Mrs. Elizabeth Tweed, wife of Private William Tweed, was giving trouble to the Patriotic Society.  It was bad enough for her to go out evenings with an officer, and dance in the afternoon at the hotel dansant in a perfect outburst of gay garments; but there was no excuse for her coming home in a taxi-cab, after a shopping expedition in broad daylight, and to the scandal of the whole street, who watched her from behind lace curtains.

The evil effects of Mrs. Tweed’s actions began to show in the falling-off of subscriptions to the Patriotic Fund, and the collectors heard many complaints about her gay habits of life and her many and varied ways of squandering money.  Mrs. Tweed became a perfect wall of defense for those who were not too keen on parting with their money.  They made a moral issue of it, and virtuously declared, “That woman is not going to the devil on my money.”  “I scrimp and save and deny myself everything so I can give to the Patriotic Fund, and look at her!” women cried.

It was in vain that the collectors urged that she was only getting five dollars a month, anyway, from the Patriotic Fund, and that would not carry her far on the road to destruction or in any other direction.  When something which appears to set aside the obligation to perform a disagreeable duty comes in view, the hands of the soul naturally clamp on it.

Mrs. Tweed knew that she was the bad example, and gloried in it.  She banged the front door when she entered the block late at night, and came up the stairs gayly singing, “Where did Robinson Crusoe go with Friday on Saturday night?” while her sleepy neighbors anathematized all dependents of the Patriotic Fund.

The Red Cross ladies discussed the matter among themselves and decided that some one should put the matter before Mrs. Tweed and tell her how hard she was making it for the other dependents of soldiers.  The president was selected for the task, which did not at first sight look like a pleasant one, but Mrs. Kent had done harder things than this, and she set out bravely to call on the wayward lady.

The D.O.E. visitor who called on all the soldiers’ wives in that block had reported that Mrs. Tweed had actually put her out, and told her to go to a region which is never mentioned in polite society except in theological discussions.

“I know,” Mrs. Tweed said, when the Red Cross President came to see her, “what you are coming for, and I don’t blame you—­I sure have been fierce, but you don’t know what a good time I’ve had.  Gee, it’s great!  I’ve had one grand tear!—­one blow-out!  And now I am almost ready to be good.  Sit down, and I’ll tell you about it; you have more give to you than that old hatchet-face that came first; I wouldn’t tell her a thing!