nders what would be his answer to
our _cui bono_. When there are so many truthful and pleasant things
that may be said of everybody, why call attention to disagreeable
points, which after all, are fewer than the agreeable ones?

The office of the gossip is so thankless that it is a marvel any one
accepts it. To certain natures there is positive delight in being the
first to relate a choice bit of scandal. It never occurs to them that
the old maxim with regard to a dog who fetches a bone can possibly be
applied to them. But it is as true as the stars that if a person
brings you an unsavory tale of a friend, she will carry away as ugly
a story of you, if she can find the faintest suggestion upon which to
found it. The gossip acquires a detective-like faculty for following
out a clue, but unfortunately, the clue is oftener purely imaginary
than real. A little discrepancy like this does not disturb the
professional scandal-monger. So tenacious is the habit of making much
of nothing, that, deprived of this, her sustenance, she would find
life colorless and void. So, if material does not present itself, she
manufactures it. One must live.

There is also a habit, which, while comparatively innocent, is likely
to bring trouble upon the perpetrator. It is that of making many
confidantes. Here comes a very serious _cui bono_. Undoubtedly there
is a momentary satisfaction in telling one's woes and sorrows to an
interested listener. When the auditor is a friend, and a trusted
friend, whose sympathy is genuine and whose discretion is vast, there
is a comfort beyond description in unburdening one's soul. But there
is a line to be drawn even here. It is not deceit to keep your private
affairs to yourself when you are sure that you are guilty of nothing
dishonorable or hypocritical in so doing. You are often your own best
and safest counselor. I know one woman who long ago said a thing which
should be a motto to those susceptible persons who in a sudden
expansion of the heart tell all they know and which they would most
wish to keep to themselves.

"My dear," she said, "in the course of a somewhat checkered life I
have discovered that while I have often been sorry for things which I
have told, I have never had cause to regret what I have kept to
myself."

If you have a secret and wish to keep it, guard it jealously. It
ceases to be yours alone when you impart it to another. Your
confidante may be discretion personified, and, yet a