After the hot and dusty streets of New York Rodman Hall, reached after a considerable run by the Subway, seemed a bit of heaven. Seated back from the country road and among the trees the large house, which was of some dark shade almost the color of the trunks of the trees, appeared to have grown there—not built in the usual way. There was no lawn, the trees were not overlarge and did not impress one as having been carefully planted or pruned. Like the house they appeared to have just grown there and to have enjoyed the process. Even the gravel on the wide driveway that curved from the public road to the front door had the look of being to that spot born. And though the dash of color to the left of the house, a little behind, was made by a crimson rambler, there was no suggestion of the artificial. It was a comfortably homey place without a suggestion of institution. I congratulated myself on having found such a place in which to spend the summer—surrounded by children of the particular class cared for in the Rodman Hall. Mrs. Howard received me pleasantly and while showing me over the house she explained the work and recounted the incident that had led her to undertake the care of this type of defective children. Though having read the same thing in the “write-ups” of the Rodman Hall I was pleased to have it authenticated. Out on the grounds she pointed out, with considerable pride an adjoining tract of land which she said contained sixteen acres, and which she had just purchased for the institution. That afternoon one of the institution’s employees invited me to use her typewriter to write a letter home, notifying my family of my change of address. While doing this we carried on quite a conversation. With considerable gusto she informed me that she had been for years private secretary to a Mr. Johnson Bascom, a high official of a large banking corporation. So confidential had been her relations with her chief, she proudly assured me, that as soon as the “now famous investigation” was mooted he sent her abroad. “It’s not every girl that’s spent a year in Europe,” she told me, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. “And I stopped at the best hotels, too—had all my expenses paid, and my salary besides.” “Then you could have given valuable testimony?” I asked. “I certainly could’ve done that, and they knew it, too,” she boasted. “You were not afraid to take their money?” “I should say not. They were not giving me more than my absence was worth to them. My friends tell me I was a fool not to have made them pay me more—when you are young you haven’t got much sense. I thought if I could spend a year abroad I’d be IT.” “Odd variety of IT to be second in command of an institution for young children!” was my mental comment, and I turned back to pecking on her typewriter.