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TOUCH of wistful warmth comes to my heart when I think of Sheila, blue-eyed, bright-haired, Irish Sheila, flushed with the adventure of foreign travel, and all unapprised of the toils that wait in Canadian kitchens to take the feet of the unwary immigrant.

At first she was but a name on a list, one of ten the W. H. H. S. experimented with, advancing the passage money, and "placing" in carefully chosen homes. At least that was how the enthusiastic President of the W. H. H. S. expressed it, and naturally I was flattered to be among the chosen. The name looked promising to me. I built fresh hopes upon it. I pictured a bright young face and an ardent, responsive spirit, with marginal decorations of toast for breakfast of a golden brown hue instead of murky black. And I wasn't far wrong—at least in regard to the first two points. My heart warmed to the