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Women Whose Friendship is Cherished

THERE are a host of other lovely people I met in I New York: Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge, editor of "St. Nicholas," and Mrs. Riggs (Kate Douglas Wiggin), the sweet author of "Pansy." I received from them gifts that have the sweet concurrence of the heart, books containing their own thoughts, soul-illumined letters and photographs that I love to have described again and again. But there is not space to mention all my friends, and indeed there are things about them hidden behind the wings of cherubim, things too sacred to set forth in cold print. It is with hesitancy that I speak even of Mrs. Laurence Hutton, who has oftenest advised and helped me in my progress through college. I have one friend to whom I am deeply indebted. He is known for the powerful hand with which he guides vast enterprises, and his wonderful abilities have gained for him the respect of all. Modesty crowns his achievements; he goes about doing good, silent and unseen. Again I touch upon the circle of honored names I must not mention; but I would fain acknowledge the generosity and affectionate interest with which he is making it easier for me to overcome the difficulties of college.

I have many far-off friends whom I have never seen. Indeed, they are so many that I have often been unable to reply to their letters; but I wish to say here that I am always grateful for their kind words, however insufficiently I acknowledge them. A friendly letter or a hearty hand-shake gives me genuine pleasure. It may be only the clinging touch of a child's hand, but there is as much potential sunshine in it for me as there is in a loving glance for others. I have often been asked, "Do people not bore you?" I do not understand what that means. I suppose their calls would occasionally seem inopportune if I thought of it; but I never think of it. The touch of a hand may seem an impertinence, while that of another is like a benediction. I have met people so empty of joy that when I clasped their frosty finger-tips it seemed as if I were shaking hands with a northeast storm. Others there are whose fingers have sunbeams in them; their grasp warms my heart.

"I Am as Happy as You Are"

MY STORY is now told, and I hope, kind reader, you are convinced how little able I was to write it. I live in my own way the life that you do, and I am as happy as you are. The outward circumstances of our lives are but the shell of things. My life is pervaded by love as a cloud by light. Deafness is a barrier against intrusion, and blindness makes us oblivious to much that is ugly and revolting in the world. In the midst of unpleasant things I move as one who wears an invisible cap.

Sometimes, it is true, a sense of isolation infolds me like a cold, white mist as I sit alone and wait at Life's shut gate. Beyond there is light and music and sweet companionship; but I may not enter. Fate, silent, pitiless, inexorable, bars the way. Fain would I question his imperious decree; for my heart is still undisciplined and passionate; but my tongue will not utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul. Then comes Hope with sweet, sad smile and whispers, "There is joy in self-forgetfulness." So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun, the music in others' ears my symphony, the smile on others' lips my happiness.

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