ng envy in her eyes as she
cried: "How splendid!--to believe in something--and work for it and
live for it--as you do!"

Selma laughed, with a charming little gesture of the shoulders and the
hands that reminded Jane of her foreign parentage. "Nothing else seems
worth while," said she. "Nothing else is worth while. There are only
two entirely great careers--to be a teacher of the right kind and work
to ease men's minds--as those four did--or to be a doctor of the right
kind and work to make mankind healthy. All the suffering, all the
crime, all the wickedness, comes from ignorance or bad health--or both.
Usually it's simply bad health."

Jane felt as if she were devoured of thirst and drinking at a fresh,
sparkling spring. "I never thought of that before," said she.

"If you find out all about any criminal, big or little, you'll discover
that he had bad health--poisons in his blood that goaded him on."

Jane nodded. "Whenever I'm difficult to get on with, I'm always not
quite well."

"I can see that your disposition is perfect, when you are well," said
Selma.

"And yours," said Jane.

"Oh, I'm never out of humor," said Selma. "You see, I'm never
sick--not the least bit."

"You are Miss Gordon, aren't you?"

"Yes--I'm Selma Gordon."

"My name is Jane Hastings." Then as this seemed to convey nothing to
Selma, Jane added: "I'm not like you. I haven't an individuality of
my own--that anybody knows about. So, I'll have to identify myself by
saying that I'm Martin Hastings' daughter."

Jane confidently expected that this announcement would cause some sort
of emotion--perhaps of awe, perhaps of horror, certainly of interest.
She was disappointed. If Selma felt anything she did not show it--and
Jane was of the opinion that it would be well nigh impossible for so
direct and natural a person to conceal. Jane went on:

"I read in your paper about your fund for sick children. I was riding
past your office--saw the sign--and I've come in to give what I happen
to have about me." She drew out the small roll of bills and handed it
to Selma.

The Russian girl--if it is fair thus to characterize one so intensely
American in manner, in accent and in speech--took the money and said:

"We'll acknowledge it in the paper next week."

Jane flushed and a thrill of alarm ran through her. "Oh--please--no,"
she urged. "I'd not like to have my name mentioned. That would look
as if I had done it to seem charitable