The first Wednesday of every month was always a "Perfectly Awful Day" at the John Grier Home for Orphans.
That's when the trustees and the ladies' committee visited us.
Of course, we gave them tea and sandwiches.
But this was more than a social call.
These men and women were also inspecting us.
Everything at our orphanage had to be perfect.
There was so much work to do!
And as the oldest orphan, I—Jerusha Abbott—did most of it.
One Wednesday I was on my feet at five o'clock in the morning.
I mopped floors, dusted chairs, and made beds.
I helped to scrub and dress 97 squirming orphans.
I also reminded them to behave.
"If a trustee or lady speaks to you, what do you say?"
The children looked at each other and burst into giggles.
"You say, 'Yes, sir' or 'No, ma'am.'
Remember your manners and be polite to anyone you meet today."
Mrs. Lippett, the matron at the orphanage, rushed me through these extra chores.
She appeared calm to our guests.
But behind the scenes, she was often quite frantic.
This Wednesday, like all the others, finally dragged to a close.
As our guests were leaving, I returned to my regular duties in Room F.
I was in charge of eleven little girls, ages four to seven.
It was time for supper.
So I straightened their dresses and wiped their noses.
Then I sent them off to the dining room.
I stayed upstairs and sank into a window seat.
I pressed my aching head against the cool glass.
The day seemed like a success.
The ladies and gentlemen had made their rounds, read their reports, and sipped their tea.
From my seat, I watched their carriages and automobiles rolling out of the orphanage gates.
In my mind I followed them to the big houses dotting the hills.
I imagined myself riding home in one of those carriages.
I wore a fur coat and a velvet hat.
But then I tried to picture the inside of my imaginary house . . . and I couldn't.
That was because I'd never been in a real house in all my 18 years.
"Je-ru-sha Ab-bott, you are want-ed in the of-fice.
And I think you'd better hurry up!"
Tommy Dillon came singing up the stairs.
He'd recently joined the choir, so he sang all the time.
I pulled myself away from the window. "Who wants me?" I asked anxiously.
"Mrs. Lip-pett and I think she's mad."
"Oh no!" I groaned.
"What did I do? Were the sandwiches too thick today?
Did a lady visitor see the hole in an orphan's stocking?"
Tommy shrugged. He had no idea, but he followed me downstairs.
The long lower hallway was dark.
One last trustee stood in the open door.
He was a tall man.
He motioned for an automobile to pull up to the door.
As the automobile approached, its headlights cast the man's shadow against the wall.
The shadow had very long arms and legs.
Suddenly my anxiety melted, and I began to laugh.
"That shadow looks just like a giant daddy longlegs!" I whispered to Tommy.
He laughed too.
"Good luck!" he sang as he left me outside Mrs. Lippett's door.
I can find the humor in most things.
So, still smiling about Daddy Longlegs, I knocked on Mrs. Lippett's door.
Much to my surprise, the matron looked almost as cheerful as I did.
"Sit down, Jerusha. I have something to say to you."
I dropped into the nearest chair.
An automobile flashed past the window.
Mrs. Lippett glanced at it.
"Did you notice the gentleman who just left?"
"I only saw his back."
"He's one of our wealthiest trustees.
Over the years he has given large sums of money to the orphanage.
But I'm not allowed to mention his name."
I didn't know what to say.
I wasn't used to talking to her about trustees and their strange requests.
"In the past he has taken an interest in several of our boys.
Do you remember Charles Benton or Henry Freize?
Mr.—I mean, this trustee—sent them both through college.
They repaid him with hard work and success. That's all he required."
The matron glanced at the window again, as if expecting the gentleman to return.
"So far he has only helped boys.
I've never been able to interest him in helping girls.
No matter how smart they were. I guess he dislikes girls." Mrs. Lippett paused.
She seemed to expect a reply here.
So I said the first thing that came into my head. "Yes, ma'am."
Satisfied, Mrs. Lippett continued.
"Today at our meeting, the question of your future came up."
"Yes, ma'am," I replied politely.
Inside I was filled with a mix of curiosity—and dread.