don't know won't hurt you."

"You are wrong," said Michael stubbornly. "Sometimes what you don't
know does hurt you. If I could live again, I would be a better man.
When I was a boy there was no learning to be had, except for the upper
class and the priests. Now when I am old and it is too late, you can
learn everything. I have loitered around the schools and listened to
the boys talking their lessons over. It is amazing what they know.
Why, they know everything! And there are schools where they are set to
work at all sorts of trades. I took a job cleaning floors once so that
I might go in and see what it was they did. Martha, those boys (they
were quite little ones, too) made such beautiful things -- furniture
and all that. There was one little chair that you could set on your
hand. It was as perfect as though it was big enough for you. I
thought that I would steal it. Then I thought how sad the little
fellow who made it would feel. The janitor told me there were prizes
for the best workmen, and I knew that chair was best. So I didn't take
it. I never wanted anything more, in my life!"

"Silly," said Martha. "Always bothering your old head about someone's
feelings! I do wish you would stop it! As for these children, I tell
you, Michael, it is a matter of business. We are no longer young. We
must prepare for the time when we can no longer stand on corners and in
church doors and beg. My fingers even now are growing clumsy. Who
will take care of us then if we do not train these children?"

"I suppose so," said Michael wistfully, "But it does seem a pity.
You should have seen that chair."

"I've heard about it enough at any rate," said Martha. "You should have