"DEAR ENEMY\n\nBy Jean Webster\n\n\n\nSTONE GATE, WORCESTER,\n\nMASSACHUSETTS,\n\nDecember 27.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nYour letter is here. I have read it twice, and with amazement. Do I\nunderstand that Jervis has given you, for a Christmas present, the\nmaking over of the John Grier Home into a model institution, and that\nyou have chosen me to disburse the money? Me--I, Sallie McBride, the\nhead of an orphan asylum! My poor people, have you lost your senses, or\nhave you become addicted to the use of opium, and is this the raving of\ntwo fevered imaginations? I am exactly as well fitted to take care of\none hundred children as to become the curator of a zoo.\n\nAnd you offer as bait an interesting Scotch doctor? My dear\nJudy,--likewise my dear Jervis,--I see through you! I know exactly\nthe kind of family conference that has been held about the Pendleton\nfireside.\n\n\"Isn't it a pity that Sallie hasn't amounted to more since she left\ncollege? She ought to be doing something useful instead of frittering\nher time away in the petty social life of Worcester. Also [Jervis\nspeaks] she is getting interested in that confounded young Hallock, too\ngood-looking and fascinating and erratic; I never did like politicians.\nWe must deflect her mind with some uplifting and absorbing occupation\nuntil the danger is past. Ha! I have it! We will put her in charge of\nthe John Grier Home.\" Oh, I can hear him as clearly as if I were there!\nOn the occasion of my last visit in your delectable household Jervis and\nI had a very solemn conversation in regard to (1) marriage, (2) the low\nideals of politicians, (3) the frivolous, useless lives that society\nwomen lead.\n\nPlease tell your moral husband that I took his words deeply to heart,\nand that ever since my return to Worcester I have been spending one\nafternoon a week reading poetry with the inmates of the Female Inebriate\nAsylum. My life is not so purposeless as it appears.\n\nAlso let me assure you that the politician is not dangerously imminent;\nand that, anyway, he is a very desirable politician, even though\nhis views on tariff and single tax and trade-unionism do not exactly\ncoincide with Jervis's.\n\nYour desire to dedicate my life to the public good is very sweet, but\nyou should look at it from the asylum's point of view.\n\nHave you no pity for those poor defenseless little orphan children?\n\nI have, if you haven't, and I respectfully decline the position which\nyou offer.\n\nI shall be charmed, however, to accept your invitation to visit you in\nNew York, though I must acknowledge that I am not very excited over the\nlist of gaieties you have planned.\n\nPlease substitute for the New York Orphanage and the Foundling Hospital\na few theaters and operas and a dinner or so. I have two new evening\ngowns and a blue and gold coat with a white fur collar.\n\nI dash to pack them; so telegraph fast if you don't wish to see me for\nmyself alone, but only as a successor to Mrs. Lippett. Yours as ever,\n\nEntirely frivolous,\n\nAnd intending to remain so,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\n\nP.S. Your invitation is especially seasonable. A charming young\npolitician named Gordon Hallock is to be in New York next week. I am\nsure you will like him when you know him better. P.S. 2. Sallie taking\nher afternoon walk as Judy would like to see her:\n\n\nI ask you again, have you both gone mad?\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nFebruary 15.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nWe arrived in a snowstorm at eleven last night, Singapore and Jane and\nI. It does not appear to be customary for superintendents of orphan\nasylums to bring with them personal maids and Chinese chows. The night\nwatchman and housekeeper, who had waited up to receive me, were thrown\ninto an awful flutter. They had never seen the like of Sing, and thought\nthat I was introducing a wolf into the fold. I reassured them as to his\ndogginess, and the watchman, after studying his black tongue, ventured a\nwitticism. He wanted to know if I fed him on huckleberry pie.\n\nIt was difficult to find accommodations for my family. Poor Sing was\ndragged off whimpering to a strange woodshed, and given a piece of\nburlap. Jane did not fare much better. There was not an extra bed in\nthe building, barring a five-foot crib in the hospital room. She, as you\nknow, approaches six. We tucked her in, and she spent the night folded\nup like a jackknife. She has limped about today, looking like a decrepit\nletter S, openly deploring this latest escapade on the part of her\nflighty mistress, and longing for the time when we shall come to our\nsenses, and return to the parental fireside in Worcester.\n\nI know that she is going to spoil all my chances of being popular with\nthe rest of the staff. Having her here is the silliest idea that was\never conceived, but you know my family. I fought their objections step\nby step, but they made their last stand on Jane. If I brought her along\nto see that I ate nourishing food and didn't stay up all night, I might\ncome--temporarily; but if I refused to bring her--oh, dear me, I am not\nsure that I was ever again to cross the threshold of Stone Gate! So here\nwe are, and neither of us very welcome, I am afraid.\n\nI woke by a gong at six this morning, and lay for a time listening to\nthe racket that twenty-five little girls made in the lavatory over my\nhead. It appears that they do not get baths,--just face-washes,--but\nthey make as much splashing as twenty-five puppies in a pool. I rose and\ndressed and explored a bit. You were wise in not having me come to look\nthe place over before I engaged.\n\nWhile my little charges were at breakfast, it seemed a happy time\nto introduce myself; so I sought the dining room. Horror piled on\nhorror--those bare drab walls and oil-cloth-covered tables with tin\ncups and plates and wooden benches, and, by way of decoration, that one\nilluminated text, \"The Lord Will Provide\"! The trustee who added that\nlast touch must possess a grim sense of humor.\n\nReally, Judy, I never knew there was any spot in the world so\nentirely ugly; and when I saw those rows and rows of pale, listless,\nblue-uniformed children, the whole dismal business suddenly struck\nme with such a shock that I almost collapsed. It seemed like an\nunachievable goal for one person to bring sunshine to one hundred little\nfaces when what they need is a mother apiece.\n\nI plunged into this thing lightly enough, partly because you were too\npersuasive, and mostly, I honestly think, because that scurrilous Gordon\nHallock laughed so uproariously at the idea of my being able to manage\nan asylum. Between you all you hypnotized me. And then of course, after\nI began reading up on the subject and visiting all those seventeen\ninstitutions, I got excited over orphans, and wanted to put my own ideas\ninto practice. But now I'm aghast at finding myself here; it's such a\nstupendous undertaking. The future health and happiness of a hundred\nhuman beings lie in my hands, to say nothing of their three or four\nhundred children and thousand grandchildren. The thing's geometrically\nprogressive. It's awful. Who am I to undertake this job? Look, oh, look\nfor another superintendent!\n\nJane says dinner's ready. Having eaten two of your institution meals,\nthe thought of another doesn't excite me.\n\nLATER.\n\n\nThe staff had mutton hash and spinach, with tapioca pudding for dessert.\nWhat the children had I hate to consider.\n\nI started to tell you about my first official speech at breakfast this\nmorning. It dealt with all the wonderful new changes that are to come to\nthe John Grier Home through the generosity of Mr. Jervis Pendleton,\nthe president of our board of trustees, and of Mrs. Pendleton, the dear\n\"Aunt Judy\" of every little boy and girl here.\n\nPlease don't object to my featuring the Pendleton family so prominently.\nI did it for political reasons. As the entire working staff of the\ninstitution was present, I thought it a good opportunity to emphasize\nthe fact that all of these upsetting, innovations come straight from\nheadquarters, and not out of my excitable brain.\n\nThe children stopped eating and stared. The conspicuous color of my\nhair and the frivolous tilt of my nose are evidently new attributes in a\nsuperintendent. My colleagues also showed plainly that they consider me\ntoo young and too inexperienced to be set in authority. I haven't seen\nJervis's wonderful Scotch doctor yet, but I assure you that he will have\nto be VERY wonderful to make up for the rest of these people, especially\nthe kindergarten teacher. Miss Snaith and I clashed early on the subject\nof fresh air; but I intend to get rid of this dreadful institution\nsmell, if I freeze every child into a little ice statue.\n\nThis being a sunny, sparkling, snowy afternoon, I ordered that dungeon\nof a playroom closed and the children out of doors.\n\n\"She's chasin' us out,\" I heard one small urchin grumbling as he\nstruggled into a two-years-too-small overcoat.\n\nThey simply stood about the yard, all humped in their clothes, waiting\npatiently to be allowed to come back in. No running or shouting or\ncoasting or snowballs. Think of it! These children don't know how to\nplay.\n\nSTILL LATER.\n\n\nI have already begun the congenial task of spending your money. I bought\neleven hot-water bottles this afternoon (every one that the village drug\nstore contained) likewise some woolen blankets and padded quilts. And\nthe windows are wide open in the babies' dormitory. Those poor little\ntots are going to enjoy the perfectly new sensation of being able to\nbreathe at night.\n\nThere are a million things I want to grumble about, but it's half-past\nten, and Jane says I MUST go to bed.\n\nYours in command,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\nP.S. Before turning in, I tiptoed through the corridor to make sure that\nall was right, and what do you think I found? Miss Snaith softly closing\nthe windows in the babies' dormitory! Just as soon as I can find\na suitable position for her in an old ladies' home, I am going to\ndischarge that woman.\n\nJane takes the pen from my hand.\n\nGood night.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nFebruary 20.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nDr. Robin MacRae called this afternoon to make the acquaintance of the\nnew superintendent. Please invite him to dinner upon the occasion of his\nnext visit to New York, and see for yourself what your husband has done.\nJervis grossly misrepresented the facts when he led me to believe\nthat one of the chief advantages of my position would be the daily\nintercourse with a man of Dr. MacRae's polish and brilliancy and\nscholarliness and charm.\n\nHe is tall and thinnish, with sandy hair and cold gray eyes. During the\nhour he spent in my society (and I was very sprightly) no shadow of a\nsmile so much as lightened the straight line of his mouth. Can a shadow\nlighten? Maybe not; but, anyway, what IS the matter with the man? Has he\ncommitted some remorseful crime, or is his taciturnity due merely to his\nnatural Scotchness? He's as companionable as a granite tombstone!\n\nIncidentally, our doctor didn't like me any more than I liked him. He\nthinks I'm frivolous and inconsequential, and totally unfitted for this\nposition of trust. I dare say Jervis has had a letter from him by now\nasking to have me removed.\n\nIn the matter of conversation we didn't hit it off in the least. He\ndiscussed broadly and philosophically the evils of institutional care\nfor dependent children, while I lightly deplored the unbecoming coiffure\nthat prevails among our girls.\n\nTo prove my point, I had in Sadie Kate, my special errand orphan. Her\nhair is strained back as tightly as though it had been done with a\nmonkey wrench, and is braided behind into two wiry little pigtails.\nDecidedly, orphans' ears need to be softened. But Dr. Robin MacRae\ndoesn't give a hang whether their ears are becoming or not; what he\ncares about is their stomachs. We also split upon the subject of\nred petticoats. I don't see how any little girl can preserve any\nself-respect when dressed in a red flannel petticoat an irregular inch\nlonger than her blue checked gingham dress; but he thinks that red\npetticoats are cheerful and warm and hygienic. I foresee a warlike reign\nfor the new superintendent.\n\nIn regard to the doctor, there is just one detail to be thankful for: he\nis almost as new as I am, and he cannot instruct me in the traditions\nof the asylum. I don't believe I COULD have worked with the old doctor,\nwho, judging from the specimens of his art that he left behind, knew as\nmuch about babies as a veterinary surgeon.\n\nIn the matter of asylum etiquette, the entire staff has undertaken my\neducation. Even the cook this morning told me firmly that the John Grier\nHome has corn meal mush on Wednesday nights.\n\nAre you searching hard for another superintendent? I'll stay until she\ncomes, but please find her fast.\n\nYours,\n\nWith my mind made up,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\n\n\nSUP'T'S OFFICE,\n\nJOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nFebruary 27.\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nAre you still insulted because I wouldn't take your advice? Don't you\nknow that a reddish-haired person of Irish forebears, with a dash of\nScotch, can't be driven, but must be gently led? Had you been less\nobnoxiously insistent, I should have listened sweetly, and been saved.\nAs it is, I frankly confess that I have spent the last five days in\nrepenting our quarrel. You were right, and I was wrong, and, as you\nsee, I handsomely acknowledge it. If I ever emerge from this present\npredicament, I shall in the future be guided (almost always) by your\njudgment. Could any woman make a more sweeping retraction than that?\n\nThe romantic glamour which Judy cast over this orphan asylum exists only\nin her poetic imagination. The place is AWFUL. Words can't tell you\nhow dreary and dismal and smelly it is: long corridors, bare walls;\nblue-uniformed, dough-faced little inmates that haven't the slightest\nresemblance to human children. And oh, the dreadful institution smell!\nA mingling of wet scrubbed floors, unaired rooms, and food for a hundred\npeople always steaming on the stove.\n\nThe asylum not only has to be made over, but every child as well, and\nit's too herculean a task for such a selfish, luxurious, and lazy person\nas Sallie McBride ever to have undertaken. I'm resigning the very first\nmoment that Judy can find a suitable successor, but that, I fear, will\nnot be immediately. She has gone off South, leaving me stranded, and of\ncourse, after having promised, I can't simply abandon her asylum. But in\nthe meantime I assure you that I'm homesick.\n\nWrite me a cheering letter, and send a flower to brighten my private\ndrawing room. I inherited it, furnished, from Mrs. Lippett. The wall\nis covered with a tapestry paper in brown and red; the furniture is\nelectric-blue plush, except the center table, which is gilt. Green\npredominates in the carpet. If you presented some pink rosebuds, they\nwould complete the color scheme.\n\nI really was obnoxious that last evening, but you are avenged.\n\nRemorsefully yours,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\nP.S. You needn't have been so grumpy about the Scotch doctor. The man is\neverything dour that the word \"Scotch\" implies. I detest him on sight,\nand he detests me. Oh, we're going to have a sweet time working together\n\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nFebruary 22.\n\nMy dear Gordon:\n\nYour vigorous and expensive message is here. I know that you have plenty\nof money, but that is no reason why you should waste it so frivolously.\nWhen you feel so bursting with talk that only a hundred-word telegram\nwill relieve an explosion, at least turn it into a night lettergram. My\norphans can use the money if you don't need it.\n\nAlso, my dear sir, please use a trifle of common sense. Of course I\ncan't chuck the asylum in the casual manner you suggest. It wouldn't\nbe fair to Judy and Jervis. If you will pardon the statement, they have\nbeen my friends for many more years than you, and I have no intention\nof letting them go hang. I came up here in a spirit of--well, say\nadventure, and I must see the venture through. You wouldn't like me if\nI were a short sport. This doesn't mean, however, that I am sentencing\nmyself for life; I am intending to resign just as soon as the\nopportunity comes. But really I ought to feel somewhat gratified that\nthe Pendletons were willing to trust me with such a responsible post.\nThough you, my dear sir, do not suspect it, I possess considerable\nexecutive ability, and more common sense than is visible on the surface.\nIf I chose to put my whole soul into this enterprise, I could make the\nrippingest superintendent that any 111 orphans ever had.\n\nI suppose you think that's funny? It's true. Judy and Jervis know it,\nand that's why they asked me to come. So you see, when they have\nshown so much confidence in me, I can't throw them over in quite the\nunceremonious fashion you suggest. So long as I am here, I am going to\naccomplish just as much as it is given one person to accomplish every\ntwenty-four hours. I am going to turn the place over to my successor\nwith things moving fast in the right direction.\n\nBut in the meantime please don't wash your hands of me under the belief\nthat I'm too busy to be homesick; for I'm not. I wake up every morning\nand stare at Mrs. Lippett's wallpaper in a sort of daze, feeling as\nthough it's some bad dream, and I'm not really here. What on earth was I\nthinking of to turn my back upon my nice cheerful own home and the good\ntimes that by rights are mine? I frequently agree with your opinion of\nmy sanity.\n\nBut why, may I ask, should you be making such a fuss? You wouldn't be\nseeing me in any case. Worcester is quite as far from Washington as the\nJohn Grier Home. And I will add, for your further comfort, that whereas\nthere is no man in the neighborhood of this asylum who admires red hair,\nin Worcester there are several. Therefore, most difficult of men, please\nbe appeased. I didn't come entirely to spite you. I wanted an adventure\nin life, and, oh dear! oh dear! I'm having it! PLEASE write soon, and\ncheer me up. Yours in sackcloth,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nFebruary 24. Dear Judy:\n\nYou tell Jervis that I am not hasty at forming judgments. I have a\nsweet, sunny, unsuspicious nature, and I like everybody, almost. But no\none could like that Scotch doctor. He NEVER smiles.\n\nHe paid me another visit this afternoon. I invited him to accommodate\nhimself in one of Mrs. Lippett's electric-blue chairs, and then sat\ndown opposite to enjoy the harmony. He was dressed in a mustard-colored\nhomespun, with a dash of green and a glint of yellow in the weave, a\n\"heather mixture\" calculated to add life to a dull Scotch moor. Purple\nsocks and a red tie, with an amethyst pin, completed the picture.\nClearly, your paragon of a doctor is not going to be of much assistance\nin pulling up the esthetic tone of this establishment.\n\nDuring the fifteen minutes of his call he succinctly outlined all the\nchanges he wishes to see accomplished in this institution. HE forsooth!\nAnd what, may I ask, are the duties of a superintendent? Is she merely a\nfigurehead to take orders from the visiting physician?\n\nIt's up wi' the bonnets o' McBride and MacRae!\n\nI am,\n\nIndignantly yours, SALLIE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nMonday.\n\nDear Dr. MacRae:\n\nI am sending this note by Sadie Kate, as it seems impossible to reach\nyou by telephone. Is the person who calls herself Mrs. McGur-rk and\nhangs up in the middle of a sentence your housekeeper? If she answers\nthe telephone often, I don't see how your patients have any patience\nleft.\n\nAs you did not come this morning, per agreement, and the painters did\ncome, I was fain to choose a cheerful corn color to be placed upon the\nwalls of your new laboratory room. I trust there is nothing unhygienic\nabout corn color.\n\nAlso, if you can spare a moment this afternoon, kindly motor yourself\nto Dr. Brice's on Water Street and look at the dentist's chair and\nappurtenances which are to be had at half-price. If all of the pleasant\nparaphernalia of his profession were here,--in a corner of your\nlaboratory,--Dr. Brice could finish his 111 new patients with much more\ndespatch than if we had to transport them separately to Water Street.\nDon't you think that's a useful idea? It came to me in the middle of\nthe night, but as I never happened to buy a dentist's chair before, I'd\nappreciate some professional advice. Yours truly,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nMarch 1.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nDo stop sending me telegrams!\n\nOf course I know that you want to know everything that is happening, and\nI would send a daily bulletin, but I truly don't find a minute. I am so\ntired when night comes that if it weren't for Jane's strict discipline,\nI should go to bed with my clothes on.\n\nLater, when we slip a little more into routine, and I can be sure that\nmy assistants are all running off their respective jobs, I shall be the\nregularest correspondent you ever had.\n\nIt was five days ago, wasn't it, that I wrote? Things have been\nhappening in those five days. The MacRae and I have mapped out a plan of\ncampaign, and are stirring up this place to its sluggish depths. I like\nhim less and less, but we have declared a sort of working truce. And the\nman IS a worker. I always thought I had sufficient energy myself, but\nwhen an improvement is to be introduced, I toil along panting in his\nwake. He is as stubborn and tenacious and bull-doggish as a Scotchman\ncan be, but he does understand babies; that is, he understands their\nphysiological aspects. He hasn't any more feeling for them personally\nthan for so many frogs that he might happen to be dissecting.\n\nDo you remember Jervis's holding forth one evening for an hour or so\nabout our doctor's beautiful humanitarian ideals? C'EST A RIRE! The man\nmerely regards the J. G. H. as his own private laboratory, where he\ncan try out scientific experiments with no loving parents to object.\nI shouldn't be surprised anyday to find him introducing scarlet fever\ncultures into the babies' porridge in order to test a newly invented\nserum.\n\nOf the house staff, the only two who strike me as really efficient are\nthe primary teacher and the furnace-man. You should see how the children\nrun to meet Miss Matthews and beg for caresses, and how painstakingly\npolite they are to the other teachers. Children are quick to size up\ncharacter. I shall be very embarrassed if they are too polite to me.\n\nJust as soon as I get my bearings a little, and know exactly what we\nneed, I am going to accomplish some widespread discharging. I should\nlike to begin with Miss Snaith; but I discover that she is the niece\nof one of our most generous trustees, and isn't exactly dischargeable.\nShe's a vague, chinless, pale-eyed creature, who talks through her nose\nand breathes through her mouth. She can't say anything decisively and\nthen stop; her sentences all trail off into incoherent murmurings. Every\ntime I see the woman I feel an almost uncontrollable desire to take her\nby the shoulders and shake some decision into her. And Miss Snaith is\nthe one who has had entire supervision of the seventeen little tots aged\nfrom two to five! But, anyway, even if I can't discharge her, I have\nreduced her to a subordinate position without her being aware of the\nfact.\n\nThe doctor has found for me a charming girl who lives a few miles from\nhere and comes in every day to manage the kindergarten. She has big,\ngentle, brown eyes, like a cow's, and motherly manners (she is just\nnineteen), and the babies love her.\n\nAt the head of the nursery I have placed a jolly, comfortable\nmiddle-aged woman who has reared five of her own and has a hand with\nbairns. Our doctor also found her. You see, he is useful. She is\ntechnically under Miss Snaith, but is usurping dictatorship in a\nsatisfactory fashion. I can now sleep at night without being afraid that\nmy babies are being inefficiently murdered.\n\nYou see, our reforms are getting started; and while I acquiesce with\nall the intelligence at my command to our doctor's basic scientific\nupheavals, still, they sometimes leave me cold. The problem that keeps\nchurning and churning in my mind is: How can I ever instil enough love\nand warmth and sunshine into those bleak little lives? And I am not sure\nthat the doctor's science will accomplish that.\n\nOne of our most pressing INTELLIGENT needs just now is to get our\nrecords into coherent form. The books have been most outrageously\nunkept. Mrs. Lippett had a big black account book into which she jumbled\nany facts that happened to drift her way as to the children's family,\ntheir conduct, and their health. But for weeks at a time she didn't\ntrouble to make an entry. If any adopting family wants to know a child's\nparentage, half the time we can't even tell where we got the child!\n\n     \"Where did you come from, baby dear?\"\n     \"The blue sky opened, and I am here,\"\n\nis an exact description of their arrival.\n\nWe need a field worker to travel about the country and pick up all\nthe hereditary statistics she can about our chicks. It will be an easy\nmatter, as most of them have relatives. What do you think of Janet Ware\nfor the job? You remember what a shark she was in economics; she simply\nbattened on tables and charts and surveys.\n\nI have also to inform you that the John Grier Home is undergoing a very\nsearching physical examination, and it is the shocking truth that out\nof the twenty-eight poor little rats so far examined only five are up to\nspecification. And the five have not been here long.\n\nDo you remember the ugly green reception room on the first floor? I have\nremoved as much of its greenness as possible, and fitted it up as the\ndoctor's laboratory. It contains scales and drugs and, most professional\ntouch of all, a dentist's chair and one of those sweet grinding\nmachines. (Bought them second-hand from Doctor Brice in the village, who\nis putting in, for the gratification of his own patients, white enamel\nand nickel-plate.) That drilling machine is looked upon as an infernal\nengine, and I as an infernal monster for instituting it. But every\nlittle victim who is discharged FILLED may come to my room every day for\na week and receive two pieces of chocolate. Though our children are not\nconspicuously brave, they are, we discover, fighters. Young Thomas Kehoe\nnearly bit the doctor's thumb in two after kicking over a tableful of\ninstruments. It requires physical strength as well as skill to be dental\nadviser to the J. G. H. . . . . . . . . . .\n\nInterrupted here to show a benevolent lady over the institution. She\nasked fifty irrelevant questions, took up an hour of my time, then\nfinally wiped away a tear and left a dollar for my \"poor little\ncharges.\"\n\nSo far, my poor little charges are not enthusiastic about these new\nreforms. They don't care much for the sudden draft of fresh air that has\nblown in upon them, or the deluge of water. I am shoving in two baths\na week, and as soon as we collect tubs enough and a few extra faucets,\nthey are going to get SEVEN.\n\nBut at least I have started one most popular reform. Our daily bill\nof fare has been increased, a change deplored by the cook as causing\ntrouble, and deplored by the rest of the staff as causing an immoral\nincrease in expense. ECONOMY spelt in capitals has been the guiding\nprinciple of this institution for so many years that it has become a\nreligion. I assure my timid co-workers twenty times a day that, owing to\nthe generosity of our president, the endowment has been exactly doubled,\nand that I have vast sums besides from Mrs. Pendleton for necessary\npurposes like ice cream. But they simply CAN'T get over the feeling that\nit is a wicked extravagance to feed these children.\n\nThe doctor and I have been studying with care the menus of the past, and\nwe are filled with amazement at the mind that could have devised them.\nHere is one of her frequently recurring dinners:\n\nBOILED POTATOES BOILED RICE BLANC MANGE\n\n\nIt's a wonder to me that the children are anything more than one hundred\nand eleven little lumps of starch.\n\nLooking about this institution, one is moved to misquote Robert\nBrowning.\n\n     \"There may be heaven; there must be hell;\n     Meantime, there is the John Grier--well!\"\nS. McB.\n\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nSaturday.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nDr. Robin MacRae and I fought another battle yesterday over a very\ntrivial matter (in which I was right), and since then I have adopted for\nour doctor a special pet name. \"Good morning, Enemy!\" was my greeting\ntoday, at which he was quite solemnly annoyed. He says he does not wish\nto be regarded as an enemy. He is not in the least antagonistic--so long\nas I mold my policy upon his wishes!\n\nWe have two new children, Isador Gutschneider and Max Yog, given to us\nby the Baptist Ladies' Aid Society. Where on earth do you suppose those\nchildren picked up such a religion? I didn't want to take them, but the\npoor ladies were very persuasive, and they pay the princely sum of four\ndollars and fifty cents per week per child. This makes 113, which makes\nus very crowded. I have half a dozen babies to give away. Find me some\nkind families who want to adopt.