to hear her talk.

She always comes once a week, often twice, to spend the evening at the
Asylum with Miss Katherine, and sometimes when they think I'm asleep,
I'm not. I'd be a nuisance if I kept popping up and saying, "I'm not
asleep, speak low." So when I can't, really can't, sleep, though I do
try, I hear them talking, and the things Miss Webb says are a great
relief to my feelings.

She doesn't come to supper, orphan-asylum suppers being refreshments to
stay from, not come to, but nearly always they make something on a
chafing-dish. Something that's good, painful good.

Miss Webb says Miss Katherine's stomach has some rights, which is true;
and when they begin to cook, I just sleep away, breathing regular and
easy, so they won't know I am awake, for fear they might think I am not
asleep on purpose.

But I have to hold on to the bed and stuff my ears and nose so as not to
hear and smell, for I am that hungry I could eat horse if it had
Worcestershire sauce on it. And that is what they put in their things,
which shows that in eating, even, Miss Katherine preaches sense and
practises taste.

Miss Webb just laughs at theories, and brings all sorts of good things
with her. She says doctors have wronged more stomachs than they've ever
righted by all this dieting business, and, while there's sense in some
of it, there's more nonsense; and as for her, she don't believe in it.
I don't know anything about it; but I don't, either.