“Come,” said Margaret MacLean to the House Surgeon.  “If we walk down very slowly we will have time enough to read the letter on the way.”

As the nurse had intimated, it was an altogether unprecedented meeting.  Formality had been gently tossed out of the window; after which the President sat, not behind his desk, but upon it—­an open letter in his hand.  His whole attitude suggested a wish to banish, as far as it lay within his power, the atmosphere of the previous afternoon.

“Here is a letter to be considered first,” he said, a bit gravely.  “It makes rather a good prologue to our reconsideration of the incurable ward,” and the ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.  “This is from the widow of the Richest Trustee.”  He read, slowly: 

“Mesdames and gentlemen of the board,—­I thank you for your courtesy in asking me to fill my husband’s place as one of the trustees of Saint Margaret’s.  Until this afternoon I had every intention of so doing; but I cannot think now that my husband would wish me to continue his support of an institution whose directors have so far forgotten the name under which they dispense their charity as to put science and pride first.  As for myself—­I find I am strongly interested in incurables—­your incurables. 
      Yours very truly”

The President laid the letter behind him on the desk, while the entire board gasped in amazement.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” muttered the Disagreeable Trustee.

“But just think of her—­writing it!” burst forth the Oldest Trustee.

The Meanest Trustee barked out an exclamation, but nothing followed it; undoubtedly that was due to the President’s interrupting: 

“I think if we had received this yesterday we should have been very—­exceedingly—­indignant; we should have censured the writer severely.  As it is—­hmm—­” The President stopped short; it was as if his mind had refused to tabulate his feelings.

“As it is”—­the Executive Trustee took up the dropped thread and went on—­“we have decided to reconsider the removal of the incurable ward without any—­preaching—­or priming of conscience.”

“I am so glad we really had changed our minds first.  I should so hate to have that insignificant little woman think that we were influenced by anything she might write.  Wouldn’t you?” And the Youngest and Prettiest Trustee dimpled ravishingly at the Senior Surgeon.

“Wouldn’t you two like to go into the consulting-room and talk it over?  We could settle the business in hand, this time, without your assistance, I think.”  The voice of the Disagreeable Trustee dripped sarcasm.

“I should suggest,” said the President, returning to the business of the meeting, “that the ward might be continued for the present, until we investigate the home condition of the patients and understand perhaps a little more thoroughly just what they need, and where they can be made most—­comfortable.”