, for it
was no hearsay of cold, and hunger, and wretchedness that touched Ada.
She sat down on the cold hearths with broken-hearted wives and
mothers, and held upon her knees the little children ready to perish.
Money she gave to the uttermost, but with the money something
infinitely more precious--love, like that which made the Christ put
His hand upon the leper as well as heal him; womanly sympathy, which
listened patiently to tales of intolerable wrongs and to the moans of
extreme physical suffering.

In her own home she seldom spoke of these experiences. Mr. Lanhearne
did not altogether approve of them. Like the centurion of old, he
thought it was sufficient to "speak the word only," that is, to give
the money necessary to relieve suffering. And he did not see why his
child's life should be shadowed by carrying the griefs of others. So
there was very seldom any talk on these matters, unless Ada required
assistance. Then she spoke with such clear sincerity and pathos that
her father felt it to be a privilege to be her right hand, and for the
time being was probably as enthusiastic as herself. But these were
rare occasions; Ada was too wise and considerate to stretch a generous
or a gentle emotion until it failed.

One bitterly cold night in February Roland returned to Lanhearne House
in a particularly unhappy mood. He had been down-town as far as
Twenty-third Street, and had been subjected to all the depressing
influences of the cold, brown-stony city, swept by that most cruel of
winds--the east wind which comes with a thaw. The sullen poor,
standing desperate and scornful at the street corners, seemed to cast
a malevolent eye upon his handsome, well-clothed person. There had
been a terrible accident, followed by a fire, somewhere in the city,
and the raw, cutting air was full of its horror. As he passed a group
of men, a poor shivering creature said passionately, "Accident indeed!
All accidents are crimes!" The friction of the interests and wills
encompassing him evolved an atmosphere which he had no strength to
antagonise. He simply submitted to its worry and restlessness and
unhappy discontent, and so carried the spirit home with him.

It was met on the threshold by influences that drove it back into the
desolate street. The warm, light house and the peace and luxury of his
own room soothed his mental sense of something wrong. And when he
descended to the parlour, he was instantly encompassed by soft warmth,