Every child that was able to walk or creep scuttled into the farthest corners and remained quite, quite still with a wide-eyed expression of fear and apprehension on every face.
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. The heavy, black door swung open. I stepped into the bare room, lighted dimly by one small window. In the farthest corner crouched something that stirred and glanced up at our entrance. It peered at us with an ugly look of terror and defiance, and I stared back at it, in the dim light. During one dreadful, breathless second I remained staring, while my heart stood still. Then—“Bennie!” I cried. And stumbled toward him. “Bennie—boy!”
The little unkempt figure, in its soiled knickerbocker suit, the sunny hair all uncared for, the gay plaid tie draggled and limp, rushed into my arms with a crazy, inarticulate cry.