“Not gone yet, Kate?”

“No, but I thought I sent you away long ago.”

“Yes, I know, but I’ve been to see Danny Kern’s mother:  there is nothing to be done; we must do our best and leave it there.  Was that a boy I met on the stairs?”

“Yes,—­that is, he is a boy in the sense that he is not a girl.  Oh, Helen, such a story!  We must take him!”

She sank helplessly on one of the children’s tables.  “Now, my dear guide, philosopher, and friend, did you happen to notice my babies this morning?  They were legion!  Our mothers must have heard that the Flower Mission intended giving us some Thanksgiving dinners, for there were our five inevitable little cat’s-paws,—­the identical five that applied just before the Christmas tree, disappeared in vacation, turned up the day before we went to the Mechanics’ Fair, were lost to sight the day after, presented themselves previous to the Woodward’s Garden expedition, and then went into retirement till to-day.  Where am I going to ‘sit’ another child, pray?  They were two in a seat and a dozen on the floor this morning.  It isn’t fair to them, in one sense, for they don’t get half enough attention.”

“You are right, dear; work half done is worse than wasted; but it isn’t fair to this child to leave him where he is.”

“Oh, I know.  I feel Fridayish, to tell the truth.  I shall love humanity again by Monday.  Have we money for more chairs or benches?”

“Certainly not.”

“You’ll have to print an appeal for chairs; and the children may wear out the floor sitting on it before the right people read it!”

“Yes; and oh, Helen, a printed appeal is such a dead thing, after all.  If I could only fix on a printed page Danny Kern’s smile when he conquered his temper yesterday, put into type that hand clasp of Mrs. Finnigan’s that sent such a thrill of promise to our hearts, show a subscriber Mrs. Guinee’s quivering lips when she thanked us for the change in Joe,—­why, we shouldn’t need money very long.”

“That is true.  What a week we have had, Kate,—­like a little piece of the millennium!”

“You must not be disappointed if next week isn’t as good; that could hardly be.  Let’s see,—­Mrs. Daniels began it on Monday morning, didn’t she, by giving the caps for the boys?”

“Yes,” groaned Helen dismally, “a generous but misguided benefactress!  Forty-three caps precisely alike save as to size!  What scenes of carnage we shall witness when we distribute them three times a day!”

“We must remedy that by sewing labels into the crowns, each marked with the child’s name in indelible ink.”

“Exactly,—­what a charming task!  I shall have to write my cherubs’ names, I suppose,—­most of them will take a yard of tape apiece.  I already recall Paulina Strozynski, Mercedes McGafferty, and Sigismund Braunschweiger.”

“And I, Maria Virginia de Rejas Perkins, Halfdan Christiansen, and Americo Vespucci Garibaldi.”