“That’s a miserable way to speak of a lot of children,” muttered the Disagreeable Trustee; but no one paid any attention, and Margaret MacLean went on: 

“There is room now for about twenty beds; and annexes can easily be added as fast as the need grows.  This lonely old woman would consider it a great kindness if you will take charge; she would also like to have you persuade the House Surgeon that it is high time for him to become Senior Surgeon, and the new home is the place for him to begin.  Together we should be able to equip it without delay; so that the children could be moved direct from Saint Margaret’s.  It is the whim of this old woman to call it a ’Home for Curables’—­which, of course, is only a whim.  Will you come to see me as soon as you can and let us talk it over?”

Margaret MacLean folded the letter slowly and put it back in its envelope.  “You see,” she said, the little-girl look spreading over her face—­“you see, you mustn’t take us back again.  I could not possibly refuse, even if I wanted to; it is just what the children have longed for—­and wished for—­and—­”

“We are not going to give up the ward; she would have to start her home with other children.”  The Dominant Trustee announced it flatly.

Strangely enough, the faces of his fellow-directors corroborated his assertion.  Often the value of a collection drops so persistently in the estimate of its possessor that he begins to contemplate exchanging it for something more up to date or interesting.  But let a rival collector march forth with igniting enthusiasm and proclaim a desire for the scorned objects, and that very moment does the possessor tighten his grip on them and add a decimal or two to their value.  So was it with the trustees of Saint Margaret’s.  For the first time in their lives they desired the incurable ward and wished to retain it.

“Not only do we intend to keep the children, but there are many improvements I shall suggest to the board when there is more time.  I should like to insist on a more careful supervision of—­curious visitors.”  And the Oldest Trustee raised her lorgnette and compassed the gathering with a look that challenged dispute.

Margaret MacLean’s face became unaccountably old and tired.  The vision that had seemed so close, so tangible, so ready to be made actual, had suddenly retreated beyond her reach, and she was left as empty of heart and hand as she had been before.  For a moment her whole figure seemed to crumple; and then she shook herself together into a resisting, fighting force again.

“You can’t keep the children, after this.  Think, think what it means to them—­a home in the country, on a hilltop, trees and birds and flowers all about.  Many of them could wheel themselves out of doors, and the others could have hammocks and cots under the trees.  Forget for this once that you are trustees, and think what it means to the children.”