“I came back,” went on Margaret MacLean, slowly, “really because of the Old Senior Surgeon, to stand, as he stood in the days long ago, between you and the incurable ward; to shut out—­if I could—­the little, thoughtless, hurting things that you are always saying without being in the least bit conscious of them, and to keep the children from wanting too much the friendship and loving interest that, somehow, they expected from you.  I wanted to try and make them feel that they were not case this and case that, abnormally diseased and therefore objects of pity and curiosity to be pointed out to sympathetic visitors, but children—­just children—­with a right to be happy and loved.  I wanted to fill their minds so full of fun and make-believe that they would have to forget about their poor little bodies.  I tried to make you feel this and help without putting it—­cruelly—­into words; but you would never understand.  You have never let them forget for a moment that they are ‘incurables,’ any more than you have let me forget that I am a—­foundling.”

She stopped a moment for breath, and the smile came back—­a wistfully pleading smile.  “I am afraid that last was not in the report.  What I want to say is—­please keep the incurable ward; take the time to really know them—­and love them a little.  If you only could you would never consider sending them away for a moment.  And if, in addition to the splendid care you have given their bodies, you would only help to keep their minds and hearts sound and sweet, and shield them against curious visitors, why—­why—­some of them might turn out to be ’a case in a thousand.’  Don’t you see—­can’t you see—­that they have as much right to their scraps of life and happiness—­as your children have to their complete lives, and that there is no place for them anywhere if Saint Margaret’s closes her doors?”

With an overwhelming suddenness she became conscious of the attitude of the trustees.  She, who was nothing but a foundling and a charity patient herself, had dared to pass judgment on them; it was inconceivable—­it was impertinent—­it was beyond all precedent.  Only the gray wisp of a woman sat silent, seeming to express nothing.  Margaret MacLean’s cheeks flamed; she shrank into herself, her whole being acutely alive to their thoughts.  The scared little-girl look came into her face.

“Perhaps—­perhaps,” she stammered, pitifully, “after what I have said you would rather I did not stay on—­in charge of Ward C?”

The Dominating Trustee rose abruptly.  “Mr. President, I suggest that we act upon Miss MacLean’s resignation at once.”

“I second the motion,” came in a quick bark from the Meanest Trustee, while the Oldest Trustee could be heard quoting, “Sharper than a serpent’s tooth—­”

The Executive Trustee rose, looking past Margaret MacLean as he spoke.  “In view of the fact that we shall possibly discontinue the incurable ward, and that Miss MacLean seems wholly unsatisfied with our methods and supervision here, I motion that her resignation be accepted now, and that she shall be free to leave Saint Margaret’s when her month shall have expired,”