“A philanthropic institution for children is in need of the services of a gentlewoman. One who prefers the life of a comfortable home with refined surroundings to a large salary.” Though well along toward the middle of the day I decided to try my luck. Calling up an address mentioned in the advertisement, it did not greatly surprise me to learn that the institution was Rodman House. I had long been acquainted, through the newspapers, with this institution. In all these “write-ups” the statement that the children in the home were surrounded and cared for exclusively by women of education and refinement was always conspicuously emphasized. To the wages, fifteen dollars a month, I did not give a second thought. Having bought a pair of new shoes with some of my earnings at Sutton House, I felt quite independent of money. To tell the truth so deep was my sympathy for the class of children cared for in the Rodman Hall, I would gladly have given my services. Also, I had met Mrs. Howard, who was the life and soul of the work. Familiar as I was with her long and persistent struggles to put the institution on a sound financial basis, I held her in high esteem. Speaking to her over the telephone, I told her exactly who I was, and stated honestly my reasons for wishing the position—my sympathy with her plans, and my desire to be closely associated with the children for the sake of my work as a writer. She was even more persistent than Mrs. Bossman in urging me to come at once—that afternoon. Confident that I had found a place in which it would be greatly to my advantage to remain the entire summer, I hurried back to the rooming-house and dived once more into the business of packing. Such an accumulation! Being the last of those who had spent the past seven months on the top floor, my neighbors on leaving had presented me with everything he or she did not think worth while taking with them, yet considered too good to be thrown away—the Press was continually cautioning persons against waste of any sort, while every man, woman, and child throughout the country appeared to be rushing around gathering all conceivable articles to send to Belgium. Perhaps my neighbors thought of me as the Belgium of that top floor. They acted like it. Mrs. Wilkins gave me a new Panama hat, the brim of which had been cut by a careless trimmer. “They was throwin’ it in the trash-box when I seen ’em,” she explained, on presenting the rescued head-covering to me. “All you have to do is to line the brim, turn it up on the side or behind or before—whichever way most becomes you in the face—and fix the trimmin’ so the cut won’t show. It’ll look as good as a twenty-five-dollar hat when you get through.” On the strength of having given me such an expensive hat she asked me to keep her cooking utensils and breadbox. And as an eleventh-hour reminder, hung her winter coat and furs in my tiny little wardrobe—all to be kept until she “found time” to send for them.