\n\nYou know it's very embarrassing not to be able to remember offhand how\nlarge your family is, but mine seems to vary from day to day, like the\nstock market. I should like to keep it at about par. When a woman\nhas more than a hundred children, she can't give them the individual\nattention they ought to have.\n\n\nMonday.\n\n\nThis letter has been lying two days on my desk, and I haven't found the\ntime to stick on a stamp. But now I seem to have a free evening ahead,\nso I will add a page or two more before starting it on a pleasant\njourney to Florida.\n\nI am just beginning to pick out individual faces among the children.\nIt seemed at first as though I could never learn them, they looked so\nhopelessly cut out of one pattern, with those unspeakably ugly uniforms.\nNow please don't write back that you want the children put into new\nclothes immediately. I know you do; you've already told me five times.\nIn about a month I shall be ready to consider the question, but just now\ntheir insides are more important than their outsides.\n\nThere is no doubt about it--orphans in the mass do not appeal to me. I\nam beginning to be afraid that this famous mother instinct which we hear\nso much about was left out of my character. Children as children are\ndirty, spitty little things, and their noses all need wiping. Here\nand there I pick out a naughty, mischievous little one that awakens a\nflicker of interest; but for the most part they are just a composite\nblur of white face and blue check.\n\nWith one exception, though. Sadie Kate Kilcoyne emerged from the mass\nthe first day, and bids fair to stay out for all time. She is my special\nlittle errand girl, and she furnishes me with all my daily amusement.\nNo piece of mischief has been launched in this institution for the last\neight years that did not originate in her abnormal brain. This young\nperson has, to me, a most unusual history, though I understand it's\ncommon enough in foundling circles. She was discovered eleven years\nago on the bottom step of a Thirty-ninth Street house, asleep in a\npasteboard box labeled, \"Altman & Co.\"\n\n\"Sadie Kate Kilcoyne, aged five weeks. Be kind to her,\" was neatly\nprinted on the cover.\n\nThe policeman who picked her up took her to Bellevue where the\nfoundlings are pronounced, in the order of their arrival, \"Catholic,\nProtestant, Catholic, Protestant,\" with perfect impartiality. Our Sadie\nKate, despite her name and blue Irish eyes, was made a Protestant. And\nhere she is growing Irisher and Irisher every day, but, true to her\nchristening, protesting loudly against every detail of life.\n\nHer two little black braids point in opposite directions; her little\nmonkey face is all screwed up with mischief; she is as active as a\nterrier, and you have to keep her busy every moment. Her record of\nbadnesses occupies pages in the Doomsday Book. The last item reads:\n\n\"For stumping Maggie Geer to get a doorknob into her mouth--punishment,\nthe afternoon spent in bed, and crackers for supper.\"\n\nIt seems that Maggie Geer, fitted with a mouth of unusual stretching\ncapacity, got the doorknob in, but couldn't get it out. The doctor\nwas called, and cannily solved the problem with a buttered shoe-horn.\n\"Muckle-mouthed Meg,\" he has dubbed the patient ever since.\n\nYou can understand that my thoughts are anxiously occupied in filling\nevery crevice of Sadie Kate's existence.\n\nThere are a million subjects that I ought to consult with the president\nabout. I think it was very unkind of you and him to saddle me with your\norphan asylum and run off South to play. It would serve you right if I\ndid everything wrong. While you are traveling about in private cars, and\nstrolling in the moonlight on palm beaches, please think of me in the\ndrizzle of a New York March, taking care of 113 babies that by rights\nare yours--and be grateful.\n\nI remain (for a limited time),\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nSUP'T JOHN GRIER HOME.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nI am sending herewith (under separate cover) Sammy Speir, who got\nmislaid when you paid your morning visit. Miss Snaith brought him to\nlight after you had gone. Please scrutinize his thumb. I never saw a\nfelon, but I have diagnosed it as such. Yours truly, S. McBRIDE.\n\n\nSUP'T JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nMarch 6.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nI don't know yet whether the children are going to love me or not, but\nthey DO love my dog. No creature so popular as Singapore ever entered\nthese gates. Every afternoon three boys who have been perfect in\ndeportment are allowed to brush and comb him, while three other good\nboys may serve him with food and drink. But every Saturday morning the\nclimax of the week is reached, when three superlatively good boys give\nhim a nice lathery bath with hot water and flea soap. The privilege of\nserving as Singapore's valet is going to be the only incentive I shall\nneed for maintaining discipline.\n\nBut isn't it pathetically unnatural for these youngsters to be living\nin the country and never owning a pet? Especially when they, of all\nchildren, do so need something to love. I am going to manage pets for\nthem somehow, if I have to spend our new endowment for a menagerie.\nCouldn't you bring back some baby alligators and a pelican? Anything\nalive will be gratefully received.\n\nThis should by rights be my first \"Trustees' Day.\" I am deeply grateful\nto Jervis for arranging a simple business meeting in New York, as we\nare not yet on dress parade up here; but we are hoping by the first\nWednesday in April to have something visible to show. If all of the\ndoctor's ideas, and a few of my own, get themselves materialized, our\ntrustees will open their eyes a bit when we show them about.\n\nI have just made out a chart for next week's meals, and posted it in the\nkitchen in the sight of an aggrieved cook. Variety is a word hitherto\nnot found in the lexicon of the J.G.H. You would never dream all of\nthe delightful surprises we are going to have: brown bread, corn pone,\ngraham muffins, samp, rice pudding with LOTS of raisins, thick vegetable\nsoup, macaroni Italian fashion, polenta cakes with molasses, apple\ndumplings, gingerbread--oh, an endless list! After our biggest girls\nhave assisted in the manufacture of such appetizing dainties, they will\nalmost be capable of keeping future husbands in love with them.\n\nOh, dear me! Here I am babbling these silly nothings when I have some\nreal news up my sleeve. We have a new worker, a gem of a worker.\n\nDo you remember Betsy Kindred, 1910? She led the glee club and was\npresident of dramatics. I remember her perfectly; she always had lovely\nclothes. Well, if you please, she lives only twelve miles from here. I\nran across her by chance yesterday morning as she was motoring through\nthe village; or, rather, she just escaped running across me.\n\nI never spoke to her in my life, but we greeted each other like the\noldest friends. It pays to have conspicuous hair; she recognized me\ninstantly. I hopped upon the running board of her car and said:\n\n\"Betsy Kindred, 1910, you've got to come back to my orphan asylum and\nhelp me catalogue my orphans.\"\n\nAnd it astonished her so that she came. She's to be here four or five\ndays a week as temporary secretary, and somehow I must manage to keep\nher permanently. She's the most useful person I ever saw. I am hoping\nthat orphans will become such a habit with her that she won't be able to\ngive them up. I think she might stay if we pay her a big enough salary.\nShe likes to be independent of her family, as do all of us in these\ndegenerate times.\n\nIn my growing zeal for cataloguing people, I should like to get our\ndoctor tabulated. If Jervis knows any gossip about him, write it to me,\nplease; the worse, the better. He called yesterday to lance a felon on\nSammy Speir's thumb, then ascended to my electric-blue parlor to\ngive instructions as to the dressing of thumbs. The duties of a\nsuperintendent are manifold.\n\nIt was just teatime, so I casually asked him to stay, and he did! Not\nfor the pleasure of my society,--no, indeed,--but because Jane appeared\nat the moment with a plate of toasted muffins. He hadn't had any\nluncheon, it seems, and dinner was a long way ahead. Between muffins\n(he ate the whole plateful) he saw fit to interrogate me as to my\npreparedness for this position. Had I studied biology in college? How\nfar had I gone in chemistry? What did I know of sociology? Had I visited\nthat model institution at Hastings?\n\nTo all of which I responded affably and openly. Then I permitted myself\na question or two: just what sort of youthful training had been required\nto produce such a model of logic, accuracy, dignity, and common sense\nas I saw sitting before me? Through persistent prodding I elicited a\nfew forlorn facts, but all quite respectable. You'd think, from his\nreticence, there'd been a hanging in the family. The MacRae PERE was\nborn in Scotland, and came to the States to occupy a chair at Johns\nHopkins; son Robin was shipped back to Auld Reekie for his education.\nHis grandmother was a M'Lachlan of Strathlachan (I am sure she sounds\nrespectable), and his vacations were spent in the Hielands a-chasing the\ndeer.\n\nSo much could I gather; so much, and no more. Tell me, I beg, some\ngossip about my enemy--something scandalous by preference.\n\nWhy, if he is such an awfully efficient person does he bury himself in\nthis remote locality? You would think an up-and-coming scientific man\nwould want a hospital at one elbow and a morgue at the other. Are you\nsure that he didn't commit a crime and isn't hiding from the law?\n\nI seem to have covered a lot of paper without telling you much. VIVE LA\nBAGATELLE! Yours as usual,\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. I am relieved on one point. Dr. MacRae does not pick out his own\nclothes. He leaves all such unessential trifles to his housekeeper, Mrs.\nMaggie McGurk.\n\nAgain, and irrevocably, good-by!\n\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nWednesday.\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nYour roses and your letter cheered me for an entire morning, and it's\nthe first time I've approached cheerfulness since the fourteenth of\nFebruary, when I waved good-by to Worcester.\n\nWords can't tell you how monotonously oppressive the daily round of\ninstitution life gets to be. The only glimmer in the whole dull affair\nis the fact that Betsy Kindred spends four days a week with us. Betsy\nand I were in college together, and we do occasionally find something\nfunny to laugh about.\n\nYesterday we were having tea in my HIDEOUS parlor when we suddenly\ndetermined to revolt against so much unnecessary ugliness. We called in\nsix sturdy and destructive orphans, a step-ladder, and a bucket of hot\nwater, and in two hours had every vestige of that tapestry paper off\nthose walls. You can't imagine what fun it is ripping paper off walls.\n\nTwo paperhangers are at work this moment hanging the best that our\nvillage affords, while a German upholsterer is on his knees measuring my\nchairs for chintz slip covers that will hide every inch of their plush\nupholstery.\n\nPlease don't get nervous. This doesn't mean that I'm preparing to spend\nmy life in the asylum. It means only that I'm preparing a cheerful\nwelcome for my successor. I haven't dared tell Judy how dismal I find\nit, because I don't want to cloud Florida; but when she returns to New\nYork she will find my official resignation waiting to meet her in the\nfront hall.\n\nI would write you a long letter in grateful payment for seven pages, but\ntwo of my little dears are holding a fight under the window. I dash to\nseparate them.\n\nYours as ever,\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nMarch 8.\n\nMy dear Judy:\n\nI myself have bestowed a little present upon the John Grier Home--the\nrefurnishing of the superintendent's private parlor. I saw the first\nnight here that neither I nor any future occupant could be happy\nwith Mrs. Lippett's electric plush. You see, I am planning to make my\nsuccessor contented and willing to stay.\n\nBetsy Kindred assisted in the rehabilitation of the Lippett's chamber\nof horrors, and between us we have created a symphony in dull blue and\ngold. Really and truly, it's one of the loveliest rooms you've ever\nseen. The sight of it will be an artistic education to any orphan.\nNew paper on the wall, new rugs on the floor (my own prized Persians\nexpressed from Worcester by an expostulating family). New casement\ncurtains at my three windows, revealing a wide and charming view,\nhitherto hidden by Nottingham lace. A new big table, some lamps and\nbooks and a picture or so, and a real open fire. She had closed the\nfireplace because it let in air.\n\nI never realized what a difference artistic surroundings make in the\npeace of one's soul. I sat last night and watched my fire throw nice\nhighlights on my new old fender, and purred with contentment. And I\nassure you it's the first purr that has come from this cat since she\nentered the gates of the John Grier Home.\n\nBut the refurnishing of the superintendent's parlor is the slightest\nof our needs. The children's private apartments demand so much basic\nattention that I can't decide where to begin. That dark north playroom\nis a shocking scandal, but no more shocking than our hideous dining room\nor our unventilated dormitories or our tubless lavatories.\n\nIf the institution is very saving, do you think it can ever afford to\nburn down this smelly old original building, and put up instead some\nnice, ventilated modern cottages? I cannot contemplate that wonderful\ninstitution at Hastings without being filled with envy. It would be some\nfun to run an asylum if you had a plant like that to work with. But,\nanyway, when you get back to New York and are ready to consult the\narchitect about remodeling, please apply to me for suggestions. Among\nother little details I want two hundred feet of sleeping porch running\nalong the outside of our dormitories.\n\nYou see, it's this way: our physical examination reveals the fact that\nabout half of our children are aenemic--aneamic--anaemic (Mercy! what\na word!), and a lot of them have tubercular ancestors, and more have\nalcoholic. Their first need is oxygen rather than education. And if the\nsickly ones need it, why wouldn't it be good for the well ones? I should\nlike to have every child, winter and summer, sleeping in the open air;\nbut I know that if I let fall such a bomb on the board of trustees, the\nwhole body would explode.\n\nSpeaking of trustees, I have met up with the Hon. Cyrus Wykoff, and\nI really believe that I dislike him more than Dr. Robin MacRae or\nthe kindergarten teacher or the cook. I seem to have a genius for\ndiscovering enemies!\n\nMr. Wykoff called on Wednesday last to look over the new superintendent.\n\nHaving lowered himself into my most comfortable armchair, he proceeded\nto spend the day. He asked my father's business, and whether or not he\nwas well-to-do. I told him that my father manufactured overalls, and\nthat, even in these hard times, the demand for overalls was pretty\nsteady.\n\nHe seemed relieved. He approves of the utilitarian aspect of overalls.\nHe had been afraid that I had come from the family of a minister or\nprofessor or writer, a lot of high thinking and no common sense. Cyrus\nbelieves in common sense.\n\nAnd what had been my training for this position?\n\nThat, as you know, is a slightly embarrassing question. But I produced\nmy college education and a few lectures at the School of Philanthropy,\nalso a short residence in the college settlement (I didn't tell him\nthat all I had done there was to paint the back hall and stairs). Then\nI submitted some social work among my father's employees and a few\nfriendly visits to the Home for Female Inebriates.\n\nTo all of which he grunted.\n\nI added that I had lately made a study of the care of dependent\nchildren, and casually mentioned my seventeen institutions.\n\nHe grunted again, and said he didn't take much stock in this new-fangled\nscientific charity.\n\nAt this point Jane entered with a box of roses from the florist's.\nThat blessed Gordon Hallock sends me roses twice a week to brighten the\nrigors of institution life.\n\nOur trustee began an indignant investigation. He wished to know where I\ngot those flowers, and was visibly relieved when he learned that I had\nnot spent the institution's money for them. He next wished to know who\nJane might be. I had foreseen that question and decided to brazen it\nout.\n\n\"My maid,\" said I.\n\n\"Your what?\" he bellowed, quite red in the face.\n\n\"My maid.\"\n\n\"What is she doing here?\"\n\nI amiably went into details. \"She mends my clothes, blacks my boots,\nkeeps my bureau drawers in order, washes my hair.\"\n\nI really thought the man would choke, so I charitably added that I paid\nher wages out of my own private income, and paid five dollars and fifty\ncents a week to the institution for her board; and that, though she was\nbig, she didn't eat much.\n\nHe allowed that I might make use of one of the orphans for all\nlegitimate service.\n\nI explained--still polite, but growing bored--that Jane had been in my\nservice for many years, and was indispensable.\n\nHe finally took himself off, after telling me that he, for one,\nhad never found any fault with Mrs. Lippett. She was a common-sense\nChristian woman, without many fancy ideas, but with plenty of good solid\nwork in her. He hoped that I would be wise enough to model my policy\nupon hers!\n\nAnd what, my dear Judy, do you think of that?\n\nThe doctor dropped in a few minutes later, and I repeated the Hon.\nCyrus's conversation in detail. For the first time in the history of our\nintercourse the doctor and I agreed.\n\n\"Mrs. Lippett indeed!\" he growled. \"The blethering auld gomerel! May the\nLord send him mair sense!\"\n\nWhen our doctor really becomes aroused, he drops into Scotch. My latest\npet name for him (behind his back) is Sandy.\n\nSadie Kate is sitting on the floor as I write, untangling sewing-silks\nand winding them neatly for Jane, who is becoming quite attached to the\nlittle imp.\n\n\"I am writing to your Aunt Judy,\" say I to Sadie Kate. \"What message\nshall I send from you?\"\n\n\"I never heard of no Aunt Judy.\"\n\n\"She is the aunt of every good little girl in this school.\"\n\n\"Tell her to come and visit me and bring some candy,\" says Sadie Kate.\n\nI say so, too.\n\nMy love to the president,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\n\nMarch 13.\n\nMRS. JUDY ABBOTT PENDLETON,\n\nDear Madam:\n\nYour four letters, two telegrams, and three checks are at hand, and\nyour instructions shall be obeyed just as quickly as this overworked\nsuperintendent can manage it.\n\nI delegated the dining room job to Betsy Kindred. One hundred dollars\ndid I allow her for the rehabilitation of that dreary apartment. She\naccepted the trust, picked out five likely orphans to assist in the\nmechanical details, and closed the door.\n\nFor three days the children have been eating from the desks in the\nschoolroom. I haven't an idea what Betsy is doing; but she has a lot\nbetter taste than I, so there isn't much use in interfering.\n\nIt is such a heaven-sent relief to be able to leave something to\nsomebody else, and be sure it will be carried out! With all due respect\nto the age and experience of the staff I found here, they are not very\nopen to new ideas. As the John Grier Home was planned by its noble\nfounder in 1875, so shall it be run today.\n\nIncidentally, my dear Judy, your idea of a private dining room for the\nsuperintendent, which I, being a social soul, at first scorned, has\nbeen my salvation. When I am dead tired I dine alone, but in my live\nintervals I invite an officer to share the meal; and in the expansive\nintimacy of the dinner-table I get in my most effective strokes. When it\nbecomes desirable to plant the seeds of fresh air in the soul of Miss\nSnaith, I invite her to dinner, and tactfully sandwich in a little\noxygen between her slices of pressed veal.\n\nPressed veal is our cook's idea of an acceptable PIECE DE RESISTANCE\nfor a dinner party. In another month I am going to face the subject of\nsuitable nourishment for the executive staff.\n\nMeanwhile there are so many things more important than our own comfort\nthat we shall have to worry along on veal.\n\nA terrible bumping has just occurred outside my door. One little cherub\nseems to be kicking another little cherub downstairs. But I write on\nundisturbed. If I am to spend my days among orphans, I must cultivate a\ncheerful detachment.\n\nDid you get Leonora Fenton's cards? She's marrying a medical missionary\nand going to Siam to live! Did you ever hear of anything so absurd as\nLeonora presiding over a missionary's menage? Do you suppose she will\nentertain the heathen with skirt dances?\n\nIt isn't any absurder, though, than me in an orphan asylum, or you as a\nconservative settled matron, or Marty Keene a social butterfly in Paris.\nDo you suppose she goes to embassy balls in riding clothes, and what on\nearth does she do about hair? It couldn't have grown so soon; she must\nwear a wig. Isn't our class turning out some hilarious surprises?\n\nThe mail arrives. Excuse me while I read a nice fat letter from\nWashington.\n\n\nNot so nice; quite impertinent. Gordon can't get over the idea that it\nis a joke, S. McB. in conjunction with one hundred and thirteen orphans.\nBut he wouldn't think it such a joke if he could try it for a few days.\nHe says he is going to drop off here on his next trip North and watch\nthe struggle. How would it be if I left him in charge while I dashed to\nNew York to accomplish some shopping? Our sheets are all worn out, and\nwe haven't more than two hundred and eleven blankets in the house.\n\nSingapore, sole puppy of my heart and home, sends his respectful love. I\nalso, S. McB.\n\n\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nFriday. My dearest Judy:\n\nYou should see what your hundred dollars and Betsy Kindred did to that\ndining room!\n\nIt's a dazzling dream of yellow paint. Being a north room, she thought\nto brighten it; and she has. The walls are kalsomined buff, with a\nfrieze of little molly cottontails skurrying around the top. All of\nthe woodwork--tables and benches included--is a cheerful chrome yellow.\nInstead of tablecloths, which we can't afford, we have linen runners,\nwith stenciled rabbits hopping along their length. Also yellow bowls,\nfilled at present with pussywillows, but looking forward to dandelions\nand cowslips and buttercups. And new dishes, my dear--white, with yellow\njonquils (we think), though they may be roses; there is no botany expert\nin the house. Most wonderful touch of all, we have NAPKINS, the first\nwe have seen in our whole lives. The children thought they were\nhandkerchiefs and ecstatically wiped their noses.\n\nTo honor the opening of the new room, we had ice-cream and cake for\ndessert. It is such a pleasure to see these children anything but cowed\nand apathetic, that I am offering prizes for boisterousness--to every\none but Sadie Kate. She drummed on the table with her knife and fork and\nsang, \"Welcome to dem golden halls.\"\n\nYou remember that illuminated text over the dining-room door--\"The Lord\nWill Provide.\" We've painted it out, and covered the spot with rabbits.\nIt's all very well to teach so easy a belief to normal children, who\nhave a proper family and roof behind them; but a person whose only\nrefuge in distress will be a park bench must learn a more militant creed\nthan that.\n\n\"The Lord has given you two hands and a brain and a big world to use\nthem in. Use them well, and you will be provided for; use them ill, and\nyou will want,\" is our motto, and that with reservations.\n\nIn the sorting process that has been going on I have got rid of eleven\nchildren. That blessed State Charities Aid Association helped me dispose\nof three little girls, all placed in very nice homes, and one to be\nadopted legally if the family likes her. And the family will like her;\nI saw to that. She was the prize child of the institution, obedient and\npolite, with curly hair and affectionate ways, exactly the little girl\nthat every family needs. When a couple of adopting parents are choosing\na daughter, I stand by with my heart in my mouth, feeling as though I\nwere assisting in the inscrutable designs of Fate. Such a little thing\nturns the balance! The child smiles, and a loving home is hers for life;\nshe sneezes, and it passes her by forever.\n\nThree of our biggest boys have gone to work on farms, one of them out\nWest to a RANCH! Report has it that he is to become a cowboy and Indian\nfighter and grizzly-bear hunter, though I believe in reality he is to\nengage in the pastoral work of harvesting wheat. He marched off, a hero\nof romance, followed by the wistful eyes of twenty-five adventurous\nlads, who turned back with a sigh to the safely monotonous life of the\nJ. G. H.\n\nFive other children have been sent to their proper institutions. One of\nthem is deaf, one an epileptic, and the other three approaching\nidiocy. None of them ought ever to have been accepted here. This as an\neducational institution, and we can't waste our valuable plant in caring\nfor defectives.\n\nOrphan asylums have gone out of style. What I am going to develop is a\nboarding school for the physical, moral, and mental growth of children\nwhose parents have not been able to provide for their care.\n\n\"Orphans\" is merely my generic term for the children; a good many\nof them are not orphans in the least. They have one troublesome and\ntenacious parent left who won't sign a surrender, so I can't place them\nout for adoption. But those that are available would be far better off\nin loving foster-homes than in the best institution that I can ever\nmake. So I am fitting them for adoption as quickly as possible, and\nsearching for the homes.\n\nYou ought to run across a lot of pleasant families in your travels;\ncan't you bully some of them into adopting children? Boys by preference.\nWe've got an awful lot of extra boys, and nobody wants them. Talk about\nanti-feminism! It's nothing to the anti-masculinism that exists in the\nbreasts of adopting parents. I could place out a thousand dimpled little\ngirls with yellow hair, but a good live boy from nine to thirteen is a\ndrug on the market. There seems to be a general feeling that they track\nin dirt and scratch up mahogany furniture.\n\nShouldn't you think that men's clubs might like to adopt boys, as a sort\nof mascot? The boy could be boarded in a nice respectable family, and\ndrawn out by the different members on Saturday afternoons. They could\ntake him to ball games and the circus, and then return him when they\nhad had enough, just as you do with a library book. It would be very\nvaluable training for the bachelors. People are forever talking about\nthe desirability of training girls for motherhood. Why not institute a\ncourse of training in fatherhood, and get the best men's clubs to take\nit up? Will you please have Jervis agitate the matter at his various\nclubs, and I'll have Gordon start the idea in Washington. They both\nbelong to such a lot of clubs that we ought to dispose of at least a\ndozen boys.\n\nI remain,\n\nThe ever-distracted mother of 113.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nMarch 18.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nI have been having a pleasant respite from the 113 cares of motherhood.\n\nYesterday who should drop down upon our peaceful village but Mr. Gordon\nHallock, on his way back to Washington to resume the cares of the\nnation. At least he said it was on his way, but I notice from the map in\nthe primary room that it was one hundred miles out of his way.\n\nAnd dear, but I was glad to see him! He is the first glimpse of the\noutside world I have had since I was incarcerated in this asylum. And\nsuch a lot of entertaining businesses he had to talk about! He knows the\ninside of all the outside things you read in the newspapers; so far as I\ncan make out, he is the social center about which Washington revolves.\nI always knew he would get on in politics, for he has a way with him;\nthere's no doubt about it.\n\nYou can't imagine how exhilarated and set-up I feel, as though I'd come\ninto my own again after a period of social ostracism. I must confess\nthat I get lonely for some one who talks my kind of nonsensical talk.\nBetsy trots off home every week end, and the doctor is conversational\nenough, but, oh, so horribly logical! Gordon somehow seems to stand for\nthe life I belong to,--of country clubs and motors and dancing and sport\nand politeness,--a poor, foolish, silly life, if you will, but mine own.\nAnd I have missed it. This serving society business is theoretically\nadmirable and compelling and interesting, but deadly stupid in its\nworking details. I am afraid I was never born to set the crooked\nstraight.\n\nI tried to show Gordon about and make him take an interest in the\nbabies, but he wouldn't glance at them. He thinks I came just to spite\nhim, which, of course, I did. Your siren call would never have lured me\nfrom the path of frivolity had Gordon not been so unpleasantly hilarious\nat the idea of my being able to manage an orphan asylum. I came here to\nshow him that I could; and now, when I can show him, the beast refuses\nto look.\n\nI invited him to dinner, with a warning about the pressed veal; but he\nsaid no, thanks, that I needed a change. So we went to Brantwood Inn and\nhad broiled lobster. I had positively forgotten that the creatures were\nedible.