How mountainous our troubles grow when we brood over them.
How they dwindle into little ant-heaps when we relate them to another.
Richard talked in his frank, healthy way to the girl, and it was not long until she told him the simple, pathetic story of her life.
Her name was Dido Morgan, she said. She was a country girl, the only child of a village doctor, who lived in comfort but died penniless. Her mother died at her birth. She had been raised well, and when reduced to poverty she was too proud to go to work in her native village, so after her father was buried she came to New York.
She soon found that without experience and references she could not get any desirable work in New York. When all other things failed, she, at last, in desperation, applied for and obtained a position in a paper-box factory. She was fortunate enough to learn the work
