Her appearance was a libel on any variety of independence and a joke on
hope, but I waited for the rest of the story.

She said that the Order to which she belonged was not large. She was one
of a small band of women bound by a solemn oath to go where they could
and seek to help and uplift fallen humanity by living the life of the
native poor. She had chosen Japan because it was "so pretty and
poetical." She had worked her way across the Pacific as stewardess on a
large steamer, and had landed in Hijiyama a few months before with
enough cash to keep a canary bird in delicate health for a month. Her
enthusiasm was high, her zeal blazed. If only her faith were strong
enough to stand the test, her need for food and clothing would be
supplied from somewhere. "Now," she moaned, "something has happened.
Maybe my want of absolute trust brought me to it. I'm sick and hungry
and I've failed. Oh! I wanted to help these sweet people; I wanted to
save their dear souls."

I was skeptical as to this special brand of philanthropy, but I was
touched by the grief of her disappointed hopes. I knew the particular
sting. At the same time my hand twitched to shake her for going into
this thing in so impractical a way. Teaching and preaching in a foreign
land may include romance, but I've yet to hear where the most
enthusiastic or fanatical found nourishment or inspiration on a diet of
visions pure and simple. While there must be something worth while in a
woman who could starve for her belief, yet in the eyes of the one before
me was the look of a trusting child who would never know the practical
side of life any more than she would believe in its ugliness. It was not
faith she needed. It was a guardian.

"Maybe I had better die," she wailed. "Dead missionaries are far too few