The trustees moved restlessly in their chairs.  The unexpected had happened; there was an internal rupture at Saint Margaret’s; and for forty years the trustees had boasted of its harmonious behavior and kindly feelings.  In a like manner do those dwellers in the shadow of a volcano continue to boast of their safety and the harmlessness of the crater up to the very hour of its eruption.  And all the while the gray wisp of a woman by the door sat silent, her hands still folded on her lap.

At last the President rose; he coughed twice before speaking.  “I think we will call upon the hospital committee now for their reports.  Afterward we will take up the question of the incurable ward among the trustees—­hmm—­alone.”

Every one sat quietly, almost listlessly, during the reading until Margaret MacLean rose, the report for Ward C in her hand.  Then there came a raising of heads and a stiffening of backs and a setting of chins.  She was very calm, the still calm of the China Sea before a typhoon strikes it; when she had finished reading she put the report on the chair back of her and faced the President with clasped hands and—­a smile.

“It’s funny,” she said, irrelevantly, “for the first time in my life I am not afraid here.”

And the House Surgeon muttered, under his breath:  “Great guns!  That mind-string has snapped.”

“There is more to the report than I had the courage to write down when I was making it out; but I can give it very easily now, if you will not mind listening a little longer.  You have always thought that I came back to Saint Margaret’s because I felt grateful for what you had done for me—­for the food and the clothes and the care, and later for the education that you paid for.  This isn’t true.  I am grateful—­very grateful—­but it is a dutiful kind of gratitude which wouldn’t have brought me back in a thousand years.  I am so sorry to feel this way.  Perhaps I would not if, in all the years that I was here as a child, one of you had shown me a single personal kindness, or some one had thought to send me a letter or a message while I was away at school.  No, you took care of me because you thought it was your duty, and I am grateful for the same reason; but it was quite another thing which brought me back to Saint Margaret’s.”

The smile had gone; she was very sober now.  And the House Surgeon, still watching the two profiles, suddenly felt his heart settle down to a single steady beat.  He wanted to get up that very instant and tell the nurse in charge of Ward C what had happened and what he thought of her; but instead he dug his hands deep in his pockets.  How in the name of the seven continents had he never before realized that she was the sweetest, finest, most adorable, and onliest girl in the world, and worth a whole board-room full of youngest and prettiest trustees?