\n\nThis morning at seven o'clock I was wakened by the furious ringing of\nthe telephone bell. It was Gordon at the station, about to resume his\njourney to Washington. He was in quite a contrite mood about the asylum,\nand apologized largely for refusing to look at my children. It was not\nthat he didn't like orphans, he said; it was just that he didn't like\nthem in juxtaposition to me. And to prove his good intentions, he would\nsend them a bag of peanuts.\n\nI feel as fresh and revivified after my little fling as though I'd had a\nreal vacation. There's no doubt about it, an hour or so of exciting talk\nis more of a tonic to me than a pint of iron and strychnine pills.\n\nYou owe me two letters, dear Madam. Pay them TOUT DE SUITE, or I lay\ndown my pen forever.\n\nYours, as usual,\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nTuesday, 5 P.M. My dear Enemy:\n\nI am told that during my absence this afternoon you paid us a call and\ndug up a scandal. You claim that the children under Miss Snaith are not\nreceiving their due in the matter of cod-liver oil.\n\nI am sorry if your medicinal orders have not been carried out, but you\nmust know that it is a difficult matter to introduce that abominably\nsmelling stuff into the inside of a squirming child. And poor Miss\nSnaith is a very much overworked person. She has ten more children to\ncare for than should rightly fall into the lot of any single woman, and\nuntil we find her another assistant, she has very little time for the\nfancy touches you demand.\n\nAlso, my dear Enemy, she is very susceptible to abuse. When you feel in\na fighting mood, I wish you would expend your belligerence upon me. I\ndon't mind it; quite the contrary. But that poor lady has retired to her\nroom in a state of hysterics, leaving nine babies to be tucked into bed\nby whomever it may concern.\n\nIf you have any powders that would be settling to her nerves, please\nsend them back by Sadie Kate.\n\nYours truly,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nWednesday Morning.\n\nDear Dr. MacRae:\n\nI am not taking an unintelligent stand in the least; I am simply asking\nthat you come to me with all complaints, and not stir up my staff in any\nsuch volcanic fashion as that of yesterday.\n\nI endeavor to carry out all of your orders--of a medical nature--with\nscrupulous care. In the present case there seems to have been\nsome negligence; I don't know what did become of those fourteen\nunadministered bottles of cod-liver oil that you have made such a fuss\nabout, but I shall investigate.\n\nAnd I cannot, for various reasons, pack off Miss Snaith in the summary\nfashion you demand. She may be, in certain respects, inefficient;\nbut she is kind to the children, and with supervision will answer\ntemporarily.\n\nYours truly,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nThursday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nSOYEZ TRANQUILLE. I have issued orders, and in the future the children\nshall receive all of the cod-liver oil that by rights is theirs. A\nwilfu' man maun hae his way.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nMarch 22.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nAsylum life has looked up a trifle during the past few days--since the\ngreat Cod-Liver Oil War has been raging. The first skirmish occurred on\nTuesday, and I unfortunately missed it, having accompanied four of\nmy children on a shopping trip to the village. I returned to find the\nasylum teeming with hysterics. Our explosive doctor had paid us a visit.\n\nSandy has two passions in life: one is for cod-liver oil and the other\nfor spinach, neither popular in our nursery. Some time ago--before I\ncame, in fact--he had ordered cod-liver oil for all of the\n{aenemic} --Heavens! there's that word again! {aneamic}--children, and\nhad given instructions as to its application to Miss Snaith. Yesterday,\nin his suspicious Scotch fashion, he began nosing about to find out why\nthe poor little rats weren't fattening up as fast as he thought they\nought, and he unearthed a hideous scandal. They haven't received a whiff\nof cod-liver oil for three whole weeks! At that point he exploded, and\nall was joy and excitement and hysterics.\n\nBetsy says that she had to send Sadie Kate to the laundry on an\nimprovised errand, as his language was not fit for orphan ears. By the\ntime I got home he had gone, and Miss Snaith had retired, weeping, to\nher room, and the whereabouts of fourteen bottles of cod-liver oil was\nstill unexplained. He had accused her at the top of his voice of taking\nthem herself. Imagine Miss Snaith,--she who looks so innocent and\nchinless and inoffensive--stealing cod-liver oil from these poor\nhelpless little orphans and guzzling it in private!\n\nHer defense consisted in hysterical assertions that she loved the\nchildren, and had done her duty as she saw it. She did not believe in\ngiving medicine to babies; she thought drugs bad for their poor little\nstomachs. You can imagine Sandy! Oh, dear! oh, dear! To think I missed\nit!\n\nWell, the tempest raged for three days, and Sadie Kate nearly ran her\nlittle legs off carrying peppery messages back and forth between us\nand the doctor. It is only under stress that I communicate with him by\ntelephone, as he has an interfering old termagant of a housekeeper who\n\"listens in\" on the down-stairs switch. I don't wish the scandalous\nsecrets of the John Grier spread abroad. The doctor demanded Miss\nSnaith's instant dismissal, and I refused. Of course she is a vague,\nunfocused, inefficient old thing, but she does love the children, and\nwith proper supervision is fairly useful.\n\nAt least, in the light of her exalted family connections, I can't\npack her off in disgrace like a drunken cook. I am hoping in time to\neliminate her by a process of delicate suggestion; perhaps I can make\nher feel that her health requires a winter in California. And also, no\nmatter what the doctor wants, so positive and dictatorial is his manner\nthat just out of self-respect one must take the other side. When he\nstates that the world is round, I instantly assert it to be triangular.\n\nFinally, after three pleasantly exhilarating days, the whole business\nsettled itself. An apology (a very dilute one) was extracted from him\nfor being so unkind to the poor lady, and full confession, with promises\nfor the future, was drawn from her. It seems that she couldn't bear\nto make the little dears take the stuff, but, for obvious reasons, she\ncouldn't bear to cross Dr. MacRae, so she hid the last fourteen bottles\nin a dark corner of the cellar. Just how she was planning to dispose of\nher loot I don't know. Can you pawn cod-liver oil?\n\nLATER.\n\n\nPeace negotiations had just ended this afternoon, and Sandy had made a\ndignified exit, when the Hon. Cyrus Wykoff was announced. Two enemies in\nthe course of an hour are really too much!\n\nThe Hon. Cy was awfully impressed with the new dining room, especially\nwhen he heard that Betsy had put on those rabbits with her own\nlily-white hands. Stenciling rabbits on walls, he allows, is a fitting\npursuit for a woman, but an executive position like mine is a trifle out\nof her sphere. He thinks it would be far wiser if Mr. Pendleton did not\ngive me such free scope in the spending of his money.\n\nWhile we were still contemplating Betsy's mural flight, an awful crash\ncame from the pantry, and we found Gladiola Murphy weeping among the\nruins of five yellow plates. It is sufficiently shattering to my nerves\nto hear these crashes when I am alone, but it is peculiarly shattering\nwhen receiving a call from an unsympathetic trustee.\n\nI shall cherish that set of dishes to the best of my ability, but if you\nwish to see your gift in all its uncracked beauty, I should advise you\nto hurry North, and visit the John Grier Home without delay.\n\nYours as ever,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nMarch 26. My dear Judy:\n\nI have just been holding an interview with a woman who wants to take\na baby home to surprise her husband. I had a hard time convincing her\nthat, since he is to support the child, it might be a delicate attention\nto consult him about its adoption. She argued stubbornly that it was\nnone of his business, seeing that the onerous work of washing and\ndressing and training would fall upon her. I am really beginning to feel\nsorry for men. Some of them seem to have very few rights.\n\nEven our pugnacious doctor I suspect of being a victim of domestic\ntyranny, and his housekeeper's at that. It is scandalous the way Maggie\nMcGurk neglects the poor man. I have had to put him in charge of an\norphan. Sadie Kate, with a very housewifely air, is this moment sitting\ncross-legged on the hearth rug sewing buttons on his overcoat while he\nis upstairs tending babies.\n\nYou would never believe it, but Sandy and I are growing quite\nconfidential in a dour Scotch fashion. It has become his habit, when\nhomeward bound after his professional calls, to chug up to our door\nabout four in the afternoon, and make the rounds of the house to\nmake sure that we are not developing cholera morbus or infanticide or\nanything catching, and then present himself at four-thirty at my library\ndoor to talk over our mutual problems.\n\nDoes he come to see me? Oh, no, indeed; he comes to get tea and toast\nand marmalade. The man hath a lean and hungry look. His housekeeper\ndoesn't feed him enough. As soon as I get the upper hand of him a little\nmore, I am going to urge him on to revolt.\n\nMeanwhile he is very grateful for something to eat, but oh, so funny in\nhis attempts at social grace! At first he would hold a cup of tea in\none hand, a plate of muffins in the other, and then search blankly for a\nthird hand to eat them with. Now he has solved the problem. He turns in\nhis toes and brings his knees together; then he folds his napkin into\na long, narrow wedge that fills the crack between them, thus forming a\nvery workable pseudo lap; after that he sits with tense muscles\nuntil the tea is drunk. I suppose I ought to provide a table, but the\nspectacle of Sandy with his toes turned in is the one gleam of amusement\nthat my day affords.\n\nThe postman is just driving in with, I trust, a letter from you. Letters\nmake a very interesting break in the monotony of asylum life. If you\nwish to keep this superintendent contented, you'd better write often.\n\n. . . . . . . .\n\nMail received and contents noted.\n\nKindly convey my thanks to Jervis for three alligators in a swamp.\nHe shows rare artistic taste in the selection of his post cards. Your\nseven-page illustrated letter from Miami arrives at the same time. I\nshould have known Jervis from the palm tree perfectly, even without the\nlabel, as the tree has so much the more hair of the two. Also, I have a\npolite bread-and-butter letter from my nice young man in Washington,\nand a book from him, likewise a box of candy. The bag of peanuts for the\nkiddies he has shipped by express. Did you ever know such assiduity?\n\nJimmie favors me with the news that he is coming to visit me as soon\nas father can spare him from the factory. The poor boy does hate that\nfactory so! It isn't that he is lazy; he just simply isn't interested in\noveralls. But father can't understand such a lack of taste. Having built\nup the factory, he of course has developed a passion for overalls,\nwhich should have been inherited by his eldest son. I find it awfully\nconvenient to have been born a daughter; I am not asked to like\noveralls, but am left free to follow any morbid career I may choose,\nsuch as this.\n\nTo return to my mail: There arrives an advertisement from a wholesale\ngrocer, saying that he has exceptionally economical brands of oatmeal,\nrice, flour, prunes, and dried apples that he packs specially for\nprisons and charitable institutions. Sounds nutritious, doesn't it?\n\nI also have letters from a couple of farmers, each of whom would like\nto have a strong, husky boy of fourteen who is not afraid of work, their\nobject being to give him a good home. These good homes appear with great\nfrequency just as the spring planting is coming on. When we investigated\none of them last week, the village minister, in answer to our usual\nquestion, \"Does he own any property?\" replied in a very guarded manner,\n\"I think he must own a corkscrew.\"\n\nYou would hardly credit some of the homes that we have investigated. We\nfound a very prosperous country family the other day, who lived huddled\ntogether in three rooms in order to keep the rest of their handsome\nhouse clean. The fourteen-year girl they wished to adopt, by way of a\ncheap servant, was to sleep in the same tiny room with their own three\nchildren. Their kitchen-dining-parlor apartment was more cluttered up\nand unaired than any city tenement I ever saw, and the thermometer at\neighty-four. One could scarcely say they were living there; they were\nrather COOKING. You may be sure they got no girl from us!\n\nI have made one invariable rule--every other is flexible. No child is\nto be placed out unless the proposed family can offer better advantages\nthan we can give. I mean than we are going to be able to give in the\ncourse of a few months, when we get ourselves made over into a model\ninstitution. I shall have to confess that at present we are still pretty\nbad.\n\nBut anyway, I am very CHOOSEY in regard to homes, and I reject\nthree-fourths of those that offer.\n\nLATER.\n\n\nGordon has made honorable amends to my children. His bag of peanuts is\nhere, made of burlap and three feet high.\n\nDo you remember the dessert of peanuts and maple sugar they used to\ngive us at college? We turned up our noses, but ate. I am instituting it\nhere, and I assure you we don't turn up our noses. It is a pleasure to\nfeed children who have graduated from a course of Mrs. Lippett; they are\npathetically grateful for small blessings.\n\nYou can't complain that this letter is too short.\n\nYours,\n\nOn the verge of writer's cramp,\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nOff and on, all day Friday.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nYou will be interested to hear that I have encountered another\nenemy--the doctor's housekeeper. I had talked to the creature several\ntimes over the telephone, and had noted that her voice was not\ndistinguished by the soft, low accents that mark the caste of \"Vere de\nVere\"; but now I have seen her. This morning, while returning from the\nvillage, I made a slight detour, and passed our doctor's house. Sandy\nis evidently the result of environment--olive green, with a mansard roof\nand the shades pulled down. You would think he had just been holding a\nfuneral.\n\nI don't wonder that the amenities of life have somewhat escaped the\npoor man. After studying the outside of his house, I was filled with\ncuriosity to see if the inside matched.\n\nHaving sneezed five times before breakfast this morning, I decided to\ngo in and consult him professionally. To be sure, he is a children's\nspecialist, but sneezes are common to all ages. So I boldly marched up\nthe steps and rang the bell.\n\nHark! What sound is that that breaks upon our revelry? The Hon. Cy's\nvoice, as I live, approaching up the stairs. I've letters to write, and\nI can't be tormented by his blether, so I am rushing Jane to the door\nwith orders to look him firmly in the eye and tell him I am out.\n\n. . . . . . . .\n\nOn with the dance! Let joy be unconfined. He's gone.\n\nBut those eight stars represent eight agonizing minutes spent in the\ndark of my library closet. The Hon. Cy received Jane's communication\nwith the affable statement that he would sit down and wait. Whereupon\nhe entered and sat. But did Jane leave me to languish in the closet? No;\nshe enticed him to the nursery to see the AWFUL thing that Sadie Kate\nhas done. The Hon. Cy loves to see awful things, particularly when done\nby Sadie Kate. I haven't an idea what scandal Jane is about to disclose;\nbut no matter, he has gone.\n\nWhere was I? Oh, yes; I had rung the doctor's bell.\n\nThe door was opened by a large, husky person with her sleeves rolled up.\nShe looked very businesslike, with a hawk's nose and cold gray eyes.\n\n\"Well?\" said she, her tone implying that I was a vacuum-cleaning agent.\n\n\"Good morning.\" I smiled affably, and stepped inside. \"Is this Mrs.\nMcGurk?\"\n\n\"It is,\" said she. \"An' ye'll be the new young woman in the orphan\nasylum?\"\n\n\"I am that,\" said I. \"Is himself at home?\"\n\n\"He is not,\" said she.\n\n\"But this is his office hour.\"\n\n\"He don't keep it regular'.\"\n\n\"He ought,\" said I, sternly. \"Kindly tell him that Miss McBride called\nto consult him, and ask him to look in at the John Grier Home this\nafternoon.\"\n\n\"Ump'!\" grunted Mrs. McGurk, and closed the door so promptly that she\nshut in the hem of my skirt.\n\nWhen I told the doctor this afternoon, he shrugged his shoulders, and\nobserved that that was Maggie's gracious way.\n\n\"And why do you put up with Maggie?\" said I.\n\n\"And where would I find any one better?\" said he. \"Doing the work for\na lone man who comes as irregularly to meals as a twenty-four-hour day\nwill permit is no sinecure. She furnishes little sunshine in the home,\nbut she does manage to produce a hot dinner at nine o'clock at night.\"\n\nJust the same, I am willing to wager that her hot dinners are neither\ndelicious nor well served. She's an inefficient, lazy old termagant, and\nI know why she doesn't like me. She imagines that I want to steal away\nthe doctor and oust her from a comfortable position, something of a\njoke, considering. But I am not undeceiving her; it will do the old\nthing good to worry a little. She may cook him better dinners, and\nfatten him up a trifle. I understand that fat men are good-natured.\n\nTEN O'CLOCK.\n\n\nI don't know what silly stuff I have been writing to you off and on all\nday, between interruptions. It has got to be night at last, and I am too\ntired to do so much as hold up my head. Your song tells the sad truth,\n\"There is no joy in life but sleep.\"\n\nI bid you good night.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nIsn't the English language absurd? Look at those forty monosyllables in\na row!\n\n\nJ. G. H.,\n\nApril 1.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nI have placed out Isador Gutschneider. His new mother is a Swedish\nwoman, fat and smiling, with blue eyes and yellow hair. She chose him\nout of the whole nurseryful of children because he was the brunettest\nbaby there. She has always loved brunettes, but in her most ambitious\ndreams has never hoped to have one of her own. His name is going to be\nchanged to Oscar Carlson, after his new dead uncle.\n\nMy first trustees' meeting is to occur next Wednesday. I confess that I\nam not looking forward to it with impatience--especially as an inaugural\naddress by me will be its chief feature. I wish our president were here\nto back me up! But at least I am sure of one thing. I am never going to\nadopt the Uriah Heepish attitude toward trustees that characterized Mrs.\nLippett's manners. I shall treat \"first Wednesdays\" as a pleasant social\ndiversion, my day at home, when the friends of the asylum gather for\ndiscussion and relaxation; and I shall endeavor not to let our pleasures\ndiscommode the orphans. You see how I have taken to heart the unhappy\nexperiences of that little Jerusha.\n\nYour last letter has arrived, and no suggestion in it of traveling\nNorth. Isn't it about time that you were turning your faces back toward\nFifth Avenue? Hame is hame, be 't ever sae hamely. Don't you marvel at\nthe Scotch that flows so readily from my pen? Since being acquent' wi'\nSandy, I hae gathered a muckle new vocabulary. The dinner gong! I leave\nyou, to devote a revivifying half-hour to mutton hash. We eat to live in\nthe John Grier Home.\n\nSIX O'CLOCK.\n\n\nThe Hon. Cy has been calling again. He drops in with great frequency,\nhoping to catch me IN DELICTU. How I do not like that man! He is a pink,\nfat, puffy old thing, with a pink, fat, puffy soul. I was in a very\ncheery, optimistic frame of mind before his arrival, but now I shall do\nnothing but grumble for the rest of the day.\n\nHe deplores all of the useless innovations that I am endeavoring to\nintroduce, such as a cheerful playroom, prettier clothes, baths, and\nbetter food and fresh air and play and fun and ice-cream and kisses.\nHe says that I will unfit these children to occupy the position in life\nthat God has called them to occupy.\n\nAt that my Irish blood came to the surface, and I told him that if\nGod had planned to make all of these 113 little children into useless,\nignorant, unhappy citizens, I was going to fool God! That we weren't\neducating them out of their class in the least. We were educating them\nINTO their natural class much more effectually than is done in the\naverage family. We weren't trying to force them into college if they\nhadn't any brains, as happens with rich men's sons; and we weren't\nputting them to work at fourteen if they were naturally ambitious,\nas happens with poor men's sons. We were watching them closely and\nindividually and discovering their level. If our children showed an\naptitude to become farm laborers and nurse-maids, we were going to teach\nthem to be the best possible farm laborers and nurse-maids; and if they\nshowed a tendency to become lawyers, we would turn them into honest,\nintelligent, open-minded lawyers. (He's a lawyer himself, but certainly\nnot an open-minded one.)\n\nHe grunted when I had finished my remarks, and stirred his tea\nvigorously. Whereupon I suggested that perhaps he needed another lump of\nsugar, and dropped it in, and left him to absorb it.\n\nThe only way to deal with trustees is with a firm and steady hand. You\nhave to keep them in their places.\n\nOh, my dear! that smudge in the corner was caused by Singapore's black\ntongue. He is trying to send you an affectionate kiss. Poor Sing thinks\nhe's a lap dog--isn't it a tragedy when people mistake their vocations?\nI myself am not always certain that I was born an orphan asylum\nsuperintendent.\n\nYours, til deth,\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nSUPERINTENDENT'S OFFICE,\n\nJOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nApril 4.\n\nTHE PENDLETON FAMILY,\n\nPalm Beach, Florida.\n\nDear Sir and Madam:\n\nI have weathered my first visitors' day, and made the trustees a\nbeautiful speech. Everybody said it was a beautiful speech--even my\nenemies.\n\nMr. Gordon Hallock's recent visit was exceptionally opportune; I gleaned\nfrom him many suggestions as to how to carry an audience.\n\n\"Be funny.\"--I told about Sadie Kate and a few other cherubs that you\ndon't know.\n\n\"Keep it concrete and fitted to the intelligence of your audience.\"--I\nwatched the Hon. Cy, and never said a thing that he couldn't understand.\n\n\"Flatter your hearers.\"--I hinted delicately that all of these new\nreforms were due to the wisdom and initiative of our peerless trustees.\n\n\"Give it a high moral tone, with a dash of pathos.\"--I dwelt upon the\nparentless condition of these little wards of Society. And it was very\naffecting--my enemy wiped away a tear!\n\nThen I fed them up on chocolate and whipped cream and lemonade and\ntartar sandwiches, and sent them home, expansive and beaming, but\nwithout any appetite for dinner.\n\nI dwell thus at length upon our triumph, in order to create in you a\nhappy frame of mind, before passing to the higeous calamity that so\nnearly wrecked the occasion.\n\n     \"Now follows the dim horror of my tale,\n     And I feel I'm growing gradually pale,\n          For, even at this day,\n          Though its smell has passed away,\n     When I venture to remember it, I quail!\"\n\n\nYou never heard of our little Tammas Kehoe, did you? I simply haven't\nfeatured Tammas because he requires so much ink and time and vocabulary.\nHe's a spirited lad, and he follows his dad, a mighty hunter of\nold--that sounds like more Bab Ballads, but it isn't; I made it up as I\nwent along.\n\nWe can't break Tammas of his inherited predatory instincts. He shoots\nthe chickens with bows and arrows and lassoes the pigs and plays\nbull-fight with the cows--and oh, is very destructive! But his crowning\nvillainy occurred an hour before the trustees' meeting, when we wanted\nto be so clean and sweet and engaging.\n\nIt seems that he had stolen the rat trap from the oat bin, and had set\nit up in the wood lot, and yesterday morning was so fortunate as to\ncatch a fine big skunk.\n\nSingapore was the first to report the discovery. He returned to the\nhouse and rolled on the rugs in a frenzy of remorse over his part of the\nbusiness. While our attention was occupied with Sing, Tammas was busily\nskinning his prey in the seclusion of the woodshed. He buttoned the pelt\ninside his jacket, conveyed it by a devious route through the length\nof this building, and concealed it under his bed where he thought it\nwouldn't be found.\n\nThen he went--per schedule--to the basement to help freeze the ice-cream\nfor our guests. You notice that we omitted ice-cream from the menu.\n\nIn the short time that remained we created all the counter-irritation\nthat was possible. Noah (negro furnace man) started smudge fires at\nintervals about the grounds. Cook waved a shovelful of burning coffee\nthrough the house. Betsy sprinkled the corridors with ammonia. Miss\nSnaith daintily treated the rugs with violet water. I sent an emergency\ncall to the doctor who came and mixed a gigantic solution of chlorid\nof lime. But still, above and beneath and through every other odor, the\nunlaid ghost of Tammas's victim cried for vengeance.\n\nThe first business that came up at the meeting, was whether we should\ndig a hole and bury, not only Tammas, but the whole main building. You\ncan see with what finesse I carried off the shocking event, when I tell\nyou that the Hon. Cy went home chuckling over a funny story, instead of\ngrumbling at the new superintendent's inability to manage boys.\n\nWe've our ain bit weird to dree!\n\nAs ever,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nFriday, likewise Saturday.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nSingapore is still living in the carriage house, and receiving a daily\ncarbolic-scented bath from Tammas Kehoe. I am hoping that some day, in\nthe distant future, my darling will be fit to return.\n\nYou will be pleased to hear that I have instituted a new method of\nspending your money. We are henceforth to buy a part of our shoes and\ndrygoods and drug store comestibles from local shops, at not quite such\nlow prices as the wholesale jobbers give, but still at a discount,\nand the education that is being thrown in is worth the difference. The\nreason is this: I have made the discovery that half of my children know\nnothing of money or its purchasing power. They think that shoes and corn\nmeal and red-flannel petticoats and mutton stew and gingham shirts just\nfloat down from the blue sky.\n\nLast week I dropped a new green dollar bill out of my purse, and an\neight-year-old urchin picked it up and asked if he could keep that\npicture of a bird. (American eagle in the center.) That child had never\nseen a bill in his life! I began an investigation, and discovered that\ndozens of children in this asylum have never bought anything or have\never seen anybody buy anything. And we are planning to turn them out\nat sixteen into a world governed entirely by the purchasing power of\ndollars and cents! Good heavens! just think of it! They are not to lead\nsheltered lives with somebody eternally looking after them; they have\ngot to know how to get the very most they can out of every penny they\ncan manage to earn.\n\nI pondered the question all one night, at intervals, and went to the\nvillage at nine o'clock the next morning. I held conferences with seven\nstorekeepers; found four open-minded and helpful, two doubtful, and\none actively stupid. I have started with the four--drygoods, groceries,\nshoes, and stationery. In return for somewhat large orders from us, they\nare to turn themselves and their clerks into teachers for my children,\nwho are to go to the stores, inspect the stocks, and do their own\npurchasing with real money.\n\nFor example, Jane needs a spool of blue sewing-silk and a yard of\nelastic; so two little girls, intrusted with a silver quarter, trot\nhand in hand to Mr. Meeker's. They match the silk with anxious care, and\nwatch the clerk jealously while he measures the elastic, to make sure\nthat he doesn't stretch it. Then they bring back six cents change,\nreceive my thanks and praise, and retire to the ranks tingling with a\nsense of achievement.\n\nIsn't it pathetic? Ordinary children of ten or twelve automatically know\nso many things that our little incubator chicks have never dreamed of.\nBut I have a variety of plans on foot. Just give me time, and you\nwill see. One of these days I'll be turning out some nearly normal\nyoungsters.\n\n\nLATER.\n\n\nI've an empty evening ahead, so I'll settle to some further gossip with\nyou.\n\nYou remember the peanuts that Gordon Hallock sent? Well, I was so\ngracious when I thanked him that it incited him to fresh effort. He\napparently went into a toy shop, and placed himself unreservedly in the\nhands of an enterprising clerk. Yesterday two husky expressmen deposited\nin our front hall a crate full of expensive furry animals built to be\nconsumed by the children of the rich. They are not exactly what I should\nhave purchased had I been the one to disburse such a fortune, but my\nbabies find them very huggable. The chicks are now taking to bed with\nthem lions and elephants and bears and giraffes. I don't know what the\npsychological effect will be. Do you suppose when they grow up they will\nall join the circus?