that her own troubles were as nothing, and that the immediate
need of the moment was to pet and comfort her friend. Her
knowledge of Aline told her the probable tragedy was that she had
lost a brooch or had been spoken to crossly by somebody; but it
also told her that such tragedies bulked very large on Aline's
horizon.

Trouble, after all, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder;
and Aline was far less able to endure with fortitude the loss of
a brooch than she herself to bear the loss of a position the
emoluments of which meant the difference between having just
enough to eat and starving.

"You're worried about something," she said. "Sit down and tell me
all about it."

Aline sat down and looked about her at the shabby room. By that
curious process of the human mind which makes the spectacle of
another's misfortune a palliative for one's own, she was feeling
oddly comforted already. Her thoughts were not definite and she
could not analyze them; but what they amounted to was that,
though it was an unpleasant thing to be bullied by a dyspeptic
father, the world manifestly held worse tribulations, which her
father's other outstanding quality, besides dyspepsia--wealth, to
wit--enabled her to avoid.

It was at this point that the dim beginnings of philosophy began
to invade her mind. The thing resolved itself almost into an
equation. If father had not had indigestion he would not have
bullied her. But, if father had not made a fortune he would not