I never have understood how Miss Katherine could have come to an Orphan Asylum to live and to eat Orphan Asylum meals when she could have eaten the best in Yorkburg.  And Yorkburg’s best is the best on earth.  Everybody says that who’s tried other places, even Miss Webb, who gets right impatient with Yorkburg’s slowness and enjoyment of itself.

And Miss Katherine is living here from pure choice.  That’s what she is doing, and she’s made living creatures of us, just like God did when He breathed on Adam and woke him up.

At the hospital she used to ask me all about the Asylum, and, never guessing why, I told her all I knew, except about Miss Bray.  Miss Katherine had known the Asylum all her life, but had only been in it twice—­just passing it by, not thinking.  When I got better and could talk as much as I pleased, she wanted to know how many of us there were, what we did, and how we did it:  what we ate, and what kind of underclothes we wore in winter, and how many times a week we bathed all over; when we got up, and what we studied, and how long we sewed each day, and how long we played, and when we went to bed—­and all sorts of other things.  I wondered why she wanted to know, and when I found out I could have laid right down and died from pure gladness.  I didn’t, though.

Once I asked her what made her do it, and she laughed and said because she wanted to, and that she was much obliged to me for having found her work for her.  But I believe there’s some other reason she won’t tell.

And why I believe so is that sometimes, when she thinks I am asleep, I see her looking in the fire, and there’s something in her face that’s never there at any other time.  It’s a remembrance.  I guess most hearts have them if they live long enough.  But you’d never think Miss Katherine had one, she’s so glad and cheerful and busy all the time.  I wonder if it’s a sweetheart remembrance?  I know three of her beaux; one in Yorkburg and two from away, who have been to see her frequent times; but a beau is different from a sweetheart.  I’m sure that look means something secret, and I bet it’s a man.  Who is he?  I don’t know.  I wish he was dead.  I do!

When I first came back from the hospital my little old sticks of legs wouldn’t hold me up, and down I would go.  But I didn’t mind that.  I just minded not going to sleep at night.  But sleep wouldn’t come, and I’d get so wide awake trying to make it that I began to have a teeny bit of fever again, and then it was Miss Katherine asked if she might take me in her room.  I was nervous and still needed attention, she said, and—­magnificent gloriousness!—­I was sent to her room to stay until perfectly well, and I’m here yet.  Perfectly well because I am here!

That first night when I got into the little white bed next to her bed, and knew she was going to be there beside me, I couldn’t go to sleep right off.  I kept wishing I was King David, so I could write a book of gratitudes and psalms and praises, and that was the first night I ever really prayed right.  I didn’t ask for a thing except for help to be worth it—­the trouble she was taking for just little me, a charity child.  Just me!