After returning from her round trip, the angry woman stood outside the ticket office of the station. “The railway owes me 12 pounds，” she said to Harry Jenks, the young man working at the office. “You sold me a ticket for May 22nd, but there was no ship from Jersey that night. So my daughter and I had to stay in a hotel. It cost me 12 pounds.”

    Harry was worried. He remembered selling the woman a return ticket. “Come into the office, Madam，” he said politely. “I'll just check the Jersey timetable for May 22nd.”

    The woman and her little girl followed him inside. She was quite right, as Harry soon discovered. There was no sailing on May 22nd. How could he have made such a careless mistake? He shouldn't have sold her a ticket for that day. Wondering what to do, he smiled at the child. “You look sunburnt，” he said to her. “Did you have a nice holiday in Jersey？”

    “Yes，” she answered, shyly. “The beach was lovely. And I can swim too！”

    “That's fine，” said Harry. “My little girl can't swim a bit yet. Of course，she's only three ...”

    “I'm four，” the child said proudly. “I'll be four and a half.”

    Harry turned to the mother. “I remember your ticket, Madam，” he said. “But you didn't get one for your daughter, did you？”

    “Err, well ...” the woman looked at the child. “I mean …, she hasn't started school yet. She's only four.”

    “A four-year-old child must have a ticket, Madam. A child's return ticket from Jersey costs .., let me see ... 13.50 pounds. The law is the law, but since the mistake is mine ...”

    The woman stood up, took the child's hand and left the office.

    Driving along a busy Houston road, my two little girls became hungry at noon. They1no time in letting me know,2“McDonald's, McDonald's.” So I began searching for the3McDonald's. Suddenly I realized that almost every intersection (十字路口) we passed through was4by a beggar. If my two little girls were hungry, then all these beggars must be hungry, too.

After finding a McDonald's and5two Happy Meals for my girls, I ordered a(n)6 15 lunches and set out to7them. Then, we stopped beside a beggar and gave him the lunch. After that, we8our way to the next intersection.

    9we came to the end of our “route”, there was a10standing there, asking for change. We handed her our 11lunch bag. “No one has 12done anything like this for me before,” she said with 13. I replied, “Well, I'm glad that we were the14.” Feeling uneasy, and wanting to move the conversation15, I asked, “So, when do you think you'll eat your lunch?”

    She looked at me with her16brown eyes and said, “I'm not going to eat this lunch. I have a little girl of my own at home and she just17McDonald's, but I can never buy it for her18I don't have the money. But you know tonight she is going to have McDonald's!”

    So many times I had 19whether our acts of kindness were too small to make a difference. Yet at this moment, I recognized the20of Mother Teresa's words: “We cannot do great things—only small things with great love.”

    When I was growing up，I was embarrassed to be seen with my father. He was badly crippled (跛脚)，and when we would walk together，his hand on my arm for balance，people would stare，I would be ashamed of the unwanted attention.

    It was difficult to walk together—and because of that，we didn't say much as we went along. But as we started out，he always said，“You set the pace. I will try to follow you.”

    Our usual walk was to or from the subway，which was how he got to work. He went to work sick，and even in bad weather. He almost never missed a day，and would make it to the office even if others could not. It was a matter of pride for him.

    When snow or ice was on the ground，it was impossible for him to walk，even with help. At such times my sister or I would pull him through the streets of Brooklyn，N.Y.，on a child's sleigh to the subway entrance. Once there，he would try to grasp handrail until he reached the lower steps that the warmer tunnel air kept ice free. In Manhattan the subway station was the basement of his office building，and he would not have to go outside again until we met him in Brooklyn on his way home.

    When I think of it now，I am surprised at how much courage it must have taken for a grown man to suffer from shame and disability. And I am also surprised at how he did it—without bitterness or complaint.

    He never talked about himself as an object of pity，nor did he show any envy of the more fortunate or able. What he looked for in others was a “good heart”，and if he found one，the owner was good enough for him.

    Now that I am older，I believe that is a proper standard by which to judge people，even though I still don't know exactly what a “good heart” is. But I know the times I don't have one myself.

    He has been away for many years now，but I think of him often. I wonder if he sensed my reluctance to be seen with him during our walks. If he did，I am sorry I never told him how sorry I was，how unworthy I was，how I regretted it. I think of him when I complain about my troubles，when I am envious of another's good fortune，when I don't have a “good heart”．