I said:
"No, I can't. This money is not mine."
The elevator "boy" was a girl—a black girl.
We went up and up and up. My heart was in my mouth, for I had never been in an elevator before. Never had I been in a tall building before. We did not have one in Quebec when I was there. We got off at the top floor. Oh, me! how that height thrilled me, and, I think, frightened me a little! On the way to the room, my friend—though I had learned her name, I always like to refer to her as "my friend." Ah, I wonder whether she is still looking for and picking up poor little homeless girls at railway stations!—said:
"You know, dear, we have to be careful about references and such things. Otherwise all sorts of undesirable girls would get in here."
"Well," I said, "I don't see why a girl who has a reference from a minister is any more desirable than one who has not."
"No, perhaps not," she said; "but then, you see, we have to use some sort of way of judging. We do this to protect our good girls. This is frankly a place for good girls, and we cannot admit girls who are not. By and by you'll appreciate that yourself. We'll be protecting you, don't you see?"
I didn't, but she was so sweet that I said I did.