Here is a story of real human interest. We are all foreigners here in America except the American Indians. The ancestors of some of us came before those of others; and it is the duty of those of us whose ancestors have been here the longest to help the strange-looking, strange-speaking people who come to us from Europe to feel at home in our country.

The government has tried hard to protect the immigrants from dishonest people who have tried to cheat them out of their earnings. One of the good things that came out of the World's War was a knowledge on the part of almost all of our people of the safe investments that the government offers in bonds and thrift stamps.

"At last the way is clear!"

Stefan spoke with much emotion as he counted the roll of notes, clean and soiled, that lay before him on the table in his little room in the over-crowded boarding house.

As he fingered the bills, he saw before him each detail of the past two years—New York harbor with Liberty flinging up her welcome torch; the thrill of arrival in the city of his dreams; the days that followed, days of discouragement, home-sickness, and poverty, among strangers speaking strange tongues, with a medley of unfamiliar manners and customs. He saw with vivid clearness the first dollar he had earned, and he forgot the slow, painful processes of saving—the self-denial and the sacrifice—in the picture of what those sacrifices were to bring.

"She will come," he murmured. "On the same boat perhaps. When she gets the ticket, she will leave that war-threatened land and she will come to me." He smiled. Then as his face suddenly clouded he started forward on the rickety chair with a violence that threatened its frailness. "If anything should happen! If I should lose the money!"

Greatly disturbed he gathered up the precious bills as though to shield them from possible loss. He rose to place them in the old hiding place in his trunk, but that no longer satisfied him. He wavered, then said:

"No, that won't do. I must see Ian about this. He knows. He is wise. I will see Ian this very minute."

Wrapping the money in a piece of old newspaper and carefully placing it in an inner pocket, he set out. He went straight to the dingy office in a side alley of the foreign section of the town, where through the dusty window could be seen the grizzled head of Ian Skeemersky, the real estate agent and private banker, whose sign, written by his own hand, hung over the entrance.

After greetings had been exchanged, he anxiously put the case before his shrewd friend, whose eyes sparkled with eagerness as he replied smoothly.

"Nothing so easy and so safe in the world, my dear fellow. Put your money in my bank. You will get good interest and can withdraw it whenever you want it."

Stefan hesitated for a second. So much was at stake! His slow mind must have time to weigh the proposal. As he noted the earnestness and assurance of Skeemersky's face, belief in this shrewd friend decided. He drew out the pack and laid it on the desk before Skeemersky, whose long fingers closed over it at once.

"You have done well, Stefan Broda, your money is as safe with me as if it was in Mt. Vavel," he declared.

Stefan felt that he had done well. The phrase "as safe as Mt. Vavel" lingered in his mind. It helped him be patient in the long weeks in the factory where he worked during the winter; it consoled him during the dull days while he waited for the open springtime when he planned to send for Agatha. When he heard of others losing their small savings in various ways he congratulated himself on the security of his own, "as safe as Vavel," he would repeat.

One sunny morning in March, just as he decided to stop on his way from work to withdraw the three hundred dollars for Agatha's expenses, there came to him a neighbor, in great excitement. Peter's face was red, his eyes startling and his voice hoarse.

"That—that robber, that scoundrel!" he stuttered. "That Skeemersky. He has gone, gone, do you hear? He has taken it all, all the money in his cursed bank."

Stefan could not believe his ears. Skeemersky gone, and the money, too! "As safe as Vavel!" he had said. He stared for a moment and then broke out, weeping for the first time since his mother's death, cursing the smooth trickster with hearty Polish curses.

"May the thunder-bolt strike him!" he cried. "I will lay hands on him. I will choke that money out of his black soul. Come, we will go!"

They rushed out, boiling with rage, only to find a crowd of other dupes before the shabby little office in the side-alley. The tightly closed door and the blank windows told the story more clearly than any words. Skeemersky had gone—the bank was no more!

Despair took strong hold of Stefan. For two days he roamed the streets, not eating nor drinking, sleepless. He saw no further, no hope—all was blackness and desolation. When he came back to the boarding house on the third day he found a letter from Agatha. He read it with tears and intolerable anguish and he passionately kissed the final sentence: "Every bit of me is yours and I shall never change." This tender faith was balm to his anguish.

