A shadow fell athwart the threshold that very moment.  Margaret MacLean could feel it without taking her eyes from the book, and, purposefully unmindful of its presence, she kept reading steadily on: 

“’The paper boat was rocking up and down; sometimes it turned round so quickly that the Tin Soldier trembled; but he remained firm, he did not move a muscle, and looked straight forward, shouldering his musket.’”

“Ah, Miss MacLean, may I speak with you a moment?” It was the voice of the Meanest Trustee.

The nurse in charge rose quickly and met him half-way, hoping to keep him and whatever he might have to say as far from the children as possible.

The Meanest Trustee continued in a little, short, sharp voice:  “The cook tells me that the patients in this ward have been having extra food prepared for them of late, such as fruit and jellies and scones and even ice-cream.  I discovered it for myself.  I saw some pineapples in the refrigerator when I was inspecting it this afternoon, and the cook said it was your orders.”

Margaret MacLean smiled her most ingratiating smile.  “You see,” she said, eagerly, “the children in this ward get fearfully tired of the same things to eat; it is not like the other wards where the children stay only a short time.  So I thought it would be nice to have something different—­once in a while; and then the old things would taste all the better—­don’t you see?  I felt sure the trustees would be willing.”

“Well, they are not.  It is an entirely unnecessary expense which I will not countenance.  The regular food is good and wholesome, and the patients ought to feel grateful for it instead of finding fault.”

The nurse looked anxiously toward the cots, then dropped her voice half an octave lower.

“The children have never found fault; it was just my idea to give them a treat when they were not expecting it.  As for the extra expense, there has been none; I have paid for everything myself.”

The Meanest Trustee readjusted his eye-glasses and looked closer at the young woman before him.  “Do you mean to say you paid for them out of your own wages?”

The nurse nodded.

“Then all I have to say is that I consider it an extremely idiotic performance which had better be stopped.  Children should not be indulged.”

And he went away muttering something about the poor always remaining poor with their foolish notions of throwing away money; and Margaret MacLean went back to the book of faery-tales.  But as she was looking for the place Sandy grunted forth stubbornly: 

“A’m no wantin’ ony scones the nicht, so ye maun na fetch them.”

And Peter piped out, “Trusterday, ain’t it, Miss Peggie?”

“Yes, dear.  Now shall we go on with the story?”

She had read to where the rat was demanding the passport when she recognized the President’s step outside the door.  In another moment he was standing beside her chair, looking at the book on her knee.