For a moment my heart stood still. I turned to look
at the woman by my side. Her thin lips were compressed
into a straight, hard line. She said a word to a nurse
standing near, and began to walk about, eying the
children sharply. She put out a hand to pat the head of
one red-haired mite in a soiled pinafore; but before her
hand could descend I saw the child dodge and the tiny
hand flew up to the head, as though in defense.
"They are afraid of her!" my sick heart told me.
"Those babies are afraid of her! What does she do to
them? I can't stand this. I'm going."
I mumbled a hurried "Thank you," to the fat matron as
I turned to leave the big, bare room. At the head of the
stairs there was a great, black door. I stopped before
it--God knows why!--and pointed toward it.
"What is in that room?" I asked. Since then I have
wondered many times at the unseen power that prompted me
to put the question.
The stout matron bustled on, rattling her keys as she
walked.
"That--oh, that's where we keep the incorrigibles."
"May I see them?" I asked, again prompted by that
inner voice.
"There is only one." She grudgingly unlocked the
door, using one of the great keys that swung from her
waist.
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