\n\nOh, dear me, here is Miss Snaith, coming to pay a social call.\n\n\nGood-by.\n\nS.\n\nP.S. The prodigal has returned. He sends his respectful regards, and\nthree wags of the tail.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nApril 7. My dear Judy:\n\nI have just been reading a pamphlet on manual training for girls,\nand another on the proper diet for institutions--right proportions of\nproteins, fats, starches, etc. In these days of scientific charity, when\nevery problem has been tabulated, you can run an institution by chart.\nI don't see how Mrs. Lippett could have made all the mistakes she did,\nassuming, of course,that she knew how to read. But there is one quite\nimportant branch of institutional work that has not been touched upon,\nand I myself am gathering data. Some day I shall issue a pamphlet on the\n\"Management and Control of Trustees.\"\n\nI must tell you the joke about my enemy--not the Hon. Cy, but my first,\nmy original enemy. He has undertaken a new field of endeavor. He says\nquite soberly (everything he does is sober; he has never smiled yet)\nthat he has been watching me closely since my arrival, and though I am\nuntrained and foolish and flippant (sic), he doesn't think that I am\nreally so superficial as I at first appeared. I have an almost masculine\nability of grasping the whole of a question and going straight to the\npoint.\n\nAren't men funny? When they want to pay you the greatest compliment in\ntheir power, they naively tell you that you have a masculine mind. There\nis one compliment, incidentally, that I shall never be paying him.\nI cannot honestly say that he has a quickness of perception almost\nfeminine.\n\nSo, though Sandy quite plainly sees my faults, still, he thinks that\nsome of them may be corrected; and he has determined to carry on my\neducation from the point where the college dropped it. A person in\nmy position ought to be well read in physiology, biology, psychology,\nsociology, and eugenics; she should know the hereditary effects of\ninsanity, idiocy, and alcohol; should be able to administer the Binet\ntest; and should understand the nervous system of a frog. In pursuance\nwhereof, he has placed at my disposal his own scientific library of four\nthousand volumes. He not only fetches in the books he wants me to read,\nbut comes and asks questions to make sure I haven't skipped.\n\nWe devoted last week to the life and letters of the Jukes family.\nMargaret, the mother of criminals, six generations ago, founded a\nprolific line, and her progeny, mostly in jail, now numbers some twelve\nhundred. Moral: watch the children with a bad heredity so carefully that\nnone of them can ever have any excuse for growing up into Jukeses.\n\nSo now, as soon as we have finished our tea, Sandy and I get out\nthe Doomsday Book, and pore over its pages in an anxious search for\nalcoholic parents. It's a cheerful little game to while away the\ntwilight hour after the day's work is done.\n\nQUELLE VIE! Come home fast and take me out of it. I'm wearying for the\nsight of you.\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\n\nJ. G. H.,\n\nThursday morning. My dear Pendleton Family:\n\nI have received your letter, and I seize my pen to stop you. I don't\nwish to be relieved. I take it back. I change my mind. The person you\nare planning to send sounds like an exact twin of Miss Snaith. How can\nyou ask me to turn over my darling children to a kind, but ineffectual,\nmiddle-aged lady without any chin? The very thought of it wrings a\nmother's heart.\n\nDo you imagine that such a woman can carry on this work even\ntemporarily? No! The manager of an institution like this has got to be\nyoung and husky and energetic and forceful and efficient and red-haired\nand sweet-tempered, like me. Of course I've been discontented,--anybody\nwould be with things in such a mess,--but it's what you socialists call\na holy discontent. And do you think that I am going to abandon all of\nthe beautiful reforms I have so painstakingly started? No! I am not\nto be moved from this spot until you find a superintendent superior to\nSallie McBride.\n\nThat does not mean, though, that I am mortgaging myself forever. Just\nfor the present, until things get on their feet. While the face washing,\nairing, reconstructing period lasts, I honestly believe you chose the\nright person when you hit upon me. I LOVE to plan improvements and order\npeople about.\n\nThis is an awfully messy letter, but I'm dashing it off in three minutes\nin order to catch you before you definitely engage that pleasant,\ninefficient middle-aged person without a chin.\n\nPlease, kind lady and gentleman, don't do me out of me job! Let me stay\na few months longer. Just gimme a chance to show what I'm good for, and\nI promise you won't never regret it.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nJ. G. H.,\n\nThursday afternoon.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nI've composed a poem--a paean of victory.\n\nRobin MacRae Smiled today.\n\nIt's the truth! S. McB.\n\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nApril 13.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nI am gratified to learn that you were gratified to learn that I am going\nto stay. I hadn't realized it, but I am really getting sort of attached\nto orphans.\n\nIt's an awful disappointment that Jervis has business which will keep\nyou South so much longer. I am bursting with talk, and it is such a\nlaborious nuisance having to write everything I want to say.\n\nOf course I am glad that we are to have the building remodeled, and I\nthink all of your ideas good, but I have a few extra good ones myself.\nIt will be nice to have the new gymnasium and sleeping-porches, but,\noh, my soul does long for cottages! The more I look into the internal\nworkings of an orphan asylum, the more I realize that the only type\nof asylum that can compete with a private family is one on the cottage\nsystem. So long as the family is the unit of society, children should be\nhardened early to family life.\n\nThe problem that is keeping me awake at present is, What to do with the\nchildren while we are being made over? It is hard to live in a house and\nbuild it at the same time. How would it be if I rented a circus tent and\npitched it on the lawn?\n\nAlso, when we plunge into our alterations, I want a few guest rooms\nwhere our children can come back when ill or out of work. The great\nsecret of our lasting influence in their lives will be our watchful care\nafterward. What a terrible ALONE feeling it must give a person not to\nhave a family hovering in the background! With all my dozens of aunts\nand uncles and mothers and fathers and cousins and brothers and sisters,\nI can't visualize it. I'd be terrified and panting if I didn't have lots\nof cover to run to. And for these forlorn little mites, somehow or other\nthe John Grier Home must supply their need. So, dear people, send me\nhalf a dozen guest rooms, if you please.\n\nGood-by, and I'm glad you didn't put in the other woman. The very\nsuggestion of somebody else taking over my own beautiful reforms before\nthey were even started, stirred up all the opposition in me. I'm afraid\nI'm like Sandy--I canna think aught is dune richt except my ain hand is\nin 't.\n\nYours, for the present,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nSunday.\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nI know that I haven't written lately; you have a perfect right to\ngrumble, but oh dear! oh dear! you can't imagine what a busy person an\norphan asylum superintendent is. And all the writing energy I possess\nhas to be expended upon that voracious Judy Abbott Pendleton. If three\ndays go by without a letter she telegraphs to know if the asylum has\nburned; whereas, if you--nice man--go letterless, you simply send us a\npresent to remind us of your existence. So, you see, it's distinctly to\nour advantage to slight you often.\n\nYou will probably be annoyed when I tell you that I have promised to\nstay on here. They finally did find a woman to take my place, but she\nwasn't at all the right type and would have answered only temporarily.\nAnd, my dear Gordon, it's true, when I faced saying good-by to this\nfeverish planning and activity, Worcester somehow looked rather\ncolorless. I couldn't bear to let my asylum go unless I was sure of\nsubstituting a life packed equally full of sensation.\n\nI know the alternative you will suggest, but please don't--just now. I\ntold you before that I must have a few months longer to make up my mind.\nAnd in the meantime I like the feeling that I'm of use in the world.\nThere's something constructive and optimistic about working with\nchildren; that is, if you look at it from my cheerful point of view,\nand not from our Scotch doctor's. I've never seen anybody like that man;\nhe's always pessimistic and morbid and down. It's best not to be too\nintelligent about insanity and dipsomania and all the other hereditary\ndetails. I am just about ignorant enough to be light-hearted and\neffective in a place like this.\n\nThe thought of all of these little lives expanding in every direction\neternally thrills me. There are so many possibilities in our\nchild garden for every kind of flower. It has been planted rather\npromiscuously, to be sure, but though we undoubtedly shall gather\na number of weeds, we are also hoping for some rare and beautiful\nblossoms. Am I not growing sentimental? It is due to hunger--and there\ngoes the dinner-gong! We are going to have a delicious meal: roast beef\nand creamed carrots and beet greens, with rhubarb pie for dessert. Would\nyou not like to dine with me? I should love to have you.\n\nMost cordially yours,\n\nS. McB.\n\nP.S. You should see the number of poor homeless cats that these children\nwant to adopt. We had four when I came, and they have all had kittens\nsince. I haven't taken an exact census, but I think the institution\npossesses nineteen.\n\n\nApril 15. My dear Judy:\n\nYou'd like to make another slight donation to the J. G. H. out of\nthe excess of last month's allowance? BENE! Will you kindly have the\nfollowing inserted in all low-class metropolitan dailies:\n\n                Notice!\n     To Parents Planning to Abandon their Children:\n     Please do it before they have reached their third year.\n\n\nI can't think of any action on the part of abandoning parents that would\nhelp us more effectually. This having to root up evil before you begin\nplanting good is slow, discouraging work.\n\nWe have one child here who has almost floored me; but I WILL NOT\nacknowledge myself beaten by a child of five. He alternates between\nsullen moroseness, when he won't speak a word, and the most violent\noutbursts of temper, when he smashes everything within reach. He has\nbeen here only three months, and in that time he has destroyed nearly\nevery piece of bric-a-brac in the institution--not, by the way, a great\nloss to art.\n\nA month or so before I came he pulled the tablecloth from the officers'\ntable while the girl in charge was in the corridor sounding the gong.\nThe soup had already been served. You can imagine the mess! Mrs. Lippett\nhalf killed the child on that occasion, but the killing did nothing to\nlessen the temper, which was handed on to me intact.\n\nHis father was Italian and his mother Irish; he has red hair and\nfreckles from County Cork and the most beautiful brown eyes that ever\ncame out of Naples. After the father was stabbed in a fight and the\nmother had died of alcoholism, the poor little chap by some chance or\nother got to us. I suspect that he belongs in the Catholic Protectory.\nAs for his manners--oh dear! oh dear! They are what you would expect. He\nkicks and bites and swears. I have dubbed him Punch.\n\nYesterday he was brought squirming and howling to my office, charged\nwith having knocked down a little girl and robbed her of her doll. Miss\nSnaith plumped him into a chair behind me, and left him to grow quiet,\nwhile I went on with my writing. I was suddenly startled by an awful\ncrash. He had pushed that big green jardiniere off the window-sill and\nbroken it into five hundred pieces. I jumped with a suddenness that\nswept the ink-bottle to the floor, and when Punch saw that second\ncatastrophe, he stopped roaring with rage and threw back his head and\nroared with laughter. The child is DIABOLICAL.\n\nI have determined to try a new method of discipline that I don't believe\nin the whole of his forlorn little life he has ever experienced. I am\ngoing to see what praise and encouragement and love will do. So, instead\nof scolding him about the jardiniere, I assumed that it was an accident.\nI kissed him and told him not to feel bad; that I didn't mind in the\nleast. It shocked him into being quiet; he simply held his breath and\nstared while I wiped away his tears and sopped up the ink.\n\nThe child just now is the biggest problem that the J. G. H. affords.\nHe needs the most patient, loving, individual care--a proper mother\nand father, likewise some brothers and sisters and a grandmother. But I\ncan't place him in a respectable family until I make over his language\nand his propensity to break things. I separated him from the other\nchildren, and kept him in my room all the morning, Jane having removed\nto safe heights all destructible OBJETS D'ART. Fortunately, he loves\nto draw, and he sat on a rug for two hours, and occupied himself with\ncolored pencils. He was so surprised when I showed an interest in a\nred-and-green ferryboat, with a yellow flag floating from the mast, that\nhe became quite profanely affable. Until then I couldn't get a word out\nof him.\n\nIn the afternoon Dr. MacRae dropped in and admired the ferryboat, while\nPunch swelled with the pride of creation. Then, as a reward for being\nsuch a good little boy, the doctor took him out in his automobile on a\nvisit to a country patient.\n\nPunch was restored to the fold at five o'clock by a sadder and wiser\ndoctor. At a sedate country estate he had stoned the chickens, smashed\na cold frame, and swung the pet Angora cat by its tail. Then when the\nsweet old lady tried to make him be kind to poor pussy, he told her to\ngo to hell.\n\nI can't bear to consider what some of these children have seen and\nexperienced. It will take years of sunshine and happiness and love to\neradicate the dreadful memories that they have stored up in the far-back\ncorners of their little brains. And there are so many children and so\nfew of us that we can't hug them enough; we simply haven't arms or laps\nto go around.\n\nMAIS PARLONS D'AUTRES CHOSES! Those awful questions of heredity and\nenvironment that the doctor broods over so constantly are getting into\nmy blood, too; and it's a vicious habit. If a person is to be of any\nuse in a place like this, she must see nothing but good in the world.\nOptimism is the only wear for a social worker.\n\n\"'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock\"--do you know where that\nbeautiful line of poetry comes from? \"Cristabel,\" of English K. Mercy!\nhow I hated that course! You, being an English shark, liked it; but\nI never understood a word that was said from the time I entered the\nclassroom till I left it. However, the remark with which I opened this\nparagraph is true. It IS the middle of night by the mantelpiece clock,\nso I'll wish you pleasant dreams. ADDIO!\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nTuesday.\n\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nYou doctored the whole house, then stalked past my library with your\nnose in the air, while I was waiting tea with a plate of Scotch scones\nsitting on the trivet, ordered expressly for you as a peace-offering.\n\nIf you are really hurt, I will read the Kallikak book; but I must tell\nyou that you are working me to death. It takes almost all of my energy\nto be an effective superintendent, and this university extension course\nthat you are conducting I find wearing. You remember how indignant you\nwere one day last week because I confessed to having stayed up until one\no'clock the night before? Well, my dear man, if I were to accomplish all\nthe vicarious reading you require, I should sit up until morning every\nnight.\n\nHowever, bring it in. I usually manage half an hour of recreation after\ndinner, and though I had wanted to glance at Wells's latest novel, I\nwill amuse myself instead with your feeble-minded family.\n\nLife of late is unco steep. Obligingly yours,\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nApril 17.\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nThank you for the tulips, likewise the lilies of the valley. They are\nmost becoming to my blue Persian bowls.\n\nHave you ever heard of the Kallikaks? Get the book and read them up.\nThey are a two-branch family in New Jersey, I think, though their\nreal name and origin is artfully concealed. But, anyway,--and this is\ntrue,--six generations ago a young gentleman, called for convenience\nMartin Kallikak, got drunk one night and temporarily eloped with a\nfeeble-minded barmaid, thus founding a long line of feeble-minded\nKallikaks,--drunkards, gamblers, prostitutes, horse thieves,--a scourge\nto New Jersey and surrounding States.\n\nMartin later straightened up, married a normal woman, and founded a\nsecond line of proper Kallikaks,--judges, doctors, farmers, professors,\npoliticians,--a credit to their country. And there the two branches\nstill are, flourishing side by side. You can see what a blessing it\nwould have been to New Jersey if something drastic had happened to that\nfeeble-minded barmaid in her infancy.\n\nIt seems that feeblemindedness is a very hereditary quality, and\nscience isn't able to overcome it. No operation has been discovered for\nintroducing brains into the head of a child who didn't start with them.\nAnd the child grows up with, say, a nine-year brain in a thirty-year\nbody, and becomes an easy tool for any criminal he meets. Our prisons\nare one-third full of feeble-minded convicts. Society ought to segregate\nthem on feeble-minded farms, where they can earn their livings in\npeaceful menial pursuits, and not have children. Then in a generation or\nso we might be able to wipe them out.\n\nDid you know all that? It's very necessary information for a politician\nto have. Get the book and read it, please; I'd send my copy only that\nit's borrowed.\n\nIt's also very necessary information for me to have. There are eleven of\nthese chicks that I suspect a bit, and I am SURE of Loretta Higgins. I\nhave been trying for a month to introduce one or two basic ideas into\nthat child's brain, and now I know what the trouble is: her head is\nfilled with a sort of soft cheesy substance instead of brain.\n\nI came up here to make over this asylum in such little details as fresh\nair and food and clothes and sunshine, but, heavens! you can see what\nproblems I am facing. I've got to make over society first, so that it\nwon't send me sub-normal children to work with. Excuse all this\nexcited conversation; but I've just met up with the subject of\nfeeble-mindedness, and it's appalling--and interesting. It is your\nbusiness as a legislator to make laws that will remove it from the\nworld. Please attend to this immediately, And oblige,\n\nS. McBRIDE,\n\nSup't John Grier Home.\n\n\nFriday.\n\nDear Man of Science:\n\nYou didn't come today. Please don't skip us tomorrow. I have finished\nthe Kallikak family and I am bursting with talk. Don't you think we\nought to have a psychologist examine these children?\n\nWe owe it to adopting parents not to saddle them with feeble-minded\noffspring.\n\nYou know, I'm tempted to ask you to prescribe arsenic for Loretta's\ncold. I've diagnosed her case; she's a Kallikak. Is it right to let her\ngrow up and found a line of 378 feeble-minded people for society to care\nfor? Oh dear! I do hate to poison the child, but what can I do?\n\nS. McB.\n\n\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nYou aren't interested in feeble-minded people, and you are shocked\nbecause I am? Well, I am equally shocked because you are not. If you\naren't interested in everything of the sort that there unfortunately is\nin this world, how can you make wise laws?\n\nYou can't.\n\nHowever, at your request, I will converse upon a less morbid subject.\nI've just bought fifty yards of blue and rose and green and corn-colored\nhair-ribbon as an Easter present for my fifty little daughters. I am\nalso thinking of sending you an Easter present. How would a nice fluffy\nlittle kitten please you? I can offer any of the following patterns:--\n\n\nNumber 3 comes in any color, gray, black, or yellow. If you will let me\nknow which you would rather have, I will express it at once.\n\nI would write a respectable letter, but it's teatime, and I see that a\nguest approaches.\n\nADDIO!\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. Don't you know some one who would like to adopt a desirable baby\nboy with seventeen nice new teeth?\n\n\nApril 20. My dear Judy:\n\nOne a penny, two a penny, hot cross buns! We've had a Good Friday\npresent of ten dozen, given by Mrs. De Peyster Lambert, a high church,\nstained-glass-window soul whom I met at a tea a few days ago. (Who\nsays now that teas are a silly waste of time?) She asked me about my\n\"precious little waifs,\" and said I was doing a noble work and would be\nrewarded. I saw buns in her eye, and sat down and talked to her for half\nan hour.\n\nNow I shall go and thank her in person, and tell her with a great deal\nof affecting detail how much those buns were appreciated by my precious\nlittle waifs--omitting the account of how precious little Punch threw\nhis bun at Miss Snaith and plastered her neatly in the eye. I think,\nwith encouragement, Mrs. De Peyster Lambert can be developed into a\ncheerful giver.\n\nOh, I'm growing into the most shocking beggar! My family don't dare\nto visit me, because I demand BAKSHISH in such a brazen manner. I\nthreatened to remove father from my calling list unless he shipped\nimmediately sixty-five pairs of overalls for my prospective gardeners.\nA notice from the freight office this morning asks me to remove two\npacking cases consigned to them by the J. L. McBride Co. of Worcester;\nso I take it that father desires to continue my acquaintance. Jimmie\nhasn't sent us anything yet, and he's getting a huge salary. I write him\nfrequently a pathetic list of our needs.\n\nBut Gordon Hallock has learned the way to a mother's heart. I was so\npleasant about the peanuts and menagerie that now he sends a present of\nsome sort every few days, and I spend my entire time composing thank-you\nletters that aren't exact copies of the ones I've sent before. Last week\nwe received a dozen big scarlet balls. The nursery is FULL of them;\nyou kick them before you as you walk. And yesterday there arrived a\nhalf-bushel of frogs and ducks and fishes to float in the bathtubs.\n\nSend, O best of trustees, the tubs in which to float them!\n\nI am, as usual,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nTuesday. My dear Judy:\n\nSpring must be lurking about somewhere; the birds are arriving from the\nSouth. Isn't it time you followed their example?\n\nSociety note from the BIRD O' PASSAGE NEWS:\n\n\"Mr. and Mrs. First Robin have returned from a trip to Florida. It is\nhoped that Mr. and Mrs. Jervis Pendleton will arrive shortly.\"\n\nEven up here in our dilatory Dutchess County the breeze smells green.\nIt makes you want to be out and away, roaming the hills, or else down on\nyour knees grubbing in the dirt. Isn't it funny what farmering instincts\nthe budding spring awakens in even the most urban souls?\n\nI have spent the morning making plans for little private gardens for\nevery child over nine. The big potato field is doomed. That is the only\nfeasible spot for sixty-two private gardens. It is near enough to be\nwatched from the north windows, and yet far enough away, so that their\nmessing will not injure our highly prized landscape lawn. Also the earth\nis rich, and they have some chance of success. I don't want the poor\nlittle chicks to scratch all summer, and then not turn up any treasure\nin the end. In order to furnish an incentive, I shall announce that\nthe institution will buy their produce and pay in real money, though I\nforesee we shall be buried under a mountain of radishes.\n\nI do so want to develop self-reliance and initiative in these children,\ntwo sturdy qualities in which they are conspicuously lacking (with the\nexception of Sadie Kate and a few other bad ones). Children who have\nspirit enough to be bad I consider very hopeful. It's those who are good\njust from inertia that are discouraging.\n\nThe last few days have been spent mainly in charming the devil out of\nPunch, an interesting task if I could devote my whole time to it.\nBut with one hundred and seven other little devils to charm away, my\nattention is sorely deflected.\n\nThe awful thing about this life is that whatever I am doing, the other\nthings that I am not doing, but ought to be, keep tugging at my skirts.\nThere is no doubt but Punch's personal devil needs the whole attention\nof a whole person,--preferably two persons,--so that they could spell\neach other and get some rest.\n\nSadie Kate has just flown in from the nursery with news of a scarlet\ngoldfish (Gordon's gift) swallowed by one of our babies. Mercy! the\nnumber of calamities that can occur in an orphan asylum!\n\n9 P.M.\n\n\nMy children are in bed, and I've just had a thought. Wouldn't it be\nheavenly if the hibernating system prevailed among the human young?\nThere would be some pleasure in running an asylum if one could just tuck\nthe little darlings into bed the first of October and keep them there\nuntil the twenty-second of April.\n\nI'm yours, as ever,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\n\nApril 24.\n\nDear Jervis Pendleton, Esq.:\n\nThis is to supplement a night telegram which I sent you ten minutes\nago. Fifty words not being enough to convey any idea of my emotions, I\nherewith add a thousand.\n\nAs you will know by the time you receive this, I have discharged the\nfarmer, and he has refused to be discharged. Being twice the size of me,\nI can't lug him to the gate and chuck him out. He wants a notification\nfrom the president of the board of trustees written in vigorous language\non official paper in typewriting. So, dear president of the board of\ntrustees, kindly supply all of this at your earliest convenience.\n\nHere follows the history of the case:\n\nThe winter season still being with us when I arrived and farming\nactivities at a low ebb, I have heretofore paid little attention to\nRobert Sterry except to note on two occasions that his pigpens needed\ncleaning; but today I sent for him to come and consult with me in regard\nto spring planting.\n\nSterry came, as requested, and seated himself at ease in my office with\nhis hat upon his head. I suggested as tactfully as might be that he\nremove it, an entirely necessary request, as little orphan boys were\nin and out on errands, and \"hats off in the house\" is our first rule in\nmasculine deportment.\n\nSterry complied with my request, and stiffened himself to be against\nwhatever I might desire.\n\nI proceeded to the subject in hand, namely, that the diet of the\nJohn Grier Home in the year to come is to consist less exclusively of\npotatoes. At which our farmer grunted in the manner of the Hon. Cyrus\nWykoff, only it was a less ethereal and gentlemanly grunt than a trustee\npermits himself. I enumerated corn and beans and onions and peas and\ntomatoes and beets and carrots and turnips as desirable substitutes.\n\nSterry observed that if potatoes and cabbages was good enough for him,\nhe guessed they was good enough for charity children.\n\nI proceeded imperturbably to say that the two-acre potato field was to\nbe plowed and fertilized, and laid out into sixty individual gardens,\nthe boys assisting in the work.\n\nAt that Sterry exploded. The two-acre field was the most fertile and\nvaluable piece of earth on the whole place. He guessed if I was to break\nthat up into play gardens for the children to mess about in, I'd be\nhearing about it pretty danged quick from the board of trustees. That\nfield was fitted for potatoes, it had always raised potatoes, and it was\ngoing to continue to raise them just as long as he had anything to say\nabout it.\n\n\"You have nothing whatever to say about it,\" I amiably replied. \"I\nhave decided that the two-acre field is the best plot to use for the\nchildren's gardens, and you and the potatoes will have to give way.\"\n\nWhereupon he rose in a storm of bucolic wrath, and said he'd be gol\ndarned if he'd have a lot of these danged city brats interfering with\nhis work.\n\nI explained--very calmly for a red-haired person with Irish\nforebears--that this place was run for the exclusive benefit of these\nchildren; that the children were not here to be exploited for the\nbenefit of the place, a philosophy which he did not grasp, though my\nfancy city language had a slightly dampening effect. I added that what\nI required in a farmer was the ability and patience to instruct the\nboys in gardening and simple outdoor work; that I wished a man of\nlarge sympathies whose example would be an inspiring influence to these\nchildren of the city streets.\n\nSterry, pacing about like a caged woodchuck, launched into a tirade\nabout silly Sunday-school notions, and, by a transition which I did not\ngrasp, passed to a review of the general subject of woman's suffrage.