true, soprano led the singing.  A twelve-year-old brother had selected the part of the Bible to be read and the eight-year-old sister had chosen the hymns.  The father’s prayer was simple and sincere and some of its sentences were remembered for many a day.  After prayers the girl attended to the flowers.  This was her work for the summer.  I saw her gather from their lovely garden dainty blossoms and sprays of green, making them with unusual skill into bouquets for the Flower Mission in the city.  Then three small baskets were filled with pansies.  These went to three old ladies in the factory section of the village.  She told me they were “the sweetest old ladies” and “dear friends” of hers.  She seemed to take real delight in making the baskets beautiful.  I saw her later in the day galloping off through the woods on her horse, her face glowing with health and happiness.  In the afternoon she spent an hour on German which she said was her “hopeless study,” but I found her reading German folk lore with ease.  She was familiar with the best things in literature, was intensely interested in art and revealed unusual knowledge without any evidence of precociousness.  She was just a normal, healthy, natural girl, well-born, well-bred, a girl with every advantage.  When I said good-night to her in her lovely room and thought of her protected, sheltered life, I wondered how she might be helped to know into what pleasant places her lot had fallen and how she might come to understand and do in later years her full duty toward the other fifteen-year-old girl who that day made paper boxes, feathers, flowers or shirtwaists, toiled in the laundries or the cotton factory, or walked with heavy heart from place to place searching for work.  They are dependent upon one another, these two.  They do not know it now, but if each is to be her best, they must know.

How to lead her daughter to value and help this other girl, that sweet mother told me as we talked in the library that night she felt was her great problem.  “We women are responsible for so much,” she said, “and our daughters will be responsible for still more.  We must help them estimate things at their right value.”  With that thought and spirit in her mother’s heart the girl I had watched all day with such pleasure seemed doubly privileged.

Last September I saw another privileged girl.  She showed me her trunk packed for college.  Every member of the family was interested in it, perhaps most of all her father who had put into the bank that first dollar on the day that she was born with the faith that what should be added to it might one day mean college.  Behind her was a long line of honest ancestry, simple people who had worked hard and managed to “get along.”  She was the first on either side of the family to “go to college.”  No one in the family, even the most distant relative, failed to feel the importance of the event.  “Tom’s Dorothy goes to college this week—­think of it,” a great aunt, in a little unpainted, low-roofed farmhouse far away in the hills, told all her friends at church.