“Where are we going?” The little girl asked her nanny as they hurried towards town on foot, almost in a run. “Is everything okay?” Hilda looked down at the girl, squeezing her hand a little tighter, and then at the toddler she carried on her hip. They trusted her completely. What could she say? So badly she longed to comfort them—to reassure them and say everything would be okay. But would it? These girls had been raised in luxury, living in the finest house and riding in the finest carriages. They were accustomed to having everything done for them. Hilda would wake them up each morning and help them change, combing Evangeline’s long black hair and tying a ribbon around dear little Charity’s curls. Breakfast was hot and ready by the time they descended the grand stairway and made their way to the table. Would they be able to survive in a place like this? More importantly though, they were used to being loved. The Master and Missus loved them so, and Hilda loved them too.
Just then they reached town and saw a taxi which Hilda quickly hailed. She held the door as Evangeline climbed in, then carefully slid in beside her, sitting Charity down on the seat in the middle.
“Salem Orphanage please,” she told the driver, and soon the taxi was moving down the street. Orphanage. The word that brings to mind the place where dozens of children crowd together in dirty, cold living corners. A place where angry keepers holler at the young ones to keep their voice down, and scarcely enough food is served to fill their hungry bellies. A place where children can hardly see the light of day, for unless the yard is fenced in thoroughly, they fear runaways. Oh, how can I leave the wee ones there? But leave them there she knew she must, for what other option did she have?
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