\nI gathered that he is not in favor of the movement. I let him argue\nhimself quiet, then I handed him a check for his wages, and told him to\nvacate the tenant house by twelve o'clock next Wednesday.\n\nSterry says he'll be danged if he will. (Excuse so many DANGEDS. It\nis the creature's only adjective.) He was engaged to work for this\ninstitution by the president of the board of trustees, and he will not\nmove from that house until the president of the board of trustees tells\nhim to go. I don't think poor Sterry realizes that since his arrival a\nnew president has come to the throne.\n\nALORS you have the story. I make no threats, but Sterry or McBride--take\nyour choice, dear sir.\n\nI am also about to write to the head of the Massachusetts Agricultural\nCollege, at Amherst, asking him to recommend a good, practical man with\na nice, efficient, cheerful wife, who will take the entire care of our\nmodest domain of seventeen acres, and who will be a man with the right\npersonality to place over our boys.\n\nIf we get the farming end of this institution into running shape, it\nought to furnish not only beans and onions for the table, but education\nfor our hands and brains.\n\n\nI remain, sir, Yours most truly, S. McBRIDE, Superintendent of the John\nGrier Home.\n\nP.S. I think that Sterry will probably come back some night and throw\nrocks through the windows. Shall I have them insured?\n\n\n\nMy dear Enemy:\n\nYou disappeared so quickly this afternoon that I had no chance to thank\nyou, but the echoes of that discharge penetrated as far as my library.\nAlso, I have viewed the debris. What on earth did you do to poor Sterry?\nWatching the purposeful set of your shoulders as you strode toward the\ncarriage house, I was filled with sudden compunction. I did not want the\nman murdered, merely reasoned with. I am afraid you were a little harsh.\n\nHowever, your technic seems to have been effective. Report says that he\nhas telephoned for a moving wagon and that Mrs. Sterry is even now on\nher hands and knees ripping up the parlor carpet.\n\nFor this relief much thanks.\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\n\n\nApril 26.\n\nDear Jervis:\n\nYour vigorous telegram was, after all, not needed. Dr. Robin MacRae, who\nis a grand PAWKY mon when it comes to a fight, accomplished the business\nwith beautiful directness. I was so bubbling with rage that immediately\nafter writing to you I called up the doctor on the telephone, and\nrehearsed the whole business over again. Now, our Sandy, whatever his\nfailings (and he has them), does have an uncommon supply of common\nsense. He knows how useful those gardens are going to be, and how worse\nthan useless Sterry was. Also says he, \"The superintendent's authority\nmust be upheld.\" (That, incidentally, is beautiful, coming from him.)\nBut anyway, those were his words. And he hung up the receiver, cranked\nup his car, and flew up here at lawless speed. He marched straight to\nSterry, impelled by a fine Scotch rage, and he discharged the man with\nsuch vigor and precision, that the carriage house window was shattered\nto fragments.\n\nSince this morning at eleven, when Sterry's wagonload of furniture\nrumbled out of the gates, a sweet peace has reigned over the J. G. H.\nA man from the village is helping us out while we hopefully await the\nfarmer of our dreams.\n\nI am sorry to have troubled you with our troubles. Tell Judy that she\nowes me a letter, and won't hear from me until she has paid it. Your ob'd't\nservant,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nDear Judy:\n\nIn my letter of yesterday to Jervis I forgotted (Punch's word) to convey\nto you our thanks for three tin bathtubs. The skyblue tub with poppies\non the side adds a particularly bright note to the nursery. I do love\npresents for the babies that are too big to be swallowed.\n\nYou will be pleased to hear that our manual training is well under way.\nThe carpenter benches are being installed in the old primary room,\nand until our schoolhouse gets its new addition, our primary class\nis meeting on the front porch, in accordance with Miss Matthew's able\nsuggestion.\n\nThe girls' sewing classes are also in progress. A circle of benches\nunder the copper beech tree accommodates the hand sewers, while the big\ngirls take turns at our three machines. Just as soon as they gain\nsome proficiency we will begin the glorious work of redressing the\ninstitution. I know you think I'm slow, but it's really a task to\naccomplish one hundred and eighty new frocks. And the girls will\nappreciate them so much more if they do the work themselves.\n\nI may also report that our hygiene system has risen to a high level. Dr.\nMacRae has introduced morning and evening exercises, and a glass of milk\nand a game of tag in the middle of school hours. He has instituted a\nphysiology class, and has separated the children into small groups, so\nthat they may come to his house, where he has a manikin that comes apart\nand shows all its messy insides. They can now rattle off scientific\ntruths about their little digestions as fluently as Mother Goose rhymes.\nWe are really becoming too intelligent for recognition. You would never\nguess that we were orphans to hear us talk; we are quite like Boston\nchildren.\n\n2 P.M.\n\n\nO Judy, such a calamity! Do you remember several weeks ago I told you\nabout placing out a nice little girl in a nice family home where I\nhoped she would be adopted? It was a kind Christian family living in\na pleasant country village, the foster-father a deacon in the church.\nHattie was a sweet, obedient, housewifely little body, and it looked\nas though we had exactly fitted them to each other. My dear, she was\nreturned this morning for STEALING. Scandal piled on scandal: SHE HAD\nSTOLEN A COMMUNION CUP FROM CHURCH!\n\nBetween her sobs and their accusations it took me half an hour to gather\nthe truth. It seems that the church they attend is very modern and\nhygienic, like our doctor, and has introduced individual communion cups.\nPoor little Hattie had never heard of communion in her life. In fact,\nshe wasn't very used to church, Sunday-school having always sufficed for\nher simple religious needs. But in her new home she attended both, and\none day, to her pleased surprise, they served refreshments. But they\nskipped her. She made no comment, however; she is used to being skipped.\n\nBut as they were starting home she saw that the little silver cup had\nbeen casually left in the seat, and supposing that it was a souvenir\nthat you could take if you wished, she put it into her pocket.\n\nIt came to light two days later as the most treasured ornament of her\ndoll's-house. It seems that Hattie long ago saw a set of doll's dishes\nin a toy shop window, and has ever since dreamed of possessing a set of\nher own. The communion cup was not quite the same, but it answered.\nNow, if our family had only had a little less religion and a little more\nsense, they would have returned the cup, perfectly unharmed, and have\nmarched Hattie to the nearest toy shop and bought her some dishes. But\ninstead, they bundled the child and her belongings into the first train\nthey could catch, and shoved her in at our front door, proclaiming\nloudly that she was a thief.\n\nI am pleased to say that I gave that indignant deacon and his wife such\na thorough scolding as I am sure they have never listened to from the\npulpit. I borrowed some vigorous bits from Sandy's vocabulary, and sent\nthem home quite humbled. As for poor little Hattie, here she is back\nagain, after going out with such high hopes. It has an awfully bad moral\neffect on a child to be returned to the asylum in disgrace, especially\nwhen she wasn't aware of committing a crime. It gives her a feeling that\nthe world is full of unknown pitfalls, and makes her afraid to take\na step. I must bend all my energies now toward finding another set of\nparents for her, and ones that haven't grown so old and settled and good\nthat they have entirely forgotten their own childhood.\n\nSunday.\n\n\nI forgot to tell you that our new farmer is here, Turnfelt by name; and\nhis wife is a love, yellow hair and dimples. If she were an orphan,\nI could place her in a minute. We can't let her go to waste. I have\na beautiful plan of building an addition to the farmer's cottage, and\nestablishing under her comfortable care a sort of brooding-house where\nwe can place our new little chicks, to make sure they haven't anything\ncontagious and to eliminate as much profanity as possible before turning\nthem loose among our other perfect chicks.\n\nHow does that strike you? It is very necessary in an institution as full\nof noise and movement and stir as this to have some isolated spot where\nwe can put cases needing individual attention. Some of our children\nhave inherited nerves, and a period of quiet contemplation is indicated.\nIsn't my vocabulary professional and scientific? Daily intercourse with\nDr. Robin MacRae is extremely educational.\n\nSince Turnfelt came, you should see our pigs. They are so clean and pink\nand unnatural that they don't recognize one another any more as they\npass.\n\nOur potato field is also unrecognizable. It has been divided with string\nand pegs into as many squares as a checker-board, and every child has\nstaked out a claim. Seed catalogues form our only reading matter.\n\nNoah has just returned from a trip to the village for the Sunday papers\nto amuse his leisure. Noah is a very cultivated person; he not only\nreads perfectly, but he wears tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles while he\ndoes it. He also brought from the post office a letter from you, written\nFriday night. I am pained to note that you do not care for \"Gosta\nBerling\" and that Jervis doesn't. The only comment I can make is, \"What\na shocking lack of literary taste in the Pendleton family!\"\n\nDr. MacRae has another doctor visiting him, a very melancholy gentleman\nwho is at the head of a private psychopathic institution, and thinks\nthere's no good in life. But I suppose this pessimistic view is natural\nif you eat three meals a day with a tableful of melancholics. He goes\nup and down the world looking for signs of degeneracy, and finds them\neverywhere. I expected, after half an hour's conversation, that he would\nask to look down my throat to see if I had a cleft palate. Sandy's taste\nin friends seems to resemble his taste in literature. Gracious! this is\na letter!\n\nGood-by.\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nThursday, May 2.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nSuch a bewildering whirl of events! The J. G. H. is breathless.\nIncidentally, I am on the way toward solving my problem of what to do\nwith the children while the carpenters and plumbers and masons are here.\nOr, rather, my precious brother has solved it for me.\n\nThis afternoon I went over my linen supply, and made the shocking\ndiscovery that we have only sheets enough to change the children's beds\nevery two weeks, which, it appears, is our shiftless custom. While I\nwas still in the midst of my household gear, with a bunch of keys at my\ngirdle, looking like the chatelaine of a medieval chateau, who should be\nushered in but Jimmie?\n\nBeing extremely occupied, I dropped a slanting kiss on his nose, and\nsent him off to look over the place in charge of my two oldest urchins.\nThey collected six friends and organized a baseball game. Jimmie came\nback blown, but enthusiastic, and consented to prolong his visit over\nthe week end, though after the dinner I gave him he has decided to take\nhis future meals at the hotel. As we sat with our coffee before the\nfire, I confided to him my anxiety as to what should be done with the\nchicks while their new brooder is building. You know Jimmie. In one half\na minute his plan was formulated.\n\n\"Build an Adirondack camp on that little plateau up by the wood lot.\nYou can make three open shacks, each holding eight bunks, and move the\ntwenty-four oldest boys out there for the summer. It won't cost two\ncents.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I objected, \"but it will cost more than two cents to engage a man\nto look after them.\"\n\n\"Perfectly easy,\" said Jimmie, grandly. \"I'll find you a college fellow\nwho'll be glad to come during the vacation for his board and a mere\npittance, only you'll have to set up more filling board than you gave me\ntonight.\"\n\nDr. MacRae dropped in about nine o'clock, after visiting the hospital\nward. We've got three cases of whooping cough, but all isolated, and no\nmore coming. How those three got in is a mystery. It seems there is a\nlittle bird that brings whooping cough to orphan asylums.\n\nJimmie fell upon him for backing in his camp scheme, and the doctor gave\nit enthusiastically. They seized pencil and paper and drew up plans. And\nbefore the evening was over, the last nail was hammered. Nothing would\nsatisfy those two men but to go to the telephone at ten o'clock and\nrouse a poor carpenter from his sleep. He and some lumber are ordered\nfor eight in the morning.\n\nI finally got rid of them at ten-thirty, still talking uprights and\njoists and drainage and roof slants.\n\nThe excitement of Jimmie and coffee and all these building operations\ninduced me to sit down immediately and write a letter to you; but I\nthink, by your leave, I'll postpone further details to another time.\nYours ever,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nSaturday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nWill you be after dining with us at seven tonight? It's a real dinner\nparty; we're going to have ice-cream.\n\nMy brother has discovered a promising young man to take charge of the\nboys,--maybe you know him,--Mr. Witherspoon, at the bank. I wish to\nintroduce him to asylum circles by easy steps, so PLEASE don't mention\ninsanity or epilepsy or alcoholism or any of your other favorite topics.\n\nHe is a gay young society leader, used to very fancy things to eat. Do\nyou suppose we can ever make him happy at the John Grier Home? Yours in\nevident haste,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\n\nSunday.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nJimmie was back at eight Friday morning, and the doctor at a quarter\npast. They and the carpenter and our new farmer and Noah and our two\nhorses and our eight biggest boys have been working ever since. Never\nwere building operations set going in faster time. I wish I had a dozen\nJimmies on the place, though I will say that my brother works faster\nif you catch him before the first edge of his enthusiasm wears away. He\nwould not be much good at chiseling out a medieval cathedral.\n\nHe came back Saturday morning aglow with a new idea. He had met at\nthe hotel the night before a friend who belongs to his hunting club in\nCanada, and who is cashier of our First (and only) National Bank.\n\n\"He's a bully good sport,\" said Jimmie, \"and exactly the man you want\nto camp out with those kids and lick 'em into shape. He'll be willing to\ncome for his board and forty dollars a month, because he's engaged to a\ngirl in Detroit and wants to save. I told him the food was rotten, but\nif he kicked enough, you'd probably get a new cook.\"\n\n\"What's his name?\" said I, with guarded interest.\n\n\"He's got a peach of a name. It's Percy de Forest Witherspoon.\"\n\nI nearly had hysterics. Imagine a Percy de Forest Witherspoon in charge\nof those twenty-four wild little savages!\n\nBut you know Jimmie when he has an idea. He had already invited Mr.\nWitherspoon to dine with me on Saturday evening, and had ordered oysters\nand squabs and ice-cream from the village caterer to help out my veal.\nIt ended by my giving a very formal dinner party, with Miss Matthews and\nBetsy and the doctor included.\n\nI almost asked the Hon. Cy and Miss Snaith. Ever since I have known\nthose two, I have felt that there ought to be a romance between them.\nNever have I known two people who matched so perfectly. He's a widower\nwith five children. Don't you suppose it might be arranged? If he had\na wife to take up his attention, it might deflect him a little from us.\nI'd be getting rid of them both at one stroke. It's to be considered\namong our future improvements.\n\nAnyway, we had our dinner. And during the course of the evening my\nanxiety grew, not as to whether Percy would do for us, but as to whether\nwe should do for Percy. If I searched the world over, I never could\nfind a young man more calculated to win the affection of those boys.\nYou know, just by looking at him, that he does everything well, at least\neverything vigorous. His literary and artistic accomplishments I suspect\na bit, but he rides and shoots and plays golf and football and sails a\nboat. He likes to sleep out of doors and he likes boys. He has always\nwanted to know some orphans; often read about 'em in books, he says, but\nnever met any face to face. Percy does seem too good to be true.\n\nBefore they left, Jimmie and the doctor hunted up a lantern, and in\ntheir evening clothes conducted Mr. Witherspoon across a plowed field to\ninspect his future dwelling.\n\nAnd such a Sunday as we passed! I had absolutely to forbid their\ncarpentering. Those men would have put in a full day, quite irrespective\nof the damage done to one hundred and four little moral natures. As it\nis, they have just stood and looked at those shacks and handled their\nhammers, and thought about where they would drive the first nail\ntomorrow morning. The more I study men, the more I realize that they are\nnothing in the world but boys grown too big to be spankable.\n\nI am awfully worried as to how to feed Mr. Witherspoon. He looks as\nthough he had a frightfully healthy appetite, and he looks as though he\ncouldn't swallow his dinner unless he had on evening clothes. I've made\nBetsy send home for a trunkful of evening gowns in order to keep up our\nsocial standing. One thing is fortunate: he takes his luncheon at the\nhotel, and I hear their luncheons are very filling.\n\nTell Jervis I am sorry he is not with us to drive a nail for the camp.\nHere comes the Hon. Cy up the path. Heaven save us!\n\nEver your unfortunate,\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nMay 8.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nOur camp is finished, our energetic brother has gone, and our\ntwenty-four boys have passed two healthful nights in the open. The three\nbark-covered shacks add a pleasant rustic touch to the grounds. They are\nlike those we used to have in the Adirondacks, closed on three sides\nand open in the front, and one larger than the rest to allow a private\npavilion for Mr. Percy Witherspoon. An adjacent hut, less exposed to the\nweather, affords extremely adequate bathing facilities, consisting of a\nfaucet in the wall and three watering-cans. Each camp has a bath master\nwho stands on a stool and sprinkles each little shiverer as he trots\nunder. Since our trustees WON'T give us enough bathtubs, we have to use\nour wits.\n\nThe three camps have organized into three tribes of Indians, each with\na chief of its own to answer for its conduct, Mr. Witherspoon high chief\nof all, and Dr. MacRae the medicine man. They dedicated their lodges\nTuesday evening with appropriate tribal ceremonies. And though they\npolitely invited me to attend, I decided that it was a purely masculine\naffair, so I declined to go, but sent refreshments, a very popular move.\nBetsy and I walked as far as the baseball field in the course of the\nevening, and caught a glimpse of the orgies. The braves were squatting\nin a circle about a big fire, each decorated with a blanket from his bed\nand a rakish band of feathers. (Our chickens seem very scant as to tail,\nbut I have asked no unpleasant questions.) The doctor, with a Navajo\nblanket about his shoulders, was executing a war dance, while Jimmie\nand Mr. Witherspoon beat on war drums--two of our copper kettles, now\npermanently dented. Fancy Sandy! It's the first youthful glimmer I have\never caught in the man.\n\nAfter ten o'clock, when the braves were safely stowed for the night,\nthe three men came in and limply dropped into comfortable chairs in my\nlibrary, with the air of having made martyrs of themselves in the great\ncause of charity. But they did not deceive me. They originated all that\ntomfoolery for their own individual delectation.\n\nSo far Mr. Percy Witherspoon appears fairly happy. He is presiding at\none end of the officers' table under the special protection of Betsy,\nand I am told that he instills considerable life into that sedate\nassemblage. I have endeavored to run up their menu a trifle, and\nhe accepts what is put before him with a perfectly good appetite,\nirrespective of the absence of such accustomed trifles as oysters and\nquail and soft-shell crabs.\n\nThere was no sign of a private sitting room that I could put at this\nyoung man's disposal, but he himself has solved the difficulty by\nproposing to occupy our new laboratory. So he spends his evenings with a\nbook and a pipe, comfortably stretched in the dentist's chair. There\nare not many society men who would be willing to spend their evenings so\nharmlessly. That girl in Detroit is a lucky young thing.\n\nMercy! An automobile full of people has just arrived to look over the\ninstitution, and Betsy, who usually does the honors, not here. I fly.\n\nADDIO!\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nMy dear Gordon:\n\nThis is not a letter,--I don't owe you one,--it's a receipt for\nsixty-five pairs of roller skates.\n\nMany thanks.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nFriday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nI hear that I missed a call today, but Jane delivered your message,\ntogether with the \"Genetic Philosophy of Education.\" She says that\nyou will call in a few days for my opinion of the book. Is it to be a\nwritten or an oral examination?\n\nAnd doesn't it ever occur to you that this education business is rather\none-sided? It often strikes me that Dr. Robin MacRae's mental attitude\nwould also be the better for some slight refurbishing. I will promise to\nread your book, provided you read one of mine. I am sending herewith the\n\"Dolly Dialogues,\" and shall ask for an opinion in a day or so.\n\nIt's uphill work making a Scotch Presbyterian frivolous, but persistency\naccomplishes wonders.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nMay 12. My dear, dear Judy:\n\nTalk about floods in Ohio! Right here in Dutchess County we are the\nconsistency of a wet sponge. Rain for five days, and everything wrong\nwith this institution.\n\nThe babies have had croup, and we have been up o' nights with them. Cook\nhas given notice, and there's a dead rat in the walls. Our three camps\nleaked, and in the early dawn, after the first cloudburst, twenty-four\nbedraggled little Indians, wrapped in damp bedding, came shivering to\nthe door and begged for admission. Since then every clothesline, every\nstair-railing has been covered with wet and smelly blankets that steam,\nbut won't dry. Mr. Percy de Forest Witherspoon has returned to the hotel\nto wait until the sun comes out.\n\nAfter being cooped up for four days with no exercise to speak of, the\nchildren's badness is breaking out in red spots, like the measles. Betsy\nand I have thought of every form of active and innocent occupation that\ncould be carried on in such a congested quarter as this: blind man's\nbuff and pillow fights and hide-and-go-seek, gymnastics in the dining\nroom, and bean-bags in the school room. (We broke two windows.) The boys\nplayed leapfrog up and down the hall, and jarred all the plaster in the\nbuilding. We have cleaned energetically and furiously. All the woodwork\nhas been washed, and all of the floors polished. But despite everything,\nwe have a great deal of energy left, and we are getting to that point of\nnerves where we want to punch one another.\n\nSadie Kate has been acting like a little deil--do they have feminine\ndeils? If not, Sadie Kate has originated the species. And this afternoon\nLoretta Higgins had--well, I don't know whether it was a sort of fit or\njust a temper. She lay down on the floor and howled for a solid hour,\nand when any one tried to approach her, she thrashed about like a little\nwindmill and bit and kicked.\n\nBy the time the doctor came she had pretty well worn herself out.\nHe picked her up, limp and drooping, and carried her to a cot in the\nhospital room; and after she was asleep he came down to my library and\nasked to look at the archives.\n\nLoretta is thirteen; in the three years she has been here she has had\nfive of these outbreaks, and has been punished good and hard for them.\nThe child's ancestral record is simple: \"Mother died of alcoholic\ndementia, Bloomingdale Asylum. Father unknown.\"\n\nHe studied the page long and frowningly and shook his head.\n\n\"With a heredity like that, is it right to punish the child for having a\nshattered nervous system?\"\n\n\"It is not,\" said I, firmly. \"We will mend her shattered nervous\nsystem.\"\n\n\"If we can.\"\n\n\"We'll feed her up on cod-liver oil and sunshine, and find a nice kind\nfoster mother who will take pity on the poor little--\"\n\nBut then my voice trailed off into nothing as I pictured Loretta's face,\nwith her hollow eyes and big nose and open mouth and no chin and stringy\nhair and sticking-out ears. No foster mother in the world would love a\nchild who looked like that.\n\n\"Why, oh, why,\" I wailed, \"doesn't the good Lord send orphan children\nwith blue eyes and curly hair and loving dispositions? I could place a\nmillion of that sort in kind homes, but no one wants Loretta.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid the good Lord doesn't have anything to do with bringing our\nLorettas into the world. It is the devil who attends to them.\"\n\nPoor Sandy! He gets awfully pessimistic about the future of the\nuniverse; but I don't wonder, with such a cheerless life as he leads. He\nlooked today as though his own nervous system was shattered. He had been\nsplashing about in the rain since five this morning, when he was called\nto a sick baby case. I made him sit down and have some tea, and we had a\nnice, cheerful talk on drunkenness and idiocy and epilepsy and insanity.\nHe dislikes alcoholic parents, but he ties himself into a knot over\ninsane parents.\n\nPrivately, I don't believe there's one thing in heredity, provided you\nsnatch the babies away before their eyes are opened.\n\nWe've got the sunniest youngster here you ever saw; his mother and\nAunt Ruth and Uncle Silas all died insane, but he is as placid and\nunexcitable as a cow.\n\nGood-by, my dear. I am sorry this is not a more cheerful letter, though\nat this moment nothing unpleasant seems to be happening. It's eleven\no'clock, and I have just stuck my head into the corridor, and all is\nquiet except for two banging shutters and leaking eaves. I promised Jane\nI would go to bed at ten. Good night, and joy be wi' ye baith!\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. There is one thing in the midst of all my troubles that I have to\nbe grateful for: the Hon. Cy has been stricken with a lingering attack\nof grippe. In a burst of thankfulness I sent him a bunch of violets.\nP.S. 2. We are having an epidemic of pinkeye.\n\n\nMay 16. Good morning, my dear Judy!\n\nThree days of sunshine, and the J. G. H. is smiling.\n\nI am getting my immediate troubles nicely settled. Those beastly\nblankets have dried at last, and our camps have been made livable again.\nThey are floored with wooden slats and roofed with tar paper. (Mr.\nWitherspoon calls them chicken coops.) We are digging a stone-lined\nditch to convey any further cloudbursts from the plateau on which they\nstand to the cornfield below. The Indians have resumed savage life, and\ntheir chief is back at his post.\n\nThe doctor and I have been giving Loretta Higgins's nerves our most\ncareful consideration. We think that this barrack life, with its\nconstant movement and stir, is too exciting, and we have decided that\nthe best plan will be to board her out in a private family, where she\nwill receive a great deal of individual attention.\n\nThe doctor, with his usual resourcefulness, has produced the family.\nThey live next door to him and are very nice people; I have just\nreturned from calling. The husband is foreman of the casting room at the\niron works, and the wife is a comfortable soul who shakes all over\nwhen she laughs. They live mostly in their kitchen in order to keep the\nparlor neat; but it is such a cheerful kitchen that I should like to\nlive in it myself. She has potted begonias in the window and a nice\npurry tiger cat asleep on a braided rug in front of the stove. She bakes\non Saturday--cookies and gingerbread and doughnuts. I am planning to pay\nmy weekly call upon Loretta every Saturday morning at eleven o'clock.\nApparently I made as favorable an impression on Mrs. Wilson as she made\non me. After I had gone, she confided to the doctor that she liked me\nbecause I was just as common as she was.\n\nLoretta is to learn housework and have a little garden of her own, and\nparticularly play out of doors in the sunshine. She is to go to bed\nearly and be fed up on nice nourishing food, and they are to pet her and\nmake her happy. All this for three dollars a week!\n\nWhy not find a hundred such families, and board out all the children?\nThen this building could be turned into an idiot asylum, and I, not\nknowing anything about idiots, could conscientiously resign and go back\nhome and live happily ever after.\n\nReally, Judy, I am growing frightened. This asylum will get me if I stay\nlong enough. I am becoming so interested in it that I can't think or\ntalk or dream of anything else. You and Jervis have blasted all my\nprospects in life.