to gain a larger fortune
than that possessed by another man is a sure invitation to worry
to enter into possession of one's soul. Who has not seen the vain
struggles, the distress, the worry of unsatisfied ambitions that would
have amounted to nothing had they been gratified? In Women's Clubs--as
well as men's--many a heart-ache is caused because some other woman
gains an office, is elected to a position, is appointed on a committee
you had coveted.

The remedy for this kind of worry is to change the aim of life.
Instead of making position, fame, the attainment of fortune, office, a
fine house, an automobile, the object of existence, make _the doing
of something worthy a noble manhood or womanhood the object of your
ambition_. Strive to make yourself _worthy_ to be the best president
your club has ever had; endeavor to be the finest equipped, mentally,
for the work that is to be done, _whether you are chosen to do it or
not_, and keep on, and on, and still on, finding your joy in the work,
in the benefit it is to yourself, in the power it is storing up within
you.

Then, as sure as the sun shines, the time will come when you will be
chosen to do the needed work. "Your own will come to you." Nothing can
hinder it. It will flow as certainly into your hands as the waters of
the river flow into the sea.

CHAPTER XV

ENVY AND WORRY

Envy is a prolific source of worry. Once allow this demon of unrest
to fasten itself in one's vitals, and worry claims every waking
hour. Envy is that peculiar demon of discontent that cannot see
the abilities, attainments, achievements, or possessions of another
without malicious determination to belittle, deride, make light of, or
absolutely deny their existence, while all the time covetously craving
them for itself. Andrew Tooke pictures Envy as a vile female:

A deadly paleness in her cheek was seen;
Her meager skeleton scarce cased with skin;
Her looks awry; an everlasting scowl
Sits on her brow; her teeth deform'd and foul;
Her breast had gall more than her breast could hold;
Beneath her tongue coats of poison roll'd;
No smile e'er smooth'd her furrow'd brow but those
Which rose from laughing at another's woes;
Her eyes were strangers to the sweets of sleep,
Devouring spite for ever waking keep;
She sees bless'd men with vast success crown'd,
Their joys distract her, and their glories wound;
She kills abroad, herself's consum'd at home,
And