The Superintendent was eyeing Rose-Marie curiously.
"We have plenty of sleeping-rooms on the top floor," she said slowly, "and I suppose that the older girl could help a bit, evenings. Why, yes, perhaps a family might solve the problem—it's easier to keep a woman with children than one who is," she laughed, "heart-whole and fancy free! Who are they, dear, and how do you happen to know of them?"
Rose-Marie sat down, suddenly, in a chair beside the Superintendent's desk. All at once her knees were shaky—all at once she felt strangely apprehensive.
"Once," she began, and her voice quivered slightly, "I met a little boy, in the park. He was hurting a kitten. I started to scold him and then something made me question him, instead. And I found out that he was hurting the kitten because he didn't know any better—think of it, because he didn't know any better! And so I was interested, ever so interested. And I decided it was my duty to know something of him—to find out what sort of an environment was responsible for him."
The Superintendent's tired face was alight She leaned forward to ask a question.
"How long ago," she questioned, "did you meet this child, in the park?"
Rose-Marie flushed. The time, suddenly, seemed very long to her.
"It was the day that I came home bringing a little gray cat with me," she said. "It was the day that I quarreled with Dr. Blanchard at the luncheon table. Do you remember?"
The Superintendent smiled reminiscently. "Ah, yes, I remember!" she said. And then—"Go on with the story, dear."
Rose-Marie went on.