\n\nSuppose I should retire and marry and have a family. As families go\nnowadays, I couldn't hope for more than five or six children at the\nmost, and all with the same heredity. But, mercy! such a family appears\nperfectly insignificant and monotonous. You have institutionalized me.\n\nReproachfully yours,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\nP.S. We have a child here whose father was lynched. Isn't that a piquant\ndetail to have in one's history?\n\n\nTuesday.\n\nDearest Judy:\n\nWhat shall we do? Mamie Prout does not like prunes. This antipathy to a\ncheap and healthful foodstuff is nothing but imagination, and ought\nnot to be countenanced among the inmates of a well-managed institution.\nMamie must be made to like prunes. So says our grammar teacher, who\nspends the noonday hour with us and overlooks the morals of our charges.\nAbout one o'clock today she marched Mamie to my office charged with the\noffense of refusing, ABSOLUTELY refusing, to open her mouth and put in\na prune. The child was plumped down on a stool to await punishment from\nme.\n\nNow, as you know, I do not like bananas, and I should hate awfully to be\nforced to swallow them; so, by the same token, why should I force Mamie\nProut to swallow prunes?\n\nWhile I was pondering a course that would seem to uphold Miss Keller's\nauthority, but would at the same time leave a loophole for Mamie, I was\ncalled to the telephone.\n\n\"Sit there until I come back,\" I said, and went out and closed the door.\n\nThe message was from a kind lady wishing to motor me to a committee\nmeeting. I didn't tell you that I am organizing local interest in our\nbehalf. The idle rich who possess estates in this neighborhood are\nbeginning to drift out from town, and I am laying my plans to catch\nthem before they are deflected by too many garden parties and tennis\ntournaments. They have never been of the slightest use to this asylum,\nand I think it's about time they woke up to a realization of our\npresence.\n\nReturning at teatime, I was waylaid in the hall by Dr. MacRae, who\ndemanded some statistics from my office. I opened the door, and there\nsat Mamie Prout exactly where she had been left four hours before.\n\n\"Mamie darling!\" I cried in horror. \"You haven't been here all this\ntime?\"\n\n\"Yes, ma'am,\" said Mamie; \"you told me to wait until you came back.\"\n\nThat poor patient little thing was fairly swaying with weariness, but\nshe never uttered a whimper.\n\nI will say for Sandy that he was SWEET. He gathered her up in his arms\nand carried her to my library, and petted her and caressed her back to\nsmiles. Jane brought the sewing table and spread it before the fire,\nand while the doctor and I had tea, Mamie had her supper. I suppose,\naccording to the theory of some educators, now, when she was thoroughly\nworn out and hungry, would have been the psychological moment to ply her\nwith prunes. But you will be pleased to hear that I did nothing of the\nsort, and that the doctor for once upheld my unscientific principles.\nMamie had the most wonderful supper of her life, embellished with\nstrawberry jam from my private jar and peppermints from Sandy's pocket.\nWe returned her to her mates happy and comforted, but still possessing\nthat regrettable distaste for prunes.\n\nDid you ever know anything more appalling than this soul-crushing\nunreasoning obedience which Mrs. Lippett so insistently fostered? It's\nthe orphan asylum attitude toward life, and somehow I must crush it out.\nInitiative, responsibility, curiosity, inventiveness, fight--oh dear! I\nwish the doctor had a serum for injecting all these useful virtues into\nan orphan's circulation.\n\nLATER.\n\n\nI wish you'd come back to New York. I've appointed you press agent\nfor this institution, and we need some of your floweriest writing\nimmediately. There are seven tots here crying to be adopted, and it's\nyour business to advertise them.\n\nLittle Gertrude is cross-eyed, but dear and affectionate and generous.\nCan't you write her up so persuasively that some loving family will\nbe willing to take her even if she isn't beautiful? Her eyes can be\noperated on when she's older; but if it were a cross disposition she\nhad, no surgeon in the world could remove that. The child knows there is\nsomething missing, though she has never seen a live parent in her life.\nShe holds up her arms persuasively to every person who passes. Put in\nall the pathos you are capable of, and see if you can't fetch her a\nmother and father.\n\nMaybe you can get one of the New York papers to run a Sunday feature\narticle about a lot of different children. I'll send some photographs.\nYou remember what a lot of responses that \"Smiling Joe\" picture brought\nfor the Sea Breeze people? I can furnish equally taking portraits of\nLaughing Lou and Gurgling Gertrude and Kicking Karl if you will just add\nthe literary touch.\n\nAnd do find me some sports who are not afraid of heredity. This wanting\nevery child to come from one of the first families of Virginia is\ngetting tiresome.\n\nYours, as usual,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nFriday. My dear, dear Judy:\n\nSuch an upheaval! I've discharged the cook and the housekeeper, and in\ndelicate language conveyed the impression to our grammar teacher that\nshe needn't come back next year. But, oh, if I could only discharge the\nHonorable Cy!\n\nI must tell you what happened this morning. Our trustee, who has had a\ndangerous illness, is now dangerously well again, and dropped in to\npay a neighborly call. Punch was occupying a rug on my library floor,\nvirtuously engaged with building blocks. I am separating him from the\nother kindergarten children, and trying the Montessori method of a\nprivate rug and no nervous distraction. I was flattering myself that it\nwas working well; his vocabulary of late has become almost prudish.\n\nAfter half an hour's desultory visit, the Hon. Cy rose to go. As the\ndoor closed behind him (I am at least thankful the child waited for\nthat), Punch raised his appealing brown eyes to mine and murmured, with\na confiding smile:\n\n\"Gee! ain't he got de hell of a mug?\"\n\nIf you know a kind Christian family where I can place out a sweet little\nfive-year boy, please communicate at once with\n\nS. McBRIDE,\n\nSup't John Grier Home.\n\n\n\n\nDear Pendletons:\n\nI've never known anything like you two snails. You've only just reached\nWashington, and I have had my suitcase packed for days, ready to spend\na rejuvenating week end CHEZ VOUS. Please hurry! I've languished in this\nasylum atmosphere as long as humanely possible. I shall gasp and die if\nI don't get a change.\n\nYours,\n\non the point of suffocation,\n\nS. McB.\n\nP.S. Drop a card to Gordon Hallock, telling him you are there. He will\nbe charmed to put himself and the Capitol at your disposal. I know\nthat Jervis doesn't like him, but Jervis ought to get over his baseless\nprejudices against politicians. Who knows? I may be entering politics\nmyself some day.\n\n\nMy dear Judy:\n\nWe do receive the most amazing presents from our friends and\nbenefactors. Listen to this. Last week Mr. Wilton J. Leverett (I quote\nfrom his card) ran over a broken bottle outside our gate, and came in\nto visit the institution while his chauffeur was mending the tire. Betsy\nshowed him about. He took an intelligent interest in everything he saw,\nparticularly our new camps. That is an exhibit which appeals to men.\nHe ended by removing his coat, and playing baseball with two tribes\nof Indians. After an hour and a half he suddenly looked at his watch,\nbegged for a glass of water, and bowed himself off.\n\nWe had entirely forgotten the episode until this afternoon, when the\nexpressman drove up to the door with a present for the John Grier\nHome from the chemical laboratories of Wilton J. Leverett. It was a\nbarrel--well, anyway, a good sized keg--full of liquid green soap!\n\nDid I tell you that the seeds for our garden came from Washington?\nA polite present from Gordon Hallock and the U. S. Government. As an\nexample of what the past regime did not accomplish, Martin Schladerwitz,\nwho has spent three years on this pseudo farm, knew no more than to dig\na grave two feet deep and bury his lettuce seeds!\n\nOh, you can't imagine the number of fields in which we need making over;\nbut of course you, of all people, can imagine. Little by little I am\ngetting my eyes wide open, and things that just looked funny to me at\nfirst, now--oh dear! It's very disillusionizing. Every funny thing that\ncomes up seems to have a little tragedy wrapped inside it.\n\nJust at present we are paying anxious attention to our manners--not\norphan asylum manners, but dancing school manners. There is to be\nnothing Uriah Heepish about our attitude toward the world. The little\ngirls make curtseys when they shake hands, and the boys remove caps and\nrise when a lady stands, and push in chairs at the table. (Tommy Woolsey\nshot Sadie Kate into her soup yesterday, to the glee of all observers\nexcept Sadie, who is an independent young damsel and doesn't care for\nthese useless masculine attentions.) At first the boys were inclined to\njeer, but after observing the politeness of their hero, Percy de Forest\nWitherspoon, they have come up to the mark like little gentlemen.\n\nPunch is paying a call this morning. For the last half-hour, while I\nhave been busily scratching away to you, he has been established in the\nwindow seat, quietly and undestructively engaged with colored pencils.\nBetsy, EN PASSANT, just dropped a kiss upon his nose.\n\n\"Aw, gwan!\" said Punch, blushing quite pink, and wiping off the caress\nwith a fine show of masculine indifference. But I notice he has resumed\nwork upon his red-and-green landscape with heightened ardor and an\nattempt at whistling. We'll succeed yet in conquering that young man's\ntemper.\n\n\nTuesday.\n\n\nThe doctor is in a very grumbly mood today. He called just as the\nchildren were marching in to dinner, whereupon he marched, too, and\nsampled their food, and, oh, my dear! the potatoes were scorched! And\nsuch a clishmaclaver as that man made! It is the first time the potatoes\never have been scorched, and you know that scorching sometimes happens\nin the best of families. But you would think from Sandy's language that\nthe cook had scorched them on purpose, in accordance with my orders.\n\nAs I have told you before, I could do very nicely without Sandy.\n\n\nWednesday.\n\n\nYesterday being a wonderful sunny day, Betsy and I turned our backs upon\nduty and motored to the very fancy home of some friends of hers, where\nwe had tea in an Italian garden. Punch and Sadie Kate had been SUCH good\nchildren all day that at the last moment we telephoned for permission to\ninclude them, too.\n\n\"Yes, indeed, do bring the little dears,\" was the enthusiastic response.\n\nBut the choice of Punch and Sadie Kate was a mistake. We ought to have\ntaken Mamie Prout, who has demonstrated her ability to sit. I shall\nspare you the details of our visit; the climax was reached when Punch\nwent goldfishing in the bottom of the swimming pool. Our host pulled him\nout by an agitated leg, and the child returned to the asylum swathed in\nthat gentleman's rose-colored bathrobe.\n\nWhat do you think? Dr. Robin MacRae, in a contrite mood for having been\nso intensely disagreeable yesterday, has just invited Betsy and me\nto take supper in his olive-green house next Sunday evening at seven\no'clock in order to look at some microscopic slides. The entertainment,\nI believe, is to consist of a scarlet-fever culture, some alcoholic\ntissue, and a tubercular gland. These social attentions bore him\nexcessively; but he realizes that if he is to have free scope in\napplying his theories to the institution he must be a little polite to\nits superintendent.\n\nI have just read this letter over, and I must admit that it skips\nlightly from topic to topic. But though it may not contain news of any\ngreat moment, I trust you will realize that its writing has consumed\nevery vacant minute during the last three days. I am,\n\nMost fully occupied,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\nP.S. A blessed woman came this morning and said she would take a child\nfor the summer--one of the sickest, weakest, neediest babies I could\ngive her. She had just lost her husband, and wanted something HARD to\ndo. Isn't that really very touching?\n\n\nSaturday afternoon.\n\nDear Judy and Jervis:\n\nBrother Jimmie (we are very alliterative!), spurred on by sundry begging\nletters from me, has at last sent us a present; but he picked it out\nhimself.\n\nWE HAVE A MONKEY! His name is Java. The children no longer hear the\nschool bell ring. On the day the creature came, this entire institution\nformed in line and filed past and shook his paw. Poor Sing's nose is out\nof joint. I have to PAY to have him washed.\n\nSadie Kate is developing into my private secretary. I have her answer\nthe thank-you letters for the institution, and her literary style is\nmaking a hit among our benefactors. She invariably calls out a second\ngift. I had hitherto believed that the Kilcoyne family sprang from\nthe wild west of Ireland, but I begin to suspect that their source was\nnearer Blarney Castle. You can see from the inclosed copy of the letter\nshe sent to Jimmie what a persuasive pen the young person has. I\ntrust that in this case at least, it will not bear the fruit that she\nsuggests.\n\n\nDear Mr. Jimie\n\nWe thank you very much for the lovly monkey you give. We name him java\nbecause that's a warm iland across the ocian where he was born up in a\nnest like a bird only big the doctor told us.\n\nThe first day he come every boy and girl shook his hand and said good\nmorning java his hand feels funny he holds so tite. I was afraid to\ntouch him but now I let him sit on my shoulder and put his arms around\nmy kneck if he wants to. He makes a funny noise that sounds like swering\nand gets mad when his tale is puled.\n\nWe love him dearly and we love you two.\n\nThe next time you have to give a present, please send an elifant. Well I\nguess Ill stop.\n\nYours truly,\n\nSADIE KATE KILCOYNE.\n\n\n\nPercy de Forest Witherspoon is still faithful to his little followers,\nthough I am so afraid he will get tired that I urge him to take frequent\nvacations. He has not only been faithful himself, but has brought in\nrecruits. He has large social connections in the neighborhood, and last\nSaturday evening he introduced two friends, nice men who sat around the\ncampfire and swapped hunting stories.\n\nOne of them was just back from around the world, and told hair-raising\nanecdotes of the head hunters of Sarawak, a narrow pink country on the\ntop of Borneo. My little braves pant to grow up and get to Sarawak, and\ngo out on the war-path after head hunters. Every encyclopedia in this\ninstitution has been consulted, and there isn't a boy here who cannot\ntell you the history, manners, climate, flora, and fungi of Borneo.\nI only wish Mr. Witherspoon would introduce friends who had been head\nhunting in England, France, and Germany, countries not quite so CHIC as\nSarawak, but more useful for general culture.\n\nWe have a new cook, the fourth since my reign began. I haven't bothered\nyou with my cooking troubles, but institutions don't escape any\nmore than families. The last is a negro woman, a big, fat, smiling,\nchocolate-colored creature from Souf Ca'lina. And ever since she came\non honey dew we've fed! Her name is--what do you guess? SALLIE, if you\nplease. I suggested that she change it.\n\n\"Sho, Miss, I's had dat name Sallie longer'n you, an' I couldn't get\nused nohow to answerin' up pert-like when you sings out `Mollie!' Seems\nlike Sallie jest b'longs to me.\"\n\nSo \"Sallie\" she remains; but at least there is no danger of our getting\nour letters mixed, for her last name is nothing so plebeian as McBride.\nIt's Johnston-Washington, with a hyphen.\n\nSunday.\n\n\nOur favorite game of late is finding pet names for Sandy. His austere\npresence lends itself to caricature. We have just originated a new\nbatch. The \"Laird o' Cockpen\" is Percy's choice.\n\nThe Laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great; His mind is ta'en up wi'\nthe things of the state.\n\nMiss Snaith disgustedly calls him \"that man,\" and Betsy refers to him\n(in his absence) as \"Dr. Cod-Liver.\" My present favorite is \"Macphairson\nClon Glocketty Angus McClan.\" But for real poetic feeling, Sadie Kate\nbeats us all. She calls him \"Mister Someday Soon.\" I don't believe that\nthe doctor ever dropped into verse but once in his life, but every child\nin this institution knows that one poem by heart.\n\nSomeday soon something nice is going to happen;\n\nBe a good little girl and take this hint: Swallow with a smile your\ncod-liver ile,\n\nAnd the first thing you know you will have a peppermint.\n\n\nIt's this evening that Betsy and I attend his supper party, and I\nconfess that we are looking forward to seeing the interior of his gloomy\nmansion with gleeful eagerness. He never talks about himself or his past\nor anybody connected with himself. He appears to be an isolated figure\nstanding on a pedestal labeled S C I E N C E, without a glimmer of any\nordinary affections or emotions or human frailties except temper. Betsy\nand I are simply eaten up with curiosity to know what sort of past he\ncame out of; but just let us get inside his house, and to our detective\nsenses it will tell its own story. So long as the portal was guarded\nby a fierce McGurk, we had despaired of ever effecting an entrance; but\nnow, behold! The door has opened of its own accord.\n\nTo be continued.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nMonday.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nWe attended the doctor's supper party last night, Betsy and Mr.\nWitherspoon and I. It turned out a passably cheerful occasion, though I\nwill say that it began under heavy auspices.\n\nHis house on the inside is all that the outside promises. Never in my\nlife have I seen such an interior as that man's dining room. The walls\nand carpets and lambrequins are a heavy dark green. A black marble\nmantelpiece shelters a few smoking black coals. The furniture is\nas nearly black as furniture comes. The decorations are two steel\nengravings in shiny black frames--the \"Monarch of the Glen,\" and the\n\"Stag at Bay.\"\n\nWe tried hard to be light and sparkling, but it was like eating supper\nin the family vault. Mrs. McGurk, in black alpaca with a black silk\napron, clumped around the table, passing cold, heavy things to eat, with\na step so firm that she rattled the silver in the sideboard drawers. Her\nnose was up, and her mouth was down. She clearly does not approve of the\nmaster's entertaining, and she wishes to discourage all guests from ever\naccepting again.\n\nSandy sort of dimly knows that there is something the matter with his\nhouse, and in order to brighten it up a bit in honor of his guests,\nhe had purchased flowers,--dozens of them,--the most exquisite pink\nKillarney roses and red and yellow tulips. The McGurk had wedged them\nall together as tight as they would fit into a peacock-blue jardiniere,\nand plumped it down in the center of the table. The thing was as big as\na bushel-basket. Betsy and I nearly forgot our manners when we saw\nthat centerpiece; but the doctor seemed so innocently pleased at\nhaving obtained a bright note in his dining room that we suppressed our\namusement and complimented him warmly upon his happy color scheme.\n\nThe moment supper was over, we hastened with relief to his own part of\nthe house, where the McGurk's influence does not penetrate. No one in a\ncleaning capacity ever enters either his library or office or laboratory\nexcept Llewelyn, a short, wiry, bow-legged Welshman, who combines to a\nunique degree the qualities of chambermaid and chauffeur.\n\nThe library, though not the most cheerful room I have ever seen,\nstill, for a man's house, is not so bad--books all around from floor to\nceiling, with the overflow in piles on floor and table and mantelpiece;\nhalf a dozen abysmal leather chairs and a rug or so, with another black\nmarble mantelpiece, but this time containing a crackling wood fire. By\nway of bric-a-brac, he has a stuffed pelican and a crane with a frog in\nits mouth, also a raccoon sitting on a log, and a varnished tarpon. A\nfaint suggestion of iodoform floats in the air.\n\nThe doctor made the coffee himself in a French machine, and we dismissed\nhis housekeeper from our spirits. He really did do his best to be a\nthoughtful host and I have to report that the word \"insanity\" was not\nonce mentioned. It seems that Sandy, in his moments of relaxation, is a\nfisherman. He and Percy began swapping stories of salmon and trout, and\nhe finally got out his case of fishing flies, and gallantly presented\nBetsy and me with a \"silver doctor\" and a \"Jack Scott\" out of which\nto make hatpins. Then the conversation wandered to sport on the Scotch\nmoors, and he told about one time when he was lost, and spent the night\nout in the heather. There is no doubt about it, Sandy's heart is in the\nhighlands.\n\nI am afraid that Betsy and I have wronged him. Though it is hard to\nrelinquish the interesting idea, he may not, after all, have committed a\ncrime. We are now leaning to the belief that he was crossed in love.\n\nIt's really horrid of me to make fun of poor Sandy, for, despite his\nstern bleakness of disposition, he's a pathetic figure of a man. Think\nof coming home after an anxious day's round to eat a solitary dinner in\nthat grim dining room!\n\nDo you suppose it would cheer him up a little if I should send my\ncompany of artists to paint a frieze of rabbits around the wall?\n\nWith love, as usual,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nDear Judy:\n\nAren't you ever coming back to New York? Please hurry! I need a new hat,\nand am desirous of shopping for it on Fifth Avenue, not on Water Street.\nMrs. Gruby, our best milliner, does not believe in slavishly following\nParis Fashions; she originates her own styles. But three years ago, as\na great concession to convention, she did make a tour of the New York\nshops, and is still creating models on the uplift of that visit.\n\nAlso, besides my own hat, I must buy 113 hats for my children, to say\nnothing of shoes and knickerbockers and shirts and hair-ribbons and\nstockings and garters. It's quite a task to keep a little family like\nmine decently clothed.\n\nDid you get that big letter I wrote you last week? You never had the\ngrace to mention it in yours of Thursday, and it was seventeen pages\nlong, and took me DAYS to write.\n\nYours truly,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\nP.S. Why don't you tell me some news about Gordon? Have you seen him,\nand did he mention me? Is he running after any of those pretty Southern\ngirls that Washington is so full of? You know that I want to hear. Why\nmust you be so beastly uncommunicative?\n\n\nTuesday, 4:27 P.M.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nYour telegram came two minutes ago by telephone.\n\nYes, thank you, I shall be delighted to arrive at 5:49 on Thursday\nafternoon. And don't make any engagements for that evening, please, as\nI intend to sit up until midnight talking John Grier gossip with you and\nthe president.\n\nFriday and Saturday and Monday I shall have to devote to shopping. Oh,\nyes, you're right; I already possess more clothes than any jailbird\nneeds, but when spring comes, I must have new plumage. As it is, I wear\nan evening gown every night just to wear them out--no, not entirely\nthat; to make myself believe that I'm still an ordinary girl despite\nthis extraordinary life that you have pushed me into.\n\nThe Hon. Cy found me yesterday arrayed in a Nile-green crepe (Jane's\ncreation, though it looked Parisian). He was quite puzzled when he found\nI wasn't going to a ball. I invited him to stay and dine with me, and\nhe accepted! We got on very affably. He expands over his dinner. Food\nappears to agree with him. If there's any Bernard Shaw in New York just\nnow, I believe that I might spare a couple of hours Saturday afternoon\nfor a matinee. G. B. S.'s dialogue would afford such a life-giving\ncontrast to the Hon. Cy's.\n\nThere's no use writing any more; I'll wait and talk.\n\nADDIO.\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. Oh dear! just as I had begun to catch glimmerings of niceness in\nSandy, he broke out again and was ABOMINABLE. We unfortunately have five\ncases of measles in this institution, and the man's manner suggests that\nMiss Snaith and I gave the measles to the children on purpose to make\nhim trouble. There are many days when I should be willing to accept our\ndoctor's resignation.\n\n\nWednesday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nYour brief and dignified note of yesterday is at hand. I have never\nknown anybody whose literary style resembled so exactly his spoken word.\n\nAnd you will be greatly obliged if I will drop my absurd fashion of\ncalling you \"Enemy\"? I will drop my absurd fashion of calling you\nEnemy just as soon as you drop your absurd fashion of getting angry and\nabusive and insulting the moment any little thing goes wrong.\n\nI am leaving tomorrow afternoon to spend four days in New York.\n\nYours truly,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nCHEZ THE PENDLETONS, New York. My dear Enemy:\n\nI trust that this note will find you in a more affable frame of mind\nthan when I saw you last. I emphatically repeat that it was not due to\nthe carelessness of the superintendent of our institution that those two\nnew cases of measles crept in, but rather to the unfortunate anatomy\nof our old-fashioned building, which does not permit of the proper\nisolation of contagious cases.\n\nAs you did not deign to visit us yesterday morning before I left, I\ncould not offer any parting suggestions. I therefore write to ask that\nyou cast your critical eye upon Mamie Prout. She is covered all over\nwith little red spots which may be measles, though I am hoping not.\nMamie spots very easily.\n\nI return to prison life next Monday at six o'clock.\n\nYours truly,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\nP.S. I trust you will pardon my mentioning it, but you are not the kind\nof doctor that I admire. I like them chubby and round and smiling.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nJune 9.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nYou are an awful family for an impressionable young girl to visit.\nHow can you expect me to come back and settle down contentedly to\ninstitution life after witnessing such a happy picture of domestic\nconcord as the Pendleton household presents?\n\nAll the way back in the train, instead of occupying myself with two\nnovels, four magazines, and one box of chocolates that your husband\nthoughtfully provided, I spent the time in a mental review of the young\nmen of my acquaintance to see if I couldn't discover one as nice as\nJervis. I did! (A little nicer, I think.) From this day on he is the\nmarked-down victim, the destined prey.\n\nI shall hate to give up the asylum after getting so excited over it,\nbut unless you are willing to move it to the capital, I don't see any\nalternative.\n\nThe train was awfully late. We sat and smoked on a siding while two\naccommodations and a freight dashed past. I think we must have broken\nsomething, and had to tinker up our engine. The conductor was soothing,\nbut uncommunicative.\n\nIt was 7:30 when I descended, the only passenger, at our insignificant\nstation in the pitch darkness and RAIN, without an umbrella, and wearing\nthat precious new hat. No Turnfelt to meet me; not even a station hack.\nTo be sure, I hadn't telegraphed the exact time of my arrival, but,\nstill, I did feel rather neglected. I had sort of vaguely expected all\nONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN to be drawn up by the platform, scattering\nflowers and singing songs of welcome. Just as I was telling the station\nman that I would watch his telegraph instrument while he ran across\nto the corner saloon and telephoned for a vehicle, there came whirling\naround the corner two big searchlights aimed straight at me. They\nstopped nine inches before running me down, and I heard Sandy's voice\nsaying:\n\n\"Weel, weel, Miss Sallie McBride! I'm thinking it's ower time you came\nback to tak' the bit bairns off my hands.\"\n\nThat man had come three times to meet me on the off chance of the\ntrain's getting in some time. He tucked me and my new hat and bags and\nbooks and chocolates all in under his waterproof flap, and we splashed\noff. Really, I felt as if I was getting back home again, and quite sad\nat the thought of ever having to leave. Mentally, you see, I had already\nresigned and packed and gone. The mere idea that you are not in a place\nfor the rest of your life gives you an awfully unstable feeling. That's\nwhy trial marriages would never work. You've got to feel you're in a\nthing irrevocably and forever in order to buckle down and really put\nyour whole mind into making it a success.\n\nIt's astounding how much news can accrue in four days. Sandy just\ncouldn't talk fast enough to tell me everything I wanted to hear.\nAmong other items, I learned that Sadie Kate had spent two days in the\ninfirmary, her malady being, according to the doctor's diagnosis, half a\njar of gooseberry jam and Heaven knows how many doughnuts. Her work had\nbeen changed during my absence to dishwashing in the officers' pantry,\nand the juxtaposition of so many exotic luxuries was too much for her\nfragile virtue.