The other day Daisy, a little fox terrier, was one of the patients.  She was a pretty little thing, three months old, with a silky coat and big, pathetic eyes.  She was escorted to the clinic by two hatless young women, in shawls, and three children.  The children waited outside in the reception room, standing in a line, grinning self-consciously, while the women followed Daisy into the examination room.  There she was gently muzzled with a piece of bandage, and the doctor examined her.  There was something the matter with one hind leg, and the poor little animal whimpered pitifully, as dogs do, while the doctor searched for a broken bone.  It was too much for one of the women.  She left the room, and, standing outside the door, put her fingers in her ears, while the tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Well, I wouldn’t cry for a dog,” said a workman, putting in some S.P.C.A. receiving boxes, with a grin, while the three children—­and children are always more or less little savages—­grinned sympathetically.  But it was a very real sorrow for Daisy’s mistress.

There was no reason for alarm; it was only a sprain, caused by her mistress’ catching the animal by the leg when she was giving her a bath.  Her friends were told to take her home, bathe the leg with warm water, and keep her as quiet as possible.  Her mistress, still with a troubled face, wrapped her carefully in the black shawl she was wearing, so that only the puppy’s little white head and big, soft eyes peeped out, and the small procession moved away.

In a special feature story designed to show how much more intelligently the first woman judge in this country could deal with cases of delinquent girls in the juvenile court than could the ordinary police court judge, a writer selected several cases that she had disposed of in her characteristic way.  The first case, which follows, he decided could best be reported verbatim, as by that method he could show most clearly the kindly attitude of the judge in dealing with even the least appreciative of girls.

The first case brought in the other day was that of a girl of 16, who hated her home and persisted in running away, sometimes to a married sister, and sometimes to a friend.  She was accompanied by her mother and older sister, both with determined lower jaws and faces as hard as flint.  She swaggered into the room in an impudent way to conceal the fact that her bravado was leaving her.

“Ella,” said Miss Bartelme, looking up from her desk, “why didn’t you tell me the truth when you came in here the other day?  You did not tell me where you had been.  Don’t you understand that it is much easier for me to help you if you speak the truth right away?”

    Ella hung her head and said nothing.  The older sister scowled at the
    girl and muttered something to the mother.

    “No,” refused the mother, on being questioned.  “We don’t want
    nothing more to do with her.”