One warm morning in August, when Miss Toland was stretched out on the reception-room couch, and Julia, who had washed her hair, was shaking it, a flying, fluffy mop, over the sill of the bathroom window, a sudden hubbub broke out in the kindergarten.  Miss Toland flung down her book and Julia gathered her loose wrapper about her, and both ran to the door of the assembly hall.  The children, crying and frightened, were gathered in a group, and in the centre of it Julia, from the elevation of the stage, could see Miss Pierce half-kneeling and leaning over as if she tried to raise something from the floor.  While they watched she arose, holding the limp body of a five-year-old child in her arms.

“What is it—­what is it?” screamed Miss Toland, but as every one else was screaming and crying, and Julia’s automatic, “Is she dead?” was answered over and over again only by Miss Pierce’s breathless, “No—­no—­no—­I don’t think so!” it was some time before any clear idea of the tragedy could be had.  The small girl was carried in to Julia’s bed, where she lay half-conscious, moaning; great bubbles of blood formed from an ugly skin wound in her lip, and her little frock was stained with blood.  As an attempt to remove her clothes only roused her to piercing screams, Julia and Miss Pierce gave up the attempt, and fell to bathing the child’s forehead, which, with the baby curls pushed away from it, gave a ghastly look to the little face.

“Well, you’ve killed her, Miss Pierce!” said Miss Toland, beside herself with nervousness.  “That’s a dying child, if I ever saw one.  That ruins this Settlement House!  That ends it!  Poor little thing!”

“I was at the board,” said Miss Pierce, white-lipped, and in a low tone.

“I don’t care where you were,” said Miss Toland.  “There, there, darling!  I pay you to watch these children!  It’s a fine thing if a child is going to be killed right here in the house!  Where was Miss Watts?” she broke off to ask.

“Miss Watts is at home, sick,” Miss Pierce said eagerly.  “And I was at the board, when some of those bigger boys set a bench up on top of another bench.  I heard the noise and turned around; this child—­poor little Maude Daley, it is—­was standing right there, and got the full weight of both benches as they fell.”

“This boy is back,” said Julia, coming from the front door, “and he says that Doctor White is out and Doctor McGuire is out, too!”

“Great heavens!” Miss Toland began despairingly.  “No doctor! of course, eleven o’clock they’re all out on morning rounds!  And the child’s mother, where is she?  Am I the only person here who can do something except sit around and say ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’”

“She has no mother, and her grandmother’s out,” Julia said soothingly.  “Miss Toland, if I telephone do you think I can catch Doctor Studdiford at the City and County?”

“A two hours’ trip from Sausalito!” Miss Toland said scornfully.  “You must be crazy, that’s all!  No!  Go into Mission Street—­”