straight at me. "Thank
you," he said, and his last words were these:

"I'll stand by you."

It was a pledge of fraternity at parting. There was no material
substance to promise. I took it to mean that he would stand by any
generous impulses I might have; that he would be, as it were, a patron
of spontaneous as opposed to organized charity; a patron of those who
are never too poor to give to some one poorer; of those who have no
scientific reasons for giving, no statistics, only compassion and pity;
of those who want to aid not only the promising but the hopeless cases;
of those whose charity is tolerant and maternal, patient with the
helpless, prepared for disappointments; not looking for results, ever
ready to begin again, so long as the paradox of suffering and inability
are linked together in humanity.

* * * * *

THE MEANING OF IT ALL

* * * * *

CHAPTER V

THE MEANING OF IT ALL

Before concluding the recital of my experiences as a working girl, I
want to sum up the general conclusions at which I arrived and to trace
in a few words the history of my impressions. What, first of all, was my
purpose