That same evening, with a slow step and aching head, I walked up Madison Street towards the Washingtonian Home, with thoughts that I would be considered by the officers of the institution as a sort of a felon, or, if not that, at least something very near akin to the brute, and it was with a sinking heart that I pushed open the main door and ascended the broad, easy stairs to the office.

I asked if the superintendent was in, and the gentlemanly clerk at the desk told me that he was, and would be down immediately, meanwhile telling me to be seated.

After the lapse of a few minutes, the superintendent, Mr.
Wilkins, came into the office, his countenance beaming with benevolence.
He took the card that I had brought with me, read it, and, turning round to where I sat, with a genial smile lighting up his countenance, with outstretched hand, greeted me most kindly and introduced me to the gentlemen present.

I was dumbfounded, and it was with great difficulty that I restrained myself from shedding tears.

It was the very opposite of the reception that I had pictured that I would receive, and I found that I was to be treated as a human being and not as a brute.