“And retain Margaret MacLean in charge?” The Meanest Trustee gave it the form of a question, but his manner implied the statement of a disagreeable fact.

“Why not?  Is there any one more competent to take charge?” The Executive Trustee interrogated each individual member of the board with a quizzical eye.

“But the new surgical ward—­and science?” The Youngest and Prettiest threw it, Jason-fashion, and waited expectantly for a clash of steel.

Instead the Senior Surgeon stepped forward, rather pink and embarrassed.  “I should like to withdraw my request for a new surgical ward.  It can wait—­for the present, at least.”

And then it was that Margaret MacLean and the House Surgeon entered the board-room.

The President nodded to them pleasantly, and motioned to the chairs near him.  “We are having what you professional people call a reaction.  I hardly know what started it; but—­hmmm—­” For the second time that morning he came to a dead stop.

Everybody took great pains to avoid looking at everybody else; while each face wore a painful expression of sham innocence.  It was as if so many naughty children had been suddenly caught on the wrong side of the fence, the stolen fruit in their pockets.  It was gone in less time than it takes for the telling; but it would have left the careful observer, had he been there, with the firm conviction that, for the first time in their conservative lives, the trustees of Saint Margaret’s had come perilously near to giving themselves away.

In a twinkling the board sat at ease once more, and the President’s habitual composure returned.  “Will some one motion that we adopt the two measures we have suggested?  This is not parliamentary, but we are all in a hurry.”

“I motion that we keep the incurables for the present, and that Miss MacLean be requested to continue in charge.”  There was a note of relieved repression in the voice of the Executive Trustee as he made the motion; and he stretched his shoulders unconsciously.

“But you mustn’t make any such motion.”  Margaret MacLean rose, reaching forth protesting hands.  “You would spoil the very best thing that has happened for years and years.  Just wait—­wait until you have heard.”

As she unfolded her letter the President’s alert eye promptly compared it with the one behind him on the desk.  “So—­you have likewise heard from the widow of the Richest Trustee?”

She looked at him, puzzled.  “Oh, you know!  She has written you?”

“Not what she has written you, I judge.  One could hardly term our communication ‘the best thing that has happened in years.’” And again a smile twitched at the corners of the President’s mouth.

“Then listen to this.”  Margaret MacLean read the letter eagerly: 

“DEAE Margaret MACLEAN,—­There is a home standing on a hilltop—­an hour’s ride from the city.  It belongs to a lonely old woman who finds that it is too large and too lonely for her to live in, and too full of haunting memories to be left empty.  Therefore she wants to fill it with incurable children, and she would like to begin with the discarded ward of Saint Margaret’s.”