“Humph! faery-tales!  Is that not very foolish?  Don’t you think, Miss Margaret, it would be more suitable to their condition in life if you should select—­hmm—­something like Pilgrim’s Progress or Lives of the Saints and Martyrs?  Something that would be a preparation—­so to speak—­for the future.”  He stood facing her now, his back to the children.

“Excuse me”—­she was smiling up at him—­“but I thought this was a better preparation.”

The President frowned.  He was a much-tried man—­a man of charitable parts, who directed or presided over thirty organizations.  It took him nearly thirty days each month—­with the help of two private secretaries and a luxurious office—­to properly attend to all the work resulting therefrom; and the matters in hand were often so trying and perplexing that he had to go abroad every other year to avoid a nervous breakdown.

“I think we took up this matter at one of the business meetings,” he went on, patiently, “and some arrangement was made for one of the trustees to come and read the Bible and teach the children their respective creeds and catechisms.”

Margaret MacLean nodded.  “There was; Miss N——­“—­and she named the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee—­“generally comes an hour before the meeting and reads to them; but to-day she was detained by a—­tango tea, I believe.  That’s why I chose this.”  Her eyes danced unconsciously as she tapped the book.

The President looked at her sharply.  “I should think, my dear young lady, that you, of all persons, would realize what a very serious thing life is to any one in this condition.  Instead of that I fear at times that you are—­shall I say—­flippant?” He turned about and looked at the children.  “How do you do?” he asked, kindly.

“Thank you, sir, we are very well, sir,” they chorused in reply.  Saint Margaret’s was never found wanting in politeness.

The President left; and the nurse in charge of Ward C went on with the reading.

“’The Tin Soldier stood up to his neck in water; deeper and deeper sank the boat, and the paper became more and more limp; then the water closed over him; but the Tin Soldier remained firm and shouldered his musket.’”

A group filled the doorway; it was the voice of the Oldest Trustee that floated in.  “This, my dear, is the incurable ward; we are very much interested in it.”

They stood just over the threshold—­the Oldest Trustee in advance, her figure commanding and unbent, for all her seventy years, and her lorgnette raised.  As she was speaking a little gray wisp of a woman detached herself from the group and moved slowly down the row of cots.

“Yes,” continued the Oldest Trustee, “we have two cases of congenital hip disease and three of spinal tuberculosis—­that is one of them in the second crib.”  Her eyes moved on from Sandy to Rosita.  “And the fifth patient has such a dreadful case of rheumatism.  Sad, isn’t it, in so young a child?  Yes, the Senior Surgeon says it is absolutely incurable.”