When I was in college, there used to be living near the campus a half dozen or more kindly souls to whom fate had shown little consideration and who, thrown on their own resources, had chosen to earn their living by keeping a boarding house. Theirs was not the sort of sordid mercenary business which is now generally carried on by those who provide meals for students. It was on the whole a kindly, motherly service which they performed, not half of which we were ever able to pay—for. They took us into their houses and tried to give us a home as well as to see that we were fed. Often when we were living with them we would find that the gaping holes in our hose which our careless feet had torn would be neatly mended; lost buttons would find their way back again, and some evening when we came back to our room tired and hungry from a long tramp we would discover a plate of gingerbread or a bowl of Winesaps waiting. It was almost like living at home with mother.
They did not lose sight of our moral welfare either. There was no indifference to our derelictions, and no overlooking of of our shortcomings; we were guarded and called to account as if we had been their own children. It is: only a few days ago that one of my old classmates was recounting