He put the letter in a pocket nearest his heart, while a new look came to his tired face. Almost unconsciously he began to build a new future on the ruins of the old.

He swiftly mapped out his course. The season for farmwork was at hand. He would go back to the open skies and broad fields of God's world. He packed a few belongings in the rusty brown-paper suitcase and boarded the trolley for the long ride. He knew what he should do if he could rent a suitable piece of land.

He had spent the previous summer on a farm in the onion-growing section of the Connecticut Valley; he knew what large profits might be gotten with hard labor from a comparatively small plot of ground. He figured that three or four acres would give him the needed amount in the fall, if he had health and good weather.

He found the man whom he sought, secured the land, and went to work. All that season he slaved early and late, weeding on his knees in the damp earth the interminable rows of tiny, delicate plants where the weeds sprang like magic. He heeded neither scorching sun, nor soaking rain. He cared nothing for the monotony of the toil. Always he saw before him the steamer that should bring Agatha, from the hazards of war, to him and security.

By September he had once again the dream within his grasp. He was back in the old room in the crowded boarding house, and in his bluish tin trunk at the foot of the bed were hidden five hundred and fifteen dollars in crisp, clean notes. His earliest belief in his trunk had come back a hundredfold. He would not trust any bank, private or national, with the fruit of his heart-breaking toil. Banking systems and government investments were all beyond his grasp. Skeemersky had taught him to distrust others—the little thin trunk would not run away.

This conviction of safety obsessed him. He preached it to others, to his fellow-boarders, especially to the friendly young man in the room across the hall. "See," he would say, waving a hand toward the great untrustworthy world of finance beyond his little window. "They run away—those bankers. I have a better place."

He did not tell the friendly young man where or how much he had hidden. He merely smiled mysteriously. His faith in his trunk was absolute. Day after day, when returning from work in the factory, he took out his roll of notes and rejoiced that he had found the solution; he counted the days when he should send for his love. It was hard for him to wait for the lagging spring, but a winter journey in war-time from Russian Poland to New England was not to be thought of for his Agatha.

Blind faith often leads to the pit. Stefan, upon a night in late winter, found his theory shattered. The friendly young man had gone, and the crisp, clean notes had disappeared with him!

In this second crash of his hopes he was numbed. He neither wept nor cursed. He silently shrank into himself. He grew abstracted. He stared at the world with unseeing eyes. In the turmoil of his distracted mind there was but one growing determination not to be beaten by fate.

It was not, however, until the news of the German campaign in Warsaw, that his resolve took definite shape. Borrowing two hundred dollars, he sent the money to Agatha in Poland, and regardless of winter or war, urged her to come at once.

When, after long weeks of suspense, he stood by the gate at Ellis Island waiting for the sight of her dear, familiar face among the surging crowd of tagged and numbered immigrants beyond the iron barrier, a great wave of joyous hope flooded his heart. All his disasters were forgotten when he caught the glint of her pale hair under the embroidered kerchief. Banks and trunks went to oblivion as he took her small roughened hands in his own. Destiny had no terrors for him.

On the train he poured out his heart to her. He told her of his great efforts and his greater misfortunes. He made her see his challenge to destiny. He pictured his emotions in the last weeks. And he wound up with an eager entreaty for immediate marriage.

"Let us no longer delay," he urged. "Let us find the good priest." But Agatha was not to be hurried. Her blue eyes showed her own sorrow for the words her lips spoke. "Our love, my Stefan, will not change. But your money is gone. We cannot live without money. I shall work, and you shall work. Then we will marry."

Stefan protested vigorously, but he knew that she was right. He saw that he must yield. He proposed a compromise. "Let us work then for this spring and summer—you in the silk mill and I in my onion patch," he said, "and marry in the fall. I can wait no longer than that."

Agatha could find no fault with this. It won her approval of both heart and her reason. Slipping her hand in his, she nestled closer and they began their hopeful planning, while the train sped on, bearing them to the peaceful valley of their future labors.

All the plans—sensible and practical—they made that wonderful first day, were marvelously realized, not by mere happy chance, but through a great steadfastness of purpose and unfaltering toil. By thrift and frugality, by self-denial and sacrifice, they accomplished the miracle. And they were happy in the doing of it, because they worked together. Neither Stefan nor Agatha had ever labored so willingly. The radiance of a united future lighted the way—always just ahead they saw the hearth-fire gleaming.

