is constantly the prey of the most deenergizing of emotions,—­disgust.  “It makes me sick” is not an exaggerated expression of her feeling.  And her afflicted household size up the situation with the brief analysis, “Everything makes her nervous.”  Every one in her household falls under the tyranny of her disposition, mingling their concern with exasperation, their pity with a silent almost subconscious contempt.

Next comes the over-conscientious type.  Whatever conscience is, whether implanted by God, or the social code sanctified by training, teaching, and a social nature, there can be no question that, as the Court of Appeals, it does harm as well as good.

There are people whose lack of conscience is back of all manner of crimes, from murder down to careless, slack work; whose cruelty, lust, and selfishness operate unhampered by restraint.  On the other hand there are others whose hypertrophied conscience works in one of two directions.  If they are zealots, convinced of the righteousness of their own decisions and conclusions, their conscience spurs them on to reforming the world.  Since they are more often wrong than right, they become, as it were, a sort of misdirected Providence, raising havoc with the happiness and comfort of others.  Whether the conscienceless or those overburdened with this type of conscience have done more harm in the world is perhaps an open question, which I leave to the historians for settlement.

The other type of the overconscientious does definite harm to themselves.  This type I have called the “Seekers of Perfection” and it is their affliction that they are miserable with anything less.  They are particularly hard on themselves, differing in this wise from the by hyperaesthetic.  Constantly they examine and reexamine what they have done.  “Is it the best I can do?” “Should I rest now; have I the right to rest?”

Into every moment of enjoyment they obtrude conscience, or rather conscience obtrudes itself.  They become wedded to a purpose, and then that purpose becomes a tyrant allowing no escape, even for a brief pleasure, from its chains.  Nothing is right that wastes any time; nothing is good but the best.  The sense of humor is conspicuously lacking in this type, for one of the main functions of humor is to season effort and straining purpose with proportion.

Should one of these unfortunates be a housewife, then she is continually “picking up”, continually pursuing that household Will-o’-the-Wisp, “finishing the work.”  For it is the nature of housework that it is never finished, no matter how much is done.  This overconscientious person, unless she is made of steel springs and resilient rubber, breathlessly chasing this phantom all day and into the night, gives way under the strain, even though she have a dozen servants to help.  For to this type each helper is not at all an aid.  At once up goes the standard of what is to be done, and each servant becomes an added care, an added responsibility.