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century (reading the Society’s
     documents about the victims, often letters to and from affected loved ones, can be
     heart-wrenching). Of course, the city fathers didn’t settle for building a humdrum
     and utilitarian monument. Instead they created a three million gallon reservoir on
     the hill where the Philadelphia Museum of Art now sits, and a pump house with two
     steam engines. Then they built a dam along the Schuylkill, which directed the water
     to a mill house with waterwheels to replace the steam engines, and later turbines
     to lift the water. The whole thing was embellished by a Classical Revival exterior,
     and it became a major tourist attraction. Sometimes I wished for simpler days, when
     an excursion to look at some pretty water pumps was enough to please travelers.
    The place was closed in 1909, and languished for decades, housing a variety of organizations
     such as an aquarium and a swimming pool. Then a major restoration was undertaken,
     an interpretive education center was added, and behold, it became a tourist destination
     once again, complete with a highly regarded restaurant.
    I was always surprised that Ben Franklin hadn’t had a hand in it somewhere, since
     he seemed to have prompted almost every other “first” in the city and even the country.
     He missed the “Watering Committee” by only a few years, since he died less than a
     decade before it was created.
    Asking Nicholas to work on this project was not just me creating busywork for him.
     Phebe and I had posed an interdisciplinary question to test the scope of his data
     management software, and also to give him a taste of the kind of real-world questions
     we regularly faced from patrons and scholars. And while it wasn’t listed anywhere
     in the job requirements, I wanted to see him show some passion for the materials he
     was working with, beyond the mere physical descriptions and categorizations. Not for
     the first time I wished that he would show some sign that he was enjoying his work,
     maybe even a smile from him once in a while. But if he was doing his job well, I wasn’t
     going to complain.
    I sighed. Being part of upper management, even in a small place, carried a lot of
     different responsibilities, including supervising employees and making sure they all
     worked well together. Not an easy task, I had come to realize.
    The rest of the day passed in a blur. No major crises, no big decisions to be made.
     The next board meeting was still a few weeks off, and I looked forward to reporting
     that we had had a quiet and productive quarter. Then I knocked on the wood of my desk:
     the quarter wasn’t over yet.
    At least the day was broken up when Eric informed me that there was a Jacob Miller
     downstairs and he wanted to see me. “Who?” I said, searching my brain for the name.
     “Does he have an appointment?”
    “No appointment. He says he’s with the firm of Morgan, Hamilton and Fox? He promised
     not to take much of your time.”
    Whirr, click
—that name I recognized. Morgan, Hamilton and Fox was the Society’s law firm, when
     we needed one for institutional business. Not that we’d had any legal problems recently,
     thank goodness, because they charged by the minute. “You can bring him up, I guess.”
    Two minutes later, Eric returned with Jacob Miller in tow. “Sorry to barge in on you
     unannounced,” he said, his smile ingratiating, his hand extended.
    Since I hadn’t met him before, I studied him for a moment before I stood and shook
     his hand. He was young, eager, nicely dressed, and clean-shaven—just what I’d expect
     of a baby lawyer at a major law firm. “Please, have a seat. What brings you here?”
    “Nothing bad, I promise you! I’m an associate with Morgan, Hamilton and Fox,” he began.
     From the way he said the name, I guessed he was still enjoying the novelty of it.
     I knew it was a prestigious, long-established firm, and he must be smart if he’d landed
     a job there.