The spring and summer passed swiftly. Stefan and Agatha learned of America's entry into the world war with anxious hearts. They dreaded the quenching of that hearth-fire. But their fears were groundless. Instead of depreciation and loss the war brought added prosperity. The wages in the silk mill were raised. Stefan's onion sets sold at double prices. At the end of the season they found that they had exceeded their hopes, in spite of paying off the debt and the increased cost of living.

At last, as Stefan had said, the way was clear. The crown of their hopes, the wedding day, was set and their friends invited. A stone house with a little ground had been secured. The furniture was installed. Everything was ready for the marriage feast on the next day.

As they left the cozy little house in the long shadows of the September sunset, Stefan turned at the gate to look back. His dream was realized. Destiny had not taken up his challenge so far, and he determined to make the future sure. Unconsciously his hand stole to the inner pocket where a modest roll of notes—the remains of their combined savings lay warm and safe. In all their anxious discussions, he and Agatha had not been able to find a place safe enough to satisfy their fears. Bankers and trunks had betrayed their trust. Stefan sighed. He had hoped to have this matter off his mind before the happy morrow. He wished Agatha would offer some solution and he turned to her with the old question on his lips. But he did not ask it. Another voice took up the story.

It was old Shelton, the farmer for whom Stefan had worked the first summer in the valley. His small eyes were twinkling and his long chin beard wagged importantly. "Hello, Steve, how'r ye? Settin' up in fine style, I see. Must be gittin' rich these days."

Stefan thought at first that the shrewd old fellow's chuckle of delight was a tribute to his and Agatha's achievement. But he was soon enlightened as to its real source. Old Shelton bestowed hearty praise on the little house and neat garden, he congratulated him in advance for the morrow, but his small eyes fairly snapped as he added, tapping his own pocket.

"Ye'v spent a pile of money on all this there, and I s'pose you ain't got much left—I got somepin here that 'ud interest ye."

It was the answer to Stefan's unuttered question. He started as old Shelton pulled out from his pocket two yellowish, stiff folders with much black lettering upon them, which, when opened by Shelton's toil-worn fingers, disclosed a number of large square stamps pasted on the printed squares. Agatha, woman-like, was quick to inquire. Old Shelton explained with zest.

He showed them first the Thrift card with its green twenty-five cent stamps. "I got them at odd times, at the post office," he told them with his exultant chuckle. "These here," showing the Savings Certificates with blue five-dollar stamps, "I bought right out when I saw what a sure thing it was. Safe as Uncle Sam's Capitol at Washington. Can't never bust up, these can't. No, siree! Long as this here country holds out, these here stamps are worth the coin! And look at the money ye make on 'em."

And he explained the process by which today's purchaser of a blue stamp would be the possessor of a five-dollar note when the stamps matured at the end of five years. "Only four-nineteen, ye see," he pointed with a horny finger. "Only four-nineteen today, but five good round dollars in five years. Ye can't beat that, I tell ye. Not to be safe and sound, ye understand."

Stefan and Agatha looked at each other. They knew old Shelton to be the shrewdest, most cautious man in the community. In a moment they knew what they should do with the modest roll of bills. The safe place had been found. The United States Treasury was the only spot.

"As safe as Vavel!" murmured Stefan as the old farmer after repeated congratulations and chuckled approval of the young people's eager acceptance of his gospel of thrift, disappeared down the long road.

"As safe as Vavel," he repeated, and a great surge of joyful relief flooded his very soul.

He put his arm about Agatha and they turned their faces toward the sunset glow. In the dim glory of the skies they saw the steadfast gleam of their own dear hearth-fire.

"The good God has shown us the way," they said.

This story can be easily divided into a definite series of shorter stories. The titles of these shorter stories will serve as an outline. Look over the selection quickly, and write the outline.

Questions

Even government bonds and thrift stamps have to be guarded so that they will not be lost, burned, or stolen.

Where is the safest place to keep such valuable things as liberty bonds and thrift stamps? How much does it cost to rent a safe place for your savings? Where can you rent one in your town?