CHAPTER VII
Helen Wistar put away her pretty gowns, and sent home for a hat that was three years old. An inexperienced seamstress made her an unbecoming gray serge dress. Helen looked down at her clumsily fashioned skirt as a martyr might look at his flames. It meant fulfilment of her mission, but it hurt.
She practised the severest economy, even refusing herself sufficient food, in order to taste the sweets of poverty. The money thus saved—for Helen had money in plenty, she confessed to herself with reluctance—was to be devoted to struggling women. But the struggling women were hard to find. They looked exasperatingly well cared for and even happy, the teachers, artists, doctors, and musicians who passed through the Square with their little black bags. Helen was grieved by their self-sufficiency. She was ready to
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