Mrs. Ross straightened her shirtwaist dress, her reddening face clashing with the peach floral print. “When I was having my hair done, I was chatting about Mrs. Paxton’s scrap drives. The lady in the next chair said we’d better watch our pennies because that girl will steal every last one of them.”

Leah clutched her arms around her belly, trying to hold herself together. Oh no. It had to be someone from the boardinghouse.

Mrs. Whipple’s face grew stern. “That’s a strong accusation.”

Mrs. Ross lifted her round chin. “Her name is Minerva Perry, and she used to rent a room to Mrs. Paxton. Kicked her out for stealing from her roommate.”

“That couldn’t be true,” Mrs. Whipple said.

Leah’s eyelids drooped shut. Would she ever be seen as anything but a dirty, thieving orphan? “My roommate did accuse me of stealing, but I never took anything from her.”

“Just what a thief would say.” Mrs. Ross’s voice rose high. “How can we have someone like that working with impressionable young people—children already predisposed to a life of crime?”

Leah groaned. Just when she’d found someplace where she belonged, someplace where she could help other orphans belong. “I admit that I used to steal when I was younger. Growing up in the orphanage, sometimes I took things other children had lost or neglected. Or food. I told my roommate in the boardinghouse about it. When she lost twenty dollars, she accused me of taking it and told Mrs. Perry about my past. Mrs. Perry believed her. There was no way to prove the money was mine.”

“An admitted thief.” Mrs. Ross’s voice called down judgment. “A bad influence.”

Leah’s head hurt it was so heavy. She’d given up her sisters for their own good. She had to give up Clay for his own good. And now she had to give up the orphans for—

“Leah . . . ?” Miss King had never used her given name before.

She peered at the orphanage director.

Miss King implored her with her eyes. “You’re so good with the children.”

Which was she? A bad or a good influence?

Leah sat up taller. She’d talked to Mikey about not lying about his homework and to Marty about avoiding fights. She’d helped Hattie see her skin color as beautiful. And she’d shown so many children the joy of stories.

Rightness and purpose straightened her shoulders, and she held Miss King’s gaze. “I belonged to no one, and no one belonged to me. That’s why I took things. I’d imagine I had a father to bring me candy and a mother to tie pretty ribbons in my hair.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” Mrs. Ross sniffed.