The first year of training was a labor of patient love. Danny had the most confused notions of right and wrong, no idea of the amenities of life, no idea of obedience to authority unaccompanied by manifestations of physical force. But he loved deeply, and love in the end conquered the little savage.

The next summer his mother was invited to visit him. Danny still loved her and was very glad to see her. He had made his own distinction between his adopted and his real mother. "I shall call Mrs. Brown, mamma," he had said, "and my mother, mother." He was very happy until the last day of his mother's visit. All that morning a more miserable little fellow could not have been found. He slunk round corners out of sight, and was So thoroughly sneaky that Mr. Brown had to say with unusual sternness, "Danny, remember you must go to the station with your mother to see her off," then seeing a look of fear creeping into the boy's face, he added firmly but with more gentleness "I have told you Danny that she would not carry you back with her, although she is unwilling to give you wholly to us as our own little boy. No one will force you into the cars. You are to stay with us. You must go to the station just to say goodbye to her there." It seemed almost impossible for the little fellow to believe Mr. Brown, but he appeared to be striving to do so. Two o'clock found Danny at the station with his mother. In a few minutes she would be gone and my little hero struggled hard not to run away before the train started. As it left the station Danny turned and flew up the street. As he passed the bank. window he saw Mr. Brown within. Tearing off his hat he swung it frantically as he shouted with childish glee, "She's gone! She's gone! Mother's gone! and then raced home to "mamma."

Danny is nearly nine now and the Brown's have only one fear for their little son, which is that when he is older

his mother may claim him to help in her support. She now thinks Danny is well off and takes a very sensible view of his good fortune so they hope that the mother's love will always triumph over selfishness, and that Danny will be left to them.

Editors' Table.

There is a strange mingling of gladness and sadness in October's bright blue weather. With splendor and cheer and sunshine, with scarlet and gold and purple does the courageous-hearted month hail us and extend us right royal welcome. And yet, with all this warmth of greeting, we cannot forget that it is fall—a season invariably tinged with sadness, because inseparably connected with a regretful remembrance of months that are past. As in the out-of-door world, so, within-doors, these opening weeks of our college year arouse conflicting feelings of joy and sorrow. All the gladness and enthusiasm of reunion, all the pleasure of greeting newcomers-does not this delight rival October's sunshine? But with it is a consciousness of change, a longing for the friends who can no longer take their wonted places. in our College life. Ever-present with us is a sense of loss; beneath our gladness is an under-current of pain. Perhaps it is one of the needful lessons we have to learn, this discovery that even our school-days, which we are taught to look upon as the happiest days of our lives, cannot give us unmixed joy. Surely it is well for us to realize that whether we wish it or no, changes must take place, the world must go on its course, and we, willingly or unwillingly, must go with it. And shall we not go willingly? Do we not go willingly-yes, and heartily? Our new places in College bring greater responsibilities, bring graver thoughts, but they also bring greater opportunities and greater joys-joys that are brought into strong relief by the new seriousness that we feel. So, since it is October, and courage and good-cheer light every tree, since it is the beginning of the year, and we

have come back to our College life with renewed zest and the good resolutions that are the inevitable accompaniment of every new year, how can we do otherwise than fall to work with stout heart and eager hand? To all that have come among us we extend a welcome, warm as that which beams from October skies. And with the companionship of new friends and old friends we look forward to a year of joy and of good success. We know, indeed, that it will not be all we wish it. Disappointment and failures, yes, many of them, are too surely in store for us; yet these need not bring discouragement. For it lies with us, and with us. only, whether these same disappointments and failures. may not unite with our successes and attainments to make our year one of steady progress and uplifting.

"Without discontent, nothing can be done," says Walter Besant, thus giving utterance to a truth which has forced itself upon every reformer. Self-satisfaction it is with which progress has the fiercest battles. It was the only sin against which the Christ cried " Woe," the only one of which He seemed to despair. For if the soul does not recognize its own need, it will not desire to have the need supplied. Content is stagnation.. But the acknowledging of a want is a hopeful sign. The desire for better things indicates a fitness therefor. Discontent is a promise of growth.

It does not, however, always imply development. What is more common to us than dissatisfaction with our surroundings, with other people, with everything but ourselves? And things become no better. Why? Because we look to the wrong source for improvement, we expect it from without instead of from within, from an alteration. of circumstances instead of character. We must realize that all change of permanent value necessarily comes from ourselves, and that, no matter how far others may

carry us, the only steps which count for us are those we take with our own feet.

Often, too, though discontented, we refuse to make an effort, through want of hope, or of faith rather, that such effort will be rewarded. But discontent is no cause for discouragement. The seed in the ground is not discouraged because of the darkness, for it knows. that when it has struggled up and out into the light it will be more beautiful than it can now conceive. Let us, then, set to work bravely, knowing that without activity there can be no beauty, without strife no strength.

Neither must we be too impatient. We can plant and water, but the increase is in the hands of Another. Can we who are imperfect expect perfection at once? The pine grows up straight and tall, but it is by littles. The minute coral insects make great islands, but it is by littles. The ocean advances here and recedes there, changing the face of the globe, but it is by little and little. Nature working so slowly yet achieves such grand results. What cause, then, have we for impatience? Is not all Eternity ours?

With our temporary retirement from the outside world into the comparative seclusion of college life, there comes a certain sense of relief at being once more private individuals. Not that we are exactly celebrities at any time, but we have all learned by sad experience that as Vassar girls, society considers us public property. If we go among strangers during the vacation, we find ourselves, as it were, compelled to carry an institution on our shoulders. Our little idiosyncrasies are all carefully noted, and each one is referred to some particular influence of college life, no allowance whatever being made for our individual dispositions. We are not, like other mortals, the products of heredity and environment. Heredity is left out of the question; we are the results of "the higher education for woman." To a conscientious and loyal daughter of Vas