"They gave us food and—and medicine when we were sick. And on Christmas we had a tree. Only nobody ever came to see me. I always looked out of the window for somebody to come. But no one came." "Yes, yes, I know," I pursued. "But did they show you affection—sympathy?" Alicia was silent. "Don’t you know what I mean?" I pressed. "Yes, sir, I think I do." "Then why don’t you answer?" "I—it’s hard to explain," and she laughed a frightened little laugh. "There is no one there to—to do those things you said. There were five hundred of us there. If you’re not sick you just go on like all the rest. If you’re sick they give you oil or something. Sometimes a child pretends it’s sick just so the matron or a nurse might take it in her lap and make a fuss over it. And some are naughty—for the same reason." I nodded gravely, but my heart was gripped by a poignant aching. I saw Laura’s children compelled to feign illness or delinquency in order to receive a touch of individual attention which, I suppose, every child spontaneously craves. "Were you glad to leave there?" I asked. "Oh, yes, sir!" she answered eagerly. "Tragic, my poor sister dying," I said, half to myself. "She was an ideal mother. Now—I hardly know what to do." Alicia leaped from her chair and came yearning toward me. Her little face tremulous and working, she cried out: "Oh, Mr. Byrd, you won’t send us away—to a Home—will you?" "No, no!—Not to a Home," I replied defensively. "But schools—there must be good places for children—" "They’d feel terribly," she stifled a sob. "They love it so here—Even here Laura cries for her mother every night—and little Jimmie—" "Never mind," I took her up hastily, "nothing is decided yet, my dear child. I’m glad I spoke to you. You see," I ran on, "there’s so little room here, and I—I know nothing about children—" "But there’s nothing to do," she protested, sobbing. "Nothing?" I smiled vaguely in an effort to cheer her and laid my hand upon her thin shoulder. "Nothing except just love them," she said. "I’ll take care of them—all I can." How simple! "Well, well, we shall see," I aimed to be reassuring. "Do I have to go—back to the Home?" she asked brokenly, with an arm hiding her face. "Oh, no, certainly not," I answered hastily. "We’ll find a better way than that. Now," I added, "be a good girl, dry your eyes; run along and don’t say a word about—our conversation." "No, sir," she murmured obediently. And still gulping, she left me. It is obvious that the girl Alicia has been of decisive help to me! Yet it is equally obvious that I cannot keep the children here. Dibdin has been here and he has left me in a state of distraction, worse if possible than that I had been in before. The good fellow endeavored to be vastly and solidly cheering.