and it, and I don't believe I ever will understand how
any one who can get ice-cream will take prunes.

But Miss Katherine has got a way of seeing the funny side of things, and
sometimes I can't tell whether she minds prunes and pruny things or not.

I'm sure she does, but she says, when you can't change a thing, don't
let it change you, and that an inward disposition is hard on other
people.

I don't know what that means, but I think it's the same as saying
there's no use in always chewing the rag. Martha is right much inclined
to be a chewer.

Miss Webb is, too. She is Miss Katherine's best friend, and I just love
to hear her talk.

She always comes once a week, often twice, to spend the evening at the
Asylum with Miss Katherine, and sometimes when they think I'm asleep,
I'm not. I'd be a nuisance if I kept popping up and saying, "I'm not
asleep, speak low." So when I can't, really can't, sleep, though I do
try, I hear them talking, and the things Miss Webb says are a great
relief to my feelings.

She doesn't come to supper, orphan-asylum suppers being refreshments to
stay from, not come to, but nearly always they make something on a
chafing-dish. Something that's good, painful good.

Miss Webb says Miss Katherine's stomach has some rights, which is true;
and when they begin to cook, I just sleep away, breathing regular and
easy, so they won't know I am awake, for fear they might think I am not
asleep on purpose.

But I have to hold on to the bed and stuff my ears and nose so as not to
hear and smell, for I am that hungry I could eat horse if it had
Worcestershire sauce on it. And that is what they put in their things,
which shows that in eating, even, Miss Katherine preaches sense and
practises taste.

Miss Webb just laughs at theories, and brings all sorts of good things
with her. She says doctors have wronged more stomachs than they've ever
righted by all this dieting business, and, while there's sense in some
of it, there's more nonsense; and as for her, she don't believe in it.
I don't know anything about it; but I don't, either.

They always save me some of whatever they make, which I get the next
day. But if I could rise out of bed and eat as much as I want out of
that chafing-dish, there would be a funeral Miss Bray would like to
attend. The corpse would be Mary Cary, died Martha.

There is a screen at the foot of my bed, put there so the light won't
bother me and so I won't be seen. And, thinkin