\n\nAlso, our colored cook Sallie and our colored useful man Noah have\nentered upon a war of extermination. The original trouble was over a\nlittle matter of kindling, augmented by a pail of hot water that Sallie\nthrew out of the window with, for a woman, unusual accuracy of aim. You\ncan see what a rare character the head of an orphan asylum must\nhave. She has to combine the qualities of a baby nurse and a police\nmagistrate.\n\nThe doctor had told only the half when we reached the house, and as\nhe had not yet dined, owing to meeting me three times, I begged him\nto accept the hospitality of the John Grier. I would get Betsy and Mr.\nWitherspoon, and we would hold an executive meeting, and settle all our\nneglected businesses.\n\nSandy accepted with flattering promptness. He likes to dine outside of\nthe family vault.\n\nBut Betsy, I found, had dashed home to greet a visiting grandparent,\nand Percy was playing bridge in the village. It's seldom the young thing\ngets out of an evening, and I'm glad for him to have a little cheerful\ndiversion.\n\nSo it ended in the doctor's and my dining tete-a-tete on a hastily\nimprovised dinner,--it was then close upon eight, and our normal dinner\nhour is 6:30,--but it was such an improvised dinner as I am sure\nMrs. McGurk never served him. Sallie, wishing to impress me with her\ninvaluableness, did her absolutely Southern best. And after dinner we\nhad coffee before the fire in my comfortable blue library, while the\nwind howled outside and the shutters banged.\n\nWe passed a most cordial and intimate evening. For the first time\nsince our acquaintance I struck a new note in the man. There really is\nsomething attractive about him when you once come to know him. But the\nprocess of knowing him requires time and tact. He's no' very gleg at the\nuptak. I've never seen such a tantalizing inexplicable person. All the\ntime I'm talking to him I feel as though behind his straight line of a\nmouth and his half-shut eyes there were banked fires smoldering inside.\nAre you sure he hasn't committed a crime? He does manage to convey the\ndelicious feeling that he has.\n\nAnd I must add that Sandy's not so bad a talker when he lets himself go.\nHe has the entire volume of Scotch literature at his tongue's end.\n\n\"Little kens the auld wife as she sits by the fire what the wind is\ndoing on Hurly-Burly-Swire,\" he observed as a specially fierce blast\ndrove the rain against the window. That sounds pat, doesn't it? I\nhaven't, though, the remotest idea what it means. And listen to this:\nbetween cups of coffee (he drinks far too much coffee for a sensible\nmedical man) he casually let fall the news that his family knew the R.\nL. S. family personally, and used to take supper at 17 Heriot Row! I\ntended him assiduously for the rest of the evening in a Did you once see\nShelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you? frame of mind.\n\nWhen I started this letter, I had no intention of filling it with a\ndescription of the recently excavated charms of Robin MacRae; it's just\nby way of remorseful apology. He was so nice and companionable last\nnight that I have been going about today feeling conscience-smitten at\nthe thought of how mercilessly I made fun of him to you and Jervis. I\nreally didn't mean quite all of the impolite things that I said. About\nonce a month the man is sweet and tractable and engaging.\n\nPunch has just been paying a social call, and during the course of it\nhe lost three little toadlings an inch long. Sadie Kate recovered one of\nthem from under the bookcase, but the other two hopped away; and I'm so\nafraid they've taken sanctuary in my bed! I do wish that mice and snakes\nand toads and angleworms were not so portable. You never know what is\ngoing on in a perfectly respectable-looking child's pocket.\n\nI had a beautiful visit in Casa Pendleton. Don't forget your promise to\nreturn it soon.\n\nYours as ever,\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. I left a pair of pale-blue bedroom slippers under the bed. Will\nyou please have Mary wrap them up and mail them to me? And hold her\nhand while she writes the address. She spelt my name on the place cards\n\"Mackbird.\"\n\n\nTuesday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nAs I told you, I left an application for an accomplished nurse with the\nemployment bureau of New York.\n\n\nWanted! A nurse maid with an ample lap suitable for the accommodation of\nseventeen babies at once.\n\n\nShe came this afternoon, and this is the fine figure of a woman that I\ndrew!\n\nWe couldn't keep a baby from sliding off her lap unless we fastened him\nfirmly with safety pins.\n\nPlease give Sadie Kate the magazine. I'll read it tonight and return it\ntomorrow.\n\nWas there ever a more docile and obedient pupil than\n\nS. McBRIDE?\n\n\nThursday. My dear Judy:\n\nI've been spending the last three days busily getting under way all\nthose latest innovations that we planned in New York. Your word is law.\nA public cooky jar has been established.\n\nAlso, the eighty play boxes have been ordered. It is a wonderful\nidea, having a private box for each child, where he can store up his\ntreasures. The ownership of a little personal property will help develop\nthem into responsible citizens. I ought to have thought of it myself,\nbut for some reason the idea didn't come. Poor Judy! You have inside\nknowledge of the longings of their little hearts that I shall never be\nable to achieve, not with all the sympathy I can muster.\n\nWe are doing our best to run this institution with as few discommoding\nrules as possible, but in regard to those play boxes there is one point\non which I shall have to be firm. The children may not keep in them mice\nor toads or angleworms.\n\nI can't tell you how pleased I am that Betsy's salary is to be raised,\nand that we are to keep her permanently. But the Hon. Cy Wykoff\ndeprecates the step. He has been making inquiries, and he finds that her\npeople are perfectly able to take care of her without any salary.\n\n\"You don't furnish legal advice for nothing,\" say I to him. \"Why should\nshe furnish her trained services for nothing?\"\n\n\"This is charitable work.\"\n\n\"Then work which is undertaken for your own good should be paid, but\nwork which is undertaken for the public good should not be paid?\"\n\n\"Fiddlesticks!\" says he. \"She's a woman, and her family ought to support\nher.\"\n\nThis opened up vistas of argument which I did not care to enter with the\nHon. Cy, so I asked him whether he thought it would be nicer to have\na real lawn or hay on the slope that leads to the gate. He likes to\nbe consulted, and I pamper him as much as possible in all unessential\ndetails. You see, I am following Sandy's canny advice: \"Trustees are\nlike fiddle-strings; they maunna be screwed ower tight. Humor the mon,\nbut gang your ain gait.\" Oh, the tact that this asylum is teaching me! I\nshould make a wonderful politician's wife.\n\nThursday night.\n\n\nYou will be interested to hear that I have temporarily placed out Punch\nwith two charming spinsters who have long been tottering on the brink\nof a child. They finally came last week, and said they would like to try\none for a month to see what the sensation felt like.\n\nThey wanted, of course, a pretty ornament, dressed in pink and white and\ndescended from the Mayflower. I told them that any one could bring up\na daughter of the Mayflower to be an ornament to society, but the real\nfeat was to bring up a son of an Italian organ-grinder and an Irish\nwasherwoman. And I offered Punch. That Neapolitan heredity of his,\nartistically speaking, may turn out a glorious mixture, if the right\nenvironment comes along to choke out all the weeds.\n\nI put it up to them as a sporting proposition, and they were game. They\nhave agreed to take him for one month and concentrate upon his remaking\nall their years of conserved force, to the end that he may be fit for\nadoption in some moral family. They both have a sense of humor and\nACCOMPLISHING characters, or I should never have dared to propose it.\nAnd really I believe it's going to be the one way of taming our young\nfire-eater. They will furnish the affection and caresses and attention\nthat in his whole abused little life he has never had.\n\nThey live in a fascinating old house with an Italian garden, and\nfurnishings selected from the whole round world. It does seem like\nsacrilege to turn that destructive child loose in such a collection of\ntreasures. But he hasn't broken anything here for more than a month, and\nI believe that the Italian in him will respond to all that beauty.\n\nI warned them that they must not shrink from any profanity that might\nissue from his pretty baby lips.\n\nHe departed last night in a very fancy automobile, and maybe I wasn't\nglad to say good-by to our disreputable young man! He has absorbed just\nabout half of my energy.\n\n\nFriday.\n\n\nThe pendant arrived this morning. Many thanks! But you really ought not\nto have given me another; a hostess cannot be held accountable for all\nthe things that careless guests lose in her house. It is far too\npretty for my chain. I am thinking of having my nose pierced, Cingalese\nfashion, and wearing my new jewel where it will really show.\n\nI must tell you that our Percy is putting some good constructive work\ninto this asylum. He has founded the John Grier Bank, and has worked\nout all the details in a very professional and businesslike fashion,\nentirely incomprehensible to my non-mathematical mind. All of the older\nchildren possess properly printed checkbooks, and they are each to be\npaid five dollars a week for their services, such as going to school and\naccomplishing housework. They are then to pay the institution (by check)\nfor their board and clothes, which will consume their five dollars. It\nlooks like a vicious circle, but it's really very educative; they will\ncomprehend the value of money before we dump them into a mercenary\nworld. Those who are particularly good in lessons or work will receive\nan extra recompense. My head aches at the thought of the bookkeeping,\nbut Percy waves that aside as a mere bagatelle. It is to be accomplished\nby our prize arithmeticians, and will train them for positions of trust.\nIf Jervis hears of any opening for bank officials, let me know; I shall\nhave a well-trained president, cashier, and paying teller ready to be\nplaced by this time next year.\n\n\nSaturday.\n\n\nOur doctor doesn't like to be called \"Enemy.\" It hurts his feelings or\nhis dignity or something of the sort. But since I will persist, despite\nhis expostulations, he has finally retaliated with a nickname for me. He\ncalls me \"Miss Sally Lunn,\" and is in a glow of pride at having achieved\nsuch an imaginative flight.\n\nHe and I have invented a new pastime: he talks Scotch, and I answer in\nIrish. Our conversations run like this:\n\n\"Good afthernoon to ye, docther. An' how's yer health the day?\"\n\n\"Verra weel, verra weel. And how gas it wi' a' the bairns?\"\n\n\"Shure, they're all av thim doin' foin.\"\n\n\"I'm gey glad to hear it. This saft weather is hard on folk. There's\nmuckle sickness aboot the kintra.\"\n\n\"Hiven be praised it has not lighted here! But sit down, docther, an'\nmake yersilf at home. Will ye be afther havin' a cup o' tay?\"\n\n\"Hoot, woman! I would na hae you fash yoursel', but a wee drap tea winna\ncoom amiss.\"\n\n\"Whist! It's no thruble at all.\"\n\nYou may not think this a very dizzying excursion into frivolity; but I\nassure you, for one of Sandy's dignity, it's positively riotous. The man\nhas been in a heavenly temper ever since I came back; not a single cross\nword. I am beginning to think I may reform him as well as Punch.\n\nThis letter must be about long enough even for you. I've been writing it\nbit by bit for three days, whenever I happened to pass my desk.\n\nYours as ever,\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. I don't think much of your vaunted prescription for hair tonic.\nEither the druggist didn't mix it right, or Jane didn't apply it with\ndiscretion. I stuck to the pillow this morning.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nSaturday.\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nYour letter of Thursday is at hand, and extremely silly I consider it.\nOf course I am not trying to let you down easy; that isn't my way. If I\nlet you down at all, it will be suddenly and with an awful bump. But\nI honestly didn't realize that it had been three weeks since I wrote.\nPlease excuse!\n\nAlso, my dear sir, I have to bring you to account. You were in New York\nlast week, and you never ran up to see us. You thought we wouldn't find\nit out, but we heard--and are insulted.\n\nWould you like an outline of my day's activities? Wrote monthly report\nfor trustees' meeting. Audited accounts. Entertained agent of State\nCharities Aid Association for luncheon. Supervised children's menus for\nnext ten days. Dictated five letters to families who have our children.\nVisited our little feeble-minded Loretta Higgins (pardon the reference;\nI know you don't like me to mention the feeble-minded), who is being\nboarded out in a nice comfortable family, where she is learning to work.\nCame back to tea and a conference with the doctor about sending a child\nwith tubercular glands to a sanatorium. Read an article on cottage\nVERSUS congregate system for housing dependent children. (We do need\ncottages! I wish you'd send us a few for a Christmas present.) And now\nat nine o'clock I'm sleepily beginning a letter to you. Do you know many\nyoung society girls who can point to such a useful day as that?\n\nOh, I forgot to say that I stole ten minutes from my accounts this\nmorning to install a new cook. Our Sallie Washington-Johnston, who\ncooked fit for the angels had a dreadful, dreadful temper and terrorized\npoor Noah, our super-excellent furnace man, to the point of giving\nnotice. We couldn't spare Noah. He's more useful to the institution than\nits superintendent, and so Sallie Washington-Johnston is no more.\n\nWhen I asked the new cook her name, she replied, \"Ma name is Suzanne\nEstelle, but ma friends call me Pet.\" Pet cooked the dinner tonight,\nbut I must say that she lacks Sallie's delicate touch. I am awfully\ndisappointed that you didn't visit us while Sallie was still here. You\nwould have taken away an exalted opinion of my housekeeping.\n\n\nDrowsiness overcame me at that point, and it's now two days later.\n\nPoor neglected Gordon! It has just occurred to me that you never got\nthanked for the modeling clay which came two weeks ago, and it was\nsuch an unusually intelligent present that I should have telegraphed my\nappreciation. When I opened the box and saw all that nice messy putty\nstuff, I sat down on the spot and created a statue of Singapore. The\nchildren love it; and it is very good to have the handicraft side of\ntheir training encouraged.\n\nAfter a careful study of American history, I have determined that\nnothing is so valuable to a future president as an early obligatory\nunescapable performance of CHORES.\n\nTherefore I have divided the daily work of this institution into a\nhundred parcels, and the children rotate weekly through a succession of\nunaccustomed tasks. Of course they do everything badly, for just as they\nlearn how, they progress to something new. It would be infinitely easier\nfor us to follow Mrs. Lippett's immoral custom of keeping each child\nsentenced for life to a well-learned routine; but when the temptation\nassails me, I recall the dreary picture of Florence Henty, who polished\nthe brass doorknobs of this institution for seven years--and I sternly\nshove the children on.\n\nI get angry every time I think of Mrs Lippett. She had exactly the\npoint of view of a Tammany politician--no slightest sense of service to\nsociety. Her only interest in the John Grier Home was to get a living\nout of it.\n\n\nWednesday.\n\n\nWhat new branch of learning do you think I have introduced into my\nasylum? Table manners!\n\nI never had any idea that it was such a lot of trouble to teach children\nhow to eat and drink. Their favorite method is to put their mouths down\nto their mugs and lap their milk like kittens. Good manners are not\nmerely snobbish ornaments, as Mrs. Lippett's regime appeared to believe.\nThey mean self-discipline and thought for others, and my children have\ngot to learn them.\n\nThat woman never allowed them to talk at their meals, and I am having\nthe most dreadful time getting any conversation out of them above a\nfrightened whisper. So I have instituted the custom of the entire staff,\nmyself included, sitting with them at the table, and directing the talk\nalong cheerful and improving lines.\n\nAlso I have established a small, very strict training table, where\nthe little dears, in relays, undergo a week of steady badgering. Our\nuplifting table conversations run like this:\n\n\"Yes, Tom, Napoleon Bonaparte was a very great man--elbows off the\ntable. He possessed a tremendous power of concentrating his mind on\nwhatever he wanted to have; and that is the way to accomplish--don't\nsnatch, Susan; ask politely for the bread, and Carrie will pass it to\nyou.--But he was an example of the fact that selfish thought just for\noneself, without considering the lives of others, will come to disaster\nin the--Tom! Keep your mouth shut when you chew--and after the battle\nof Waterloo--let Sadie's cooky alone--his fall was all the greater\nbecause--Sadie Kate, you may leave the table. It makes no difference\nwhat he did. Under no provocation does a lady slap a gentleman.\"\n\n\nTwo more days have passed; this is the same kind of meandering letter I\nwrite to Judy. At least, my dear man, you can't complain that I haven't\nbeen thinking about you this week! I know you hate to be told all about\nthe asylum, but I can't help it, for it's all I know. I don't have five\nminutes a day to read the papers. The big outside world has dropped\naway. My interests all lie on the inside of this little iron inclosure.\n\nI am at present,\n\nS. McBRIDE,\n\nSuperintendent of the\n\nJohn Grier Home.\n\n\nThursday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\n\"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.\" Hasn't that a very\nphilosophical, detached, Lord of the Universe sound? It comes from\nThoreau, whom I am assiduously reading at present. As you see, I have\nrevolted against your literature and taken to my own again. The last\ntwo evenings have been devoted to \"Walden,\" a book as far removed as\npossible from the problems of the dependent child.\n\nDid you ever read old Henry David Thoreau? You really ought. I think\nyou'd find him a congenial soul. Listen to this: \"Society is commonly\ntoo cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to\nacquire any new value for each other. It would be better if there were\nbut one habitation to a square mile, as where I live.\" A pleasant,\nexpansive, neebor-like man he must have been! He minds me in some ways\no' Sandy.\n\nThis is to tell you that we have a placing-out agent visiting us. She is\nabout to dispose of four chicks, one of them Thomas Kehoe. What do you\nthink? Ought we to risk it? The place she has in mind for him is a farm\nin a no-license portion of Connecticut, where he will work hard for\nhis board, and live in the farmer's family. It sounds exactly the right\nthing, and we can't keep him here forever; he'll have to be turned out\nsome day into a world full of whisky.\n\nI'm sorry to tear you away from that cheerful work on \"Dementia Precox,\"\nbut I'd be most obliged if you'd drop in here toward eight o'clock for a\nconference with the agent.\n\nI am, as usual,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nJune 17. My dear Judy:\n\nBetsy has perpetrated a most unconscionable trick upon a pair of\nadopting parents. They have traveled East from Ohio in their touring car\nfor the dual purpose of seeing the country and picking up a daughter.\nThey appear to be the leading citizens of their town, whose name at\nthe moment escapes me; but it's a very important town. It has electric\nlights and gas, and Mr. Leading Citizen owns the controlling interest\nin both plants. With a wave of his hand he could plunge that entire town\ninto darkness; but fortunately he's a kind man, and won't do anything so\nharsh, not even if they fail to reelect him mayor. He lives in a brick\nhouse with a slate roof and two towers, and has a deer and fountain and\nlots of nice shade trees in the yard. (He carries its photograph in his\npocket.) They are good-natured, generous, kind-hearted, smiling people,\nand a little fat; you can see what desirable parents they would make.\n\nWell, we had exactly the daughter of their dreams, only, as they came\nwithout giving us notice, she was dressed in a flannellet nightgown, and\nher face was dirty. They looked Caroline over, and were not impressed;\nbut they thanked us politely, and said they would bear her in mind. They\nwanted to visit the New York Orphanage before deciding. We knew well\nthat, if they saw that superior assemblage of children, our poor little\nCaroline would never have a chance.\n\nThen Betsy rose to the emergency. She graciously invited them to motor\nover to her house for tea that afternoon and inspect one of our little\nwards who would be visiting her baby niece. Mr. and Mrs. Leading Citizen\ndo not know many people in the East, and they haven't been receiving the\ninvitations that they feel are their due; so they were quite innocently\npleased at the prospect of a little social diversion. The moment they\nhad retired to the hotel for luncheon, Betsy called up her car, and\nrushed baby Caroline over to her house. She stuffed her into baby\nniece's best pink-and-white embroidered frock, borrowed a hat of Irish\nlace, some pink socks and white slippers, and set her picturesquely\nupon the green lawn under a spreading beech tree. A white-aproned nurse\n(borrowed also from baby niece) plied her with bread and milk and gaily\ncolored toys. By the time prospective parents arrived, our Caroline,\nfull of food and contentment, greeted them with cooes of delight. From\nthe moment their eyes fell upon her they were ravished with desire.\nNot a suspicion crossed their unobservant minds that this sweet little\nrosebud was the child of the morning. And so, a few formalities having\nbeen complied with, it really looks as though baby Caroline would live\nin the Towers and grow into a leading citizen.\n\nI must really get to work, without any further delay, upon the burning\nquestion of new clothes for our girls.\n\nWith the highest esteem, I am, D'r Ma'am, Y'r most ob'd't and h'mble\nserv't,\n\nSAL. McBRIDE.\n\n\nJune 19th. My dearest Judy:\n\nListen to the grandest innovation of all, and one that will delight your\nheart.\n\nNO MORE BLUE GINGHAM!\n\n\nFeeling that this aristocratic neighborhood of country estates might\ncontain valuable food for our asylum, I have of late been moving in\nthe village social circles, and at a luncheon yesterday I dug out a\nbeautiful and charming widow who wears delectable, flowing gowns that\nshe designs herself. She confided to me that she would have loved to\nhave been a dressmaker, if she had only been born with a needle in her\nmouth instead of a golden spoon. She says she never sees a pretty girl\nbadly dressed but she longs to take her in hand and make her over. Did\nyou ever hear anything so apropos? From the moment she opened her lips\nshe was a marked man.\n\n\"I can show you fifty-nine badly dressed girls,\" said I to her, \"and you\nhave got to come back with me and plan their new clothes and make them\nbeautiful.\"\n\nShe expostulated; but in vain. I led her out to her automobile, shoved\nher in, and murmured, \"John Grier Home\" to the chauffeur. The first\ninmate our eyes fell upon was Sadie Kate, just fresh, I judge, from\nhugging the molasses barrel; and a shocking spectacle she was for any\nesthetically minded person. In addition to the stickiness, one stocking\nwas coming down, her pinafore was buttoned crookedly, and she had lost a\nhair-ribbon. But--as always--completely at ease, she welcomed us with a\ncheery grin, and offered the lady a sticky paw.\n\n\"Now,\" said I, in triumph, \"you see how much we need you. What can you\ndo to make Sadie Kate beautiful?\"\n\n\"Wash her,\" said Mrs. Livermore.\n\nSadie Kate was marched to my bathroom. When the scrubbing was finished\nand the hair strained back and the stocking restored to seemly heights,\nI returned her for a second inspection--a perfectly normal little\norphan. Mrs. Livermore turned her from side to side, and studied her\nlong and earnestly.\n\nSadie Kate by nature is a beauty, a wild, dark, Gypsyish little colleen.\nShe looks fresh from the wind-swept moors of Connemara. But, oh, we\nhave managed to rob her of her birthright with this awful institution\nuniform!\n\nAfter five minutes' silent contemplation, Mrs. Livermore raised her eyes\nto mine.\n\n\"Yes, my dear, you need me.\"\n\nAnd then and there we formed our plans. She is to head the committee\non C L O T H E S. She is to choose three friends to help her. And they,\nwith the two dozen best sewers among the girls and our sewing-teacher\nand five sewing machines, are going to make over the looks of this\ninstitution. And the charity is all on our side. We are supplying Mrs.\nLivermore with the profession that Providence robbed her of. Wasn't it\nclever of me to find her? I woke this morning at dawn and crowed!\n\nLots more news,--I could run into a second volume,--but I am going to\nsend this letter to town by Mr. Witherspoon, who, in a very high collar\nand the blackest of evening clothes, is on the point of departure for a\nbarn dance at the country club. I told him to pick out the nicest girls\nhe danced with to come and tell stories to my children.\n\nIt is dreadful, the scheming person I am getting to be. All the time I\nam talking to any one, I am silently thinking, \"What use can you be to\nmy asylum?\"\n\nThere is grave danger that this present superintendent will become so\ninterested in her job that she will never want to leave. I sometimes\npicture her a white-haired old lady, propelled about the building in\na wheeled chair, but still tenaciously superintending her fourth\ngeneration of orphans.\n\nPLEASE discharge her before that day!\n\nYours,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nFriday.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nYesterday morning, without the slightest warning, a station hack drove\nup to the door and disgorged upon the steps two men, two little boys, a\nbaby girl, a rocking horse, and a Teddy bear, and then drove off!\n\nThe men were artists, and the little ones were children of another\nartist, dead three weeks ago. They had brought the mites to us because\nthey thought \"John Grier\" sounded solid and respectable, and not like a\npublic institution. It had never entered their unbusinesslike heads that\nany formality is necessary about placing a child in an asylum.\n\nI explained that we were full, but they seemed so stranded and aghast,\nthat I told them to sit down while I advised them what to do. So the\nchicks were sent to the nursery, with a recommendation of bread and\nmilk, while I listened to their history. Those artists had a fatally\nliterary touch, or maybe it was just the sound of the baby girl's laugh,\nbut, anyway, before they had finished, the babes were ours.\n\nNever have I seen a sunnier creature than the little Allegra (we don't\noften get such fancy names or such fancy children). She is three years\nold, is lisping funny baby talk and bubbling with laughter. The tragedy\nshe has just emerged from has never touched her. But Don and Clifford,\nsturdy little lads of five and seven, are already solemn-eyed and\nfrightened at the hardness of life.\n\nTheir mother was a kindergarten teacher who married an artist on a\ncapital of enthusiasm and a few tubes of paint. His friends say that he\nhad talent, but of course he had to throw it away to pay the milkman.\nThey lived in a haphazard fashion in a rickety old studio, cooking\nbehind screens, the babies sleeping on shelves.\n\nBut there seems to have been a very happy side to it--a great deal of\nlove and many friends, all more or less poor, but artistic and congenial\nand high-thinking. The little lads, in their gentleness and fineness,\nshow that phase of their upbringing. They have an air which many of\nmy children, despite all the good manners I can pour into them, will\nforever lack.\n\nThe mother died in the hospital a few days after Allegra's birth, and\nthe father struggled on for two years, caring for his brood and painting\nlike mad--advertisements, anything--to keep a roof over their heads.\n\nHe died in St. Vincent's three weeks ago,--overwork, worry, pneumonia.\nHis friends rallied about the babies, sold such of the studio fittings\nas had escaped pawning, paid off the debts, and looked about for the\nbest asylum they could find. And, Heaven save them! they hit upon us!\n\nWell, I kept the two artists for luncheon,--nice creatures in soft\nhats and Windsor ties, and looking pretty frayed themselves,--and then\nstarted them back to New York with the promise that I would give the\nlittle family my most parental attention.\n\nSo here they are, one little mite in the nursery, two in the\nkindergarten room, four big packing cases full of canvases in the\ncellar, and a trunk in the store room with the letters of their\nfather and mother. And a look in their faces, an intangible spiritual\nSOMETHING, that is their heritage.