The Matron looked grave. Her clear gaze pierced through and through the man, as if--his own homely simile--she would count the buttons on the back of his shirt. "What references have you?" she asked presently. "References?" Pippin looked vague. "Yes! I don't know anything about you--except that you are certainly a good scissor-grinder!" she smiled, half relenting. "You want to know about one of our girls--about some one who might have been one of our girls--" she corrected herself hastily--"and you say you were a guttersnipe and her father was a crook. Young man, our girls have nothing to do with crooks or guttersnipes, you must understand that. Unless you can refer me to some one--" her pause was eloquent. "I wish't Elder Hadley was here!" said Pippin. "He'd speak for me, lady!" "Elder Hadley? Where does he live?" Pippin sighed, fingered his file, sighed again. Easy to tell his story to Jacob Bailey and Calvin Parks, the good plain men who had known good and evil and chosen good all their lives long; less easy, but still not too hard, to tell it to the kind Baxters who knew and loved him: but here, in the city, to a woman who knew crooks and guttersnipes and probably feared or despised them--not easy! Still-- "You see, lady," said Pippin, "'tis this way." * * * * * The Matron heard his story, listening attentively, now and then putting a shrewd question. When it was over, she excused herself, not unkindly but with a grave formality unlike her first cheerful aspect. She must attend to something in the house. If he could wait ten or fifteen minutes-- "Sure!" said Pippin. "And I might be sharpening the meat knife or like that? I'll throw it in for luck." While he was sharpening the meat knife (which, he said to himself, had been used something awful; you'd think they'd gone over it with a crosscut saw!), he heard a cheerful hubbub in the street outside; distant at first, then louder, as turning a corner; louder still, as close at hand; till with a deafening outburst of treble and alto the gate of the courtyard was flung open, and-- "Green grass!" cried Pippin. "Here's the kids!" Here they were indeed, just out of school, rosy, tousled, jubilant: boys and girls, the former small, the latter all sizes from kindergarten toddlers to the big sixteen-year-old maiden to whose skirts they clung. At sight of a strange man they checked, and the hubbub fell into sudden silence; only for a moment, though, for Pippin smiled, and in another minute they were all around him, hustling and elbowing to get the closest sight of the wheel. "Easy!" said Pippin. "Easy does it! Don't come too nigh her; she bites!" There was an instant recoil, with symptoms of possible flight. "What I would say," he went on, "she'll bite if you touch her; no other ways. Look with your eyes and not your hands! _And not your hands!_"