anything in their power for him at any time. It is an institution, in
fact, wholly unorganized, which in the final analysis is one man. And
there is in it absolutely nothing of that element which has come to be
known as charity."

Alison listened with parted lips.

"To give you an example," he went on, gradually be coming fired by his
subject, by her absorption, "since you have mentioned Mrs. Garvin, I will
tell you what happened in that case. It is typical of many. It was a
question of taking care of this woman, who was worn out and crushed,
until she should recover sufficiently to take care of herself. Mr.
Bentley did not need any assistance from me to get the boy into the
hospital--Dr. Jarvis worships him. But the mother. I might possibly
have got her into an institutional home--Mr. Bentley did better than
that, far better. On the day of the funeral we went directly from the
cemetery to the house of a widow who owns a little fruit farm beyond the
Park. Her name is Bledsoe, and it is not an exaggeration to say that her
house, small as it is, contains an endowed room always at Mr. Bentley's
disposal.

"Mrs. Garvin is there now. She was received as a friend, as a guest
--not as an inmate, a recipient of charity. I shall never forget how that
woman ran out in the sun when she saw us coming, how proud she was to be
able to do this thing, how she ushered us into the little parlour, that
was all swept and polished, and how naturally and warmly she welcomed the
other woman, dazed and exhausted, and took her hat and veil and almost
carried her up the stairs. And later on I found out from Miss Grower,
who lives here, Mrs. Bledsoe's history. Eight or nine years ago her
husband was sent to prison for forgery, and she was left with four small