Jerusha gazed out across a broad stretch of frozen lawn, beyond the tall iron paling that marked the confines of the asylum, down undulating ridges sprinkled with country estates, to the spires of the village rising from the midst of bare trees. Lippett, behind the scenes, did not always maintain that calm and pompous dignity with which she faced an audience of Trustees and lady visitors. She had been on her feet since five that morning, doing everybody’s bidding, scolded and hurried by a nervous matron. Then she dropped down on the window seat and leaned throbbing temples against the cool glass.

Jerusha assembled her charges, straightened their rumpled frocks, wiped their noses, and started them in an orderly and willing line toward the dining room to engage themselves for a blessed half hour with bread and milk and prune pudding. Her special care was room F, where eleven little tots, from four to seven, occupied eleven little cots set in a row. Jerusha escaped from the pantry where she had been making sandwiches for the asylum’s guests and turned upstairs to accomplish her regular work. But this particular first Wednesday, like its predecessors, finally dragged itself to a close. It was a distressing time and poor Jerusha Abbott, being the oldest orphan, had to bear the brunt of it. Ninety-seven squirming little orphans must be scrubbed and combed and buttoned into freshly starched ginghams and all ninety-seven reminded of their manners, and told to say, Yes, sir, No, sir, whenever a Trustee spoke. Every floor must be spotless, every chair dustless, and every bed without a wrinkle.

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