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Old Man. There have been instances of it-you think?Young Man. Instances? Millions of them!O.M. You have not jumped to conclusions? You have examined them-critically?Y.M. They don't need it: the acts themselves reveal the golden impulse back of them.O.M. For instance?Y.M. Well, then, for instance. Take the case in the book here. The man lives three miles up-town.It is bitter cold, snowing hard, midnight. He is about to enter the horse-car when a gray and raggedold woman, a touching picture of misery, puts out her lean hand and begs for rescue from hungerand death. The man finds that he has a quarter in his pocket, but he does not hesitate: he gives it herand trudges home through the storm. There-it is noble, it is beautiful; its grace is marred by nofleck or blemish or suggestion of self-interest.O.M. What makes you think that?Y.M. Pray what else could I think? Do you imagine that there is some other way of looking at it?O.M. Can you put yourself in the man's place and tell me what he felt and what he thought?Y.M. Easily. The sight of that suffering old face pierced his generous heart with a sharp pain. Hecould not bear it. He could endure the three-mile walk in the storm, but he could not endure thetortures his conscience would suffer if he turned his back and left that poor old creature to perish.He would not have been able to sleep, for thinking of it.O.M. What was his state of mind on his way home?Y.M. It was a state of joy which only the self-sacrificer knows. His heart sang, he was unconsciousof the storm.O.M. He felt well?Y.M. One cannot doubt it.

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