When we first saw Mary Miles, I will say that our hearts went out to her—you always seem to know, in the very first instant, when a person, particularly a child, is going to mean something special to you. Not that Mary Miles was a child exactly, being eleven years old.

And tall for her age. And thin. With a lonely-looking face, narrow and bony and the eyes sort of sunk back like the daylight hurt them. Those were pebbly-gray eyes with lashes so sparse they looked as if she'd been picking at them, the way she was picking at the skin around her mouth, sort of quick and nervous and not knowing what she did. "Such sad beautiful eyes!" Mother whispered, clutching at Father's arm. Of course there was suspicion in Mary Miles' eyes too, and a watchfulness like an animal's, which was to be expected as the poor girl had been in two or three foster homes thus far but through no fault of her own—as we were told, and there was no reason then to doubt—the homes "had not worked out." In the last foster home the father was said to have been "abusive" to Mary and the mother "had riot offered adequate protection."

Sister, not being one to mince words, asked just what did that mean?—but Mother quickly intervened, saying that whatever prior difficulties the child had had, and had weathered, by the actual or hidden love of Jesus in her heart, did not matter to us: for we were a new beginning, and would love her, and take her in, because we had chosen her. "This is the special thing," Mother said, her voice quavering, "— the child will know herself chosen. We, this day, walking into this very room, seeing her amidst the other children, have chosen her to come live with us."