"Sakes alive," cried Miss Smith, throwing a shawl about her and leaning
out the window. "Who is it, and what do you want?"

"Please, ma'am. I've come to school," answered a tall black boy with a
bundle.

"Well, why don't you go to the office?" Then she saw his face and
hesitated. She felt again the old motherly instinct to be the first to
welcome the new pupil; a luxury which, in later years, the endless push
of details had denied her.

"Wait!" she cried shortly, and began to dress.

A new boy, she mused. Yes, every day they straggled in; every day came
the call for more, more--this great, growing thirst to know--to do--to
be. And yet that woman had sat right here, aloof, imperturbable,
listening only courteously. When Miss Smith finished, she had paused
and, flicking her glove,--

"My dear Miss Smith," she said softly, with a tone that just escaped a
drawl--"My dear Miss Smith, your work is interesting and your
faith--marvellous; but, frankly, I cannot make myself believe in it. You
are trying to treat these funny little monkeys just as you would your
own children--or even mine. It's quite heroic, of course, but it's sheer
madness, and I do not feel I ought to encourage it. I would not mind a
thousand or so to train a good cook for the Cresswells, or a clean and
faithful maid for myself--for Helene has faults--or indeed deft and
tractable laboring-folk for any one; but I'm quite through trying to
turn natural servants into masters of me and mine. I--hope I'm not too
blunt; I hope I make myself clear. You know, statistics show--"