\n\nI can't get them out of my mind. All night long I was planning their\nfuture. The boys are easy. They have already been graduated from\ncollege, Mr. Pendleton assisting, and are pursuing honorable business\ncareers. But Allegra I don't know about; I can't think what to wish for\nthe child. Of course the normal thing to wish for any sweet little girl\nis that two kind foster parents will come along to take the place of the\nreal parents that Fate has robbed her of. But in this case it would be\ncruel to steal her away from her brothers. Their love for the baby is\npitiful. You see, they have brought her up. The only time I ever hear\nthem laugh is when she has done something funny.\n\nThe poor little fellows miss their father horribly. I found Don, the\nfive-year-old one, sobbing in his crib last night because he couldn't\nsay good night to \"daddy.\"\n\nBut Allegra is true to her name, the happiest young miss of three I have\never seen. The poor father managed well by her, and she, little ingrate,\nhas already forgotten that she has lost him.\n\nWhatever can I do with these little ones? I think and think and think\nabout them. I can't place them out, and it does seem too awful to bring\nthem up here; for as good as we are going to be when we get ourselves\nmade over, still, after all, we are an institution, and our inmates are\njust little incubator chicks. They don't get the individual, fussy care\nthat only an old hen can give.\n\nThere is a lot of interesting news that I might have been telling you,\nbut my new little family has driven everything out of my mind.\n\nBairns are certain joy, but nae sma' care.\n\nYours ever,\n\nSALLIE. P.S. Don't forget that you are coming to visit me next week.\n\nP.S. II. The doctor, who is ordinarily so scientific and unsentimental,\nhas fallen in love with Allegra. He didn't so much as glance at her\ntonsils; he simply picked her up in his arms and hugged her. Oh, she is\na little witch! Whatever is to become of her?\n\n\n\nJune 22. My dear Judy:\n\nI may report that you need no longer worry as to our inadequate fire\nprotection. The doctor and Mr. Witherspoon have been giving the\nmatter their gravest attention, and no game yet devised has proved so\nentertaining and destructive as our fire drill.\n\nThe children all retire to their beds and plunge into alert slumber.\nFire alarm sounds. They spring up and into their shoes, snatch the top\nblanket from their beds, wrap it around their imaginary nightclothes,\nfall into line, and trot to the hall and stairs.\n\nOur seventeen little tots in the nursery are each in charge of an\nIndian, and are bundled out, shrieking with delight. The remaining\nIndians, so long as there is no danger of the roof falling, devote\nthemselves to salvage. On the occasion of our first drill, Percy in\ncommand, the contents of a dozen clothes lockers were dumped into sheets\nand hurled out of the windows. I usurped dictatorship just in time to\nkeep the pillows and mattresses from following. We spent hours resorting\nthose clothes, while Percy and the doctor, having lost all interest\nstrolled up to the camp with their pipes.\n\nOur future drills are to be a touch less realistic. However, I am\npleased to tell you that, under the able direction of Fire Chief\nWitherspoon, we emptied the building in six minutes and twenty-eight\nseconds.\n\nThat baby Allegra has fairy blood in her veins. Never did this\ninstitution harbor such a child, barring one that Jervis and I know of.\nShe has completely subjugated the doctor. Instead of going about his\nvisits like a sober medical man, he comes down to my library hand in\nhand with Allegra, and for half an hour at a time crawls about on a rug,\npretending he's a horse, while the bonnie wee lassie sits on his back\nand kicks. You know, I am thinking of putting a card in the paper:\n\nCharacters neatly remodeled. S. McBride.\n\n\nSandy dropped in two nights ago to have a bit of conversation with Betsy\nand me, and he was FRIVOLOUS. He made three jokes, and he sat down at\nthe piano and sang some old Scotch, \"My luve's like a red, red rose,\"\nand \"Come under my plaidie,\" and \"Wha's at the window? Wha? Wha?\" not in\nthe least educational, and then danced a few steps of the strathspey!\n\nI sat and beamed upon my handiwork, for it's true, I've done it all\nthrough my frivolous example and the books I've given him and the\nintroducing of such lightsome companions as Jimmie and Percy and Gordon\nHallock. If I have a few more months in which to work, I shall get the\nman human. He has given up purple ties, and at my tactful suggestion has\nadopted a suit of gray. You have no idea how it sets him off. He will\nbe quite distinguished looking as soon as I can make him stop carrying\nbulgy things in his pockets.\n\nGood-by; and remember that we're expecting you on Friday.\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. Here is a picture of Allegra, taken by Mr. Witherspoon. Isn't she\na love? Her present clothes do not enhance her beauty, but in the course\nof a few weeks she will move into a pink smocked frock.\n\nWednesday, June 24, 10 A.M. MRS. JERVIS PENDLETON.\n\nMadam:\n\nYour letter is at hand, stating that you cannot visit me on Friday per\npromise, because your husband has business that keeps him in town. What\nclishmaclaver is this! Has it come to such a pass that you can't leave\nhim for two days?\n\nI did not let 113 babies interfere with my visit to you, and I see no\nreason why you should let one husband interfere with your visit to me. I\nshall meet the Berkshire express on Friday as agreed. S. McBRIDE.\n\n\nJune 30. My dear Judy:\n\nThat was a very flying visit you paid us; but for all small favors we\nare grateful. I am awfully pleased that you were so delighted with the\nway things are going, and I can't wait for Jervis and the architect to\nget up here and really begin a fundamental ripping-up.\n\nYou know, I had the queerest feeling all the time that you were here. I\ncan't make it seem true that you, my dear, wonderful Judy, were actually\nbrought up in this institution, and know from the bitter inside what\nthese little tots need. Sometimes the tragedy of your childhood fills\nme with an anger that makes me want to roll up my sleeves and fight the\nwhole world and force it into making itself over into a place more fit\nfor children to live in. That Scotch-Irish ancestry of mine seems to\nhave deposited a tremendous amount of FIGHT in my character.\n\nIf you had started me with a modern asylum, equipped with nice, clean,\nhygienic cottages and everything in running order, I couldn't have stood\nthe monotony of its perfect clockwork. It's the sight of so many things\ncrying to be done that makes it possible for me to stay. Sometimes, I\nmust confess, I wake up in the morning and listen to these institution\nnoises, and sniff this institution air, and long for the happy, carefree\nlife that by rights is mine.\n\nYou my dear witch, cast a spell over me, and I came. But often in\nthe night watches your spell wears thin, and I start the day with the\nburning decision to run away from the John Grier Home. But I postpone\nstarting until after breakfast. And as I issue into the corridor, one\nof these pathetic tots runs to meet me, and shyly slips a warm, crumpled\nlittle fist into my hand, and looks up with wide baby eyes, mutely\nasking for a little petting, and I snatch him up and hug him. And then,\nas I look over his shoulder at the other forlorn little mites, I long\nto take all 113 into my arms and love them into happiness. There is\nsomething hypnotic about this working with children. Struggle as you\nmay, it gets you in the end.\n\nYour visit seems to have left me in a broadly philosophical frame of\nmind; but I really have one or two bits of news that I might convey. The\nnew frocks are marching along, and, oh, but they are going to be sweet!\nMrs. Livermore was entranced with those parti-colored bales of cotton\ncloth you sent,--you should see our workroom, with it all scattered\nabout,--and when I think of sixty little girls, attired in pink and blue\nand yellow and lavender, romping upon our lawn of a sunny day, I feel\nthat we should have a supply of smoked eye glasses to offer visitors.\nOf course you know that some of those brilliant fabrics are going to be\nvery fadeable and impractical. But Mrs. Livermore is as bad as you--she\ndoesn't give a hang. She'll make a second and a third set if necessary.\nDOWN WITH CHECKED GINGHAM!\n\nI am glad you liked our doctor. Of course we reserve the right to say\nanything about him we choose, but our feelings would be awfully hurt if\nanybody else should make fun of him.\n\nHe and I are still superintending each other's reading. Last week he\nappeared with Herbert Spencer's \"System of Synthetic Philosophy\" for\nme to glance at. I gratefully accepted it, and gave him in return the\n\"Diary of Marie Bashkirtseff.\" Do you remember in college how we used to\nenrich our daily speech with quotations from Marie? Well, Sandy took her\nhome and read her painstakingly and thoughtfully.\n\n\"Yes,\" he acknowledged today when he came to report, \"it is a truthful\nrecord of a certain kind of morbid, egotistical personality that\nunfortunately does exist. But I can't understand why you care to\nread it; for, thank God! Sally Lunn, you and Bash haven't anything in\ncommon.\"\n\nThat's the nearest to a compliment he ever came, and I feel extremely\nflattered. As to poor Marie, he refers to her as \"Bash\" because he can't\npronounce her name, and is too disdainful to try.\n\nWe have a child here, the daughter of a chorus girl, and she is a\nconceited, selfish, vain, posing, morbid, lying little minx, but she has\neyelashes! Sandy has taken the most violent dislike to that child.\nAnd since reading poor Marie's diary, he has found a new comprehensive\nadjective for summing up all of her distressing qualities. He calls her\nBASHY, and dismisses her.\n\nGood-by and come again.\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. My children show a distressing tendency to draw out their entire\nbank accounts to buy candy.\n\n\n\nTuesday night. My dear Judy:\n\nWhat do you think Sandy has done now? He has gone off on a pleasure trip\nto that psychopathic institution whose head alienist visited us a month\nor so ago. Did you ever know anything like the man? He is fascinated by\ninsane people, and can't let them alone.\n\nWhen I asked for some parting medical instructions, he replied:\n\n\"Feed a cowld and hunger a colic and put nae faith in doctors.\"\n\nWith that advice, and a few bottles of cod-liver oil we are left to our\nown devices. I feel very free and adventurous. Perhaps you had better\nrun up here again, as there's no telling what joyous upheaval I may\naccomplish when out from under Sandy's dampening influence.\n\nS.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nFriday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nHere I stay lashed to the mast, while you run about the country\ndisporting yourself with insane people. And just as I was thinking that\nI had nicely cured you of this morbid predilection for psychopathic\ninstitutions! It's very disappointing. You had seemed almost human of\nlate.\n\nMay I ask how long you are intending to stay? You had permission to go\nfor two days, and you've already been away four.\n\nCharlie Martin fell out of a cherry tree yesterday and cut his head\nopen, and we were driven to calling in a foreign doctor. Five stitches.\nPatient doing well. But we don't like to depend on strangers. I wouldn't\nsay a word if you were away on legitimate business, but you know very\nwell that, after associating with melancholics for a week, you will come\nback home in a dreadful state of gloom, dead sure that humanity is going\nto the dogs; and upon me will fall the burden of getting you decently\ncheerful again.\n\nDo leave those insane people to their delusions, and come back to the\nJohn Grier Home, which needs you.\n\nI am most fervent' Your friend and servant, S. McB.\n\nP.S. Don't you admire that poetical ending? It was borrowed from Robert\nBurns, whose works I am reading assiduously as a compliment to a Scotch\nfriend.\n\n\nJuly 6.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nThat doctor man is still away. No word; just disappeared into space.\nI don't know whether he is ever coming back or not, but we seem to be\nrunning very happily without him.\n\nI lunched yesterday CHEZ the two kind ladies who have taken our Punch to\ntheir hearts. The young man seems to be very much at home. He took me\nby the hand, and did the honors of the garden, presenting me with the\nbluebell of my choice. At luncheon the English butler lifted him into\nhis chair and tied on his bib with as much manner as though he were\nserving a prince of the blood. The butler has lately come from the\nhousehold of the Earl of Durham, Punch from a cellar in Houston Street.\nIt was a very uplifting spectacle.\n\nMy hostesses entertained me afterward with excerpts from their table\nconversations of the last two weeks. (I wonder the butler hasn't given\nnotice; he looked like a respectable man.) If nothing more comes of it,\nat least Punch has furnished them with funny stories for the rest of\ntheir lives. One of them is even thinking of writing a book. \"At least,\"\nsays she, wiping hysterical tears from her eyes, \"we have lived!\"\n\nThe Hon. Cy dropped in at 6:30 last night, and found me in an evening\ngown, starting for a dinner at Mrs. Livermore's house. He mildly\nobserved that Mrs. Lippett did not aspire to be a society leader, but\nsaved her energy for her work. You know I'm not vindictive, but I never\nlook at that man without wishing he were at the bottom of the duck pond,\nsecurely anchored to a rock.\n\nOtherwise he'd pop up and float.\n\nSingapore respectfully salutes you, and is very glad that you can't see\nhim as he now appears. A shocking calamity has befallen his good looks.\nSome bad child--and I don't think she's a boy--has clipped that poor\nbeastie in spots, until he looks like a mangy, moth-eaten checkerboard.\nNo one can imagine who did it. Sadie Kate is very handy with the\nscissors, but she is also handy with an alibi! During the time when the\nclipping presumably occurred, she was occupying a stool in the corner of\nthe schoolroom with her face to the wall, as twenty-eight children can\ntestify. However, it has become Sadie Kate's daily duty to treat those\nspots with your hair tonic.\n\nI am, as usual,\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. This is a recent portrait of the Hon. Cy drawn from life. The man,\nin some respects, is a fascinating talker; he makes gestures with his\nnose.\n\n\nThursday evening.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nSandy is back after a ten-days' absence,--no explanations,--and plunged\ndeep into gloom. He resents our amiable efforts to cheer him up, and\nwill have nothing to do with any of us except baby Allegra. He took\nher to his house for supper tonight and never brought her back until\nhalf-past seven, a scandalous hour for a young miss of three. I don't\nknow what to make of our doctor; he grows more incomprehensible every\nday.\n\nBut Percy, now, is an open-minded, confiding young man. He has just been\nmaking a dinner call (he is very punctilious in all social matters), and\nour entire conversation was devoted to the girl in Detroit. He is lonely\nand likes to talk about her; and the wonderful things he says! I hope\nthat Miss Detroit is worthy of all this fine affection, but I'm afraid.\nHe fetched out a leather case from the innermost recesses of his\nwaistcoat and, reverently unwrapping two layers of tissue-paper, showed\nme the photograph of a silly little thing, all eyes and earrings and\nfuzzy hair. I did my best to appear congratulatory, but my heart shut up\nout of pity for the poor boy's future.\n\nIsn't it funny how the nicest men often choose the worst wives, and the\nnicest women the worst husbands? Their very niceness, I suppose, makes\nthem blind and unsuspicious.\n\nYou know, the most interesting pursuit in the world is studying\ncharacter. I believe I was meant to be a novelist; people fascinate\nme--until I know them thoroughly. Percy and the doctor form a most\nengaging contrast. You always know at any moment what that nice young\nman is thinking about; he is written like a primer in big type and\none-syllable words. But the doctor! He might as well be written in\nChinese so far as legibility goes. You have heard of people with a dual\nnature; well, Sandy possesses a triple one. Usually he's scientific\nand as hard as granite, but occasionally I suspect him of being quite a\nsentimental person underneath his official casing. For days at a time\nhe will be patient and kind and helpful, and I begin to like him; then\nwithout any warning an untamed wild man swells up from the innermost\ndepths, and--oh, dear! the creature's impossible.\n\nI always suspect that sometime in the past he has suffered a terrible\nhurt, and that he is still brooding over the memory of it. All the time\nhe is talking you have the uncomfortable feeling that in the far back\ncorners of his mind he is thinking something else. But this may be\nmerely my romantic interpretation of an uncommonly bad temper. In any\ncase, he's baffling.\n\nWe have been waiting for a week for a fine windy afternoon, and this is\nit. My children are enjoying \"kite-day,\" a leaf taken from Japan. All\nof the big-enough boys and most of the girls are spread over \"Knowltop\"\n(that high, rocky sheep pasture which joins us on the east) flying kites\nmade by themselves.\n\nI had a dreadful time coaxing the crusty old gentleman who owns the\nestate into granting permission. He doesn't like orphans, he says,\nand if he once lets them get a start in his grounds, the place will\nbe infested with them forever. You would think, to hear him talk, that\norphans were a pernicious kind of beetle.\n\nBut after half an hour's persuasive talking on my part, he grudgingly\nmade us free of his sheep pasture for two hours, provided we didn't step\nfoot into the cow pasture over the lane, and came home promptly when our\ntime was up. To insure the sanctity of his cow pasture, Mr. Knowltop has\nsent his gardener and chauffeur and two grooms to patrol its boundaries\nwhile the flying is on. The children are still at it, and are having a\nwonderful adventure racing over that windy height and getting tangled up\nin one another's strings. When they come panting back they are to have a\nsurprise in the shape of ginger cookies and lemonade.\n\nThese pitiful little youngsters with their old faces! It's a difficult\ntask to make them young, but I believe I'm accomplishing it. And it\nreally is fun to feel you're doing something positive for the good of\nthe world. If I don't fight hard against it, you'll be accomplishing\nyour purpose of turning me into a useful person. The social excitements\nof Worcester almost seem tame before the engrossing interest of 113\nlive, warm, wriggling little orphans.\n\nYours with love,\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. I believe, to be accurate, that it's 107 children I possess this\nafternoon.\n\n\nDear Judy:\n\nThis being Sunday and a beautiful blossoming day, with a warm wind\nblowing, I sat at my window with the \"Hygiene of the Nervous System\"\n(Sandy's latest contribution to my mental needs) open in my lap, and\nmy eyes on the prospect without. \"Thank Heaven!\" thought I, \"that this\ninstitution was so commandingly placed that at least we can look out\nover the cast-iron wall which shuts us in.\"\n\nI was feeling very cooped-up and imprisoned and like an orphan myself;\nso I decided that my own nervous system required fresh air and exercise\nand adventure. Straight before me ran that white ribbon of road that\ndips into the valley and up over the hills on the other side. Ever since\nI came I have longed to follow it to the top and find out what lies\nbeyond those hills. Poor Judy! I dare say that very same longing\nenveloped your childhood. If any one of my little chicks ever stands by\nthe window and looks across the valley to the hills and asks, \"What's\nover there?\" I shall telephone for a motor car.\n\nBut today my chicks were all piously engaged with their little souls,\nI the only wanderer at heart. I changed my silken Sunday gown for\nhomespun, planning meanwhile a means to get to the top of those hills.\n\nThen I went to the telephone and brazenly called up 505.\n\n\"Good afternoon, Mrs. McGurk,\" said I, very sweet. \"May I be speaking\nwith Dr. MacRae?\"\n\n\"Howld the wire,\" said she, very short.\n\n\"Afternoon, Doctor,\" said I to him. \"Have ye, by chance, any dying\npatients who live on the top o' the hills beyant?\"\n\n\"I have not, thank the Lord!\"\n\n\"'Tis a pity,\" said I, disappointed. \"And what are ye afther doin' with\nyerself the day?\"\n\n\"I am reading the `Origin of Species.'\"\n\n\"Shut it up; it's not fit for Sunday. And tell me now, is yer motor car\niled and ready to go?\"\n\n\"It is at your disposal. Are you wanting me to take some orphans for a\nride?\"\n\n\"Just one who's sufferin' from a nervous system. She's taken a fixed\nidea that she must get to the top o' the hills.\"\n\n\"My car is a grand climber. In fifteen minutes--\"\n\n\"Wait!\" said I. \"Bring with ye a frying pan that's a decent size for\ntwo. There's nothing in my kitchen smaller than a cart wheel. And ask\nMrs. McGurk can ye stay out for supper.\"\n\nSo I packed in a basket a jar of bacon and some eggs and muffins and\nginger cookies, with hot coffee in the thermos bottle, and was waiting\non the steps when Sandy chugged up with his automobile and frying pan.\n\nWe really had a beautiful adventure, and he enjoyed the sensation\nof running away exactly as much as I. Not once did I let him mention\ninsanity. I made him look at the wide stretches of meadow and the lines\nof pollard willows backed by billowing hills, and sniff the air, and\nlisten to the cawing crows and the tinkle of cowbells and the gurgling\nof the river. And we talked--oh, about a million things far removed from\nour asylum. I made him throw away the idea that he is a scientist, and\npretend to be a boy. You will scarcely credit the assertion, but he\nsucceeded--more or less. He did pull off one or two really boyish\npranks. Sandy is not yet out of his thirties and, mercy! that is too\nearly to be grown up.\n\nWe camped on a bluff overlooking our view, gathered some driftwood,\nbuilt a fire, and cooked the NICEST supper--a sprinkling of burnt stick\nin our fried eggs, but charcoal's healthy. Then, when Sandy had finished\nhis pipe and \"the sun was setting in its wonted west,\" we packed up and\ncoasted back home.\n\nHe says it was the nicest afternoon he has had in years, and, poor\ndeluded man of science, I actually believe it's true. His olive green\nhome is so uncomfortable and dreary and uninspiring that I don't wonder\nhe drowns his troubles in books. Just as soon as I can find a nice\ncomfortable house mother to put in charge, I am going to plot for the\ndismissal of Maggie McGurk, though I foresee that she will be even\nharder than Sterry to pry from her moorings.\n\nPlease don't draw the conclusion that I am becoming unduly interested\nin our bad-tempered doctor, for I'm not. It's just that he leads such a\ncomfortless life that I sometimes long to pat him on the head and tell\nhim to cheer up; the world's full of sunshine, and some of it's for\nhim--just as I long to comfort my hundred and seven orphans; so much and\nno more.\n\nI am sure that I had some real news to tell you, but it has completely\ngone out of my head. The rush of fresh air has made me sleepy. It's\nhalf-past nine, and I bid you good night.\n\nS.\n\nP.S. Gordon Hallock has evaporated into thin air. Not a word for three\nweeks; no candy or stuffed animals or tokimentoes of any description.\nWhat on earth do you suppose has become of that attentive young man?\n\n\nJuly 13.\n\nDearest Judy:\n\nHark to the glad tidings!\n\nThis being the thirty-first day of Punch's month, I telephoned to his\ntwo patronesses, as nominated in the bond, to arrange for his return. I\nwas met by an indignant refusal. Give up their sweet little volcano\njust as they are getting it trained not to belch forth fire? They are\noutraged that I can make such an ungrateful request. Punch has accepted\ntheir invitation to spend the summer.\n\nThe dressmaking is still going on. You should hear the machines whir\nand the tongues clatter in the sewing room. Our most cowed, apathetic,\nspiritless little orphan cheers up and takes an interest in life when\nshe hears that she is to possess three perfectly private dresses of her\nown, and each a different color, chosen by herself. And you should see\nhow it encourages their sewing ability. Even the little ten-year-olds\nare bursting into seamstresses. I wish I could devise an equally\neffective way to make them take an interest in cooking. But our\nkitchen is extremely uneducative. You know how hampering it is to one's\nenthusiasm to have to prepare a bushel of potatoes at once.\n\nI think you've heard me mention the fact that I should like to divide up\nmy kiddies into ten nice little families, with a nice comfortable house\nmother over each? If we just had ten picturesque cottages to put them\nin, with flowers in the front yard and rabbits and kittens and\npuppies and chickens in the back, we should be a perfectly presentable\ninstitution, and wouldn't be ashamed to have these charity experts come\nvisiting us.\n\n\nThursday.\n\n\nI started this letter three days ago, was interrupted to talk to a\npotential philanthropist (fifty tickets to the circus), and have not had\ntime to pick up my pen since. Betsy has been in Philadelphia for three\ndays, being a bridesmaid for a miserable cousin. I hope that no more of\nher family are thinking of getting married, for it's most upsetting to\nthe J. G. H.\n\nWhile there, she investigated a family who had applied for a child. Of\ncourse we haven't a proper investigating plant, but once in a while,\nwhen a family drops right into our arms, we do like to put the business\nthrough. As a usual thing, we work with the State Charities' Aid\nAssociation. They have a lot of trained agents traveling about the\nState, keeping in touch with families who are willing to take children,\nand with asylums that have them to give. Since they are willing to\nwork for us, there is no slightest use in our going to the expense\nof peddling our own babies. And I do want to place out as many as are\navailable, for I firmly believe that a private home is the best thing\nfor the child, provided, of course, that we are very fussy about the\ncharacter of the homes we choose. I don't require rich foster parents,\nbut I do require kind, loving, intelligent parents. This time I think\nBetsy has landed a gem of a family. The child is not yet delivered or\nthe papers signed, and of course there is always danger that they may\ngive a sudden flop, and splash back into the water.\n\nAsk Jervis if he ever heard of J. F. Bretland of Philadelphia. He seems\nto move in financial circles. The first I ever heard of him was a\nletter addressed to the \"Supt. John Grier Home, Dear Sir,\"--a curt,\ntypewritten, businesslike letter, from an AWFULLY businesslike lawyer,\nsaying that his wife had determined to adopt a baby girl of attractive\nappearance and good health between the ages of two and three years. The\nchild must be an orphan of American stock, with unimpeachable heredity,\nand no relatives to interfere. Could I furnish one as required and\noblige, yours truly, J. F. Bretland?\n\nBy way of reference he mentioned \"Bradstreets.\" Did you ever hear of\nanything so funny? You would think he was opening a charge account at a\nnursery, and inclosing an order from our seed catalogue.\n\nWe began our usual investigation by mailing a reference blank to a\nclergyman in Germantown, where the J. F. B.'s reside.\n\nDoes he own any property?\n\nDoes he pay his bills?\n\nIs he kind to animals?\n\nDoes he attend church?\n\nDoes he quarrel with his wife? And a dozen other impertinent questions.\n\nWe evidently picked a clergyman with a sense of humor. Instead of\nanswering in laborious detail, he wrote up and down and across the\nsheet, \"I wish they'd adopt me!\"\n\nThis looked promising, so B. Kindred obligingly dashed out to Germantown\nas soon as the wedding breakfast was over. She is developing the most\nphenomenal detective instinct. In the course of a social call she can\nabsorb from the chairs and tables a family's entire moral history.\n\nShe returned from Germantown bursting with enthusiastic details.\n\nMr. J. F. Bretland is a wealthy and influential citizen, cordially loved\nby his friends and deeply hated by his enemies (discharged employees,\nwho do not hesitate to say that he is a HAR-RD man). He is a little\nshaky in his attendance at church, but his wife seems regular, and he\ngives money.\n\nShe is a charming, kindly, cultivated gentlewoman, just out of a\nsanatorium after a year of nervous prostration. The doctor says that\nwhat she needs is some strong interest in life, and advises adopting\na child. She has always longed to do it, but her hard husband has\nstubbornly refused. But finally, as always, it is the gentle, persistent\nwife who has triumphed, and hard husband has been forced to give in.\nWaiving his own natural preference for a boy, he wrote, as above, the\nusual request for a blue-eyed girl.\n\nMrs. Bretland, with the firm intention of taking a child, has been\nreading up for years, and there is no detail of infant dietetics\nthat she does not know. She has a sunny nursery, with a southwestern\nexposure, all ready. And a closet full of surreptitiously gathered\ndolls! She has made the clothes for them herself,--she showed them to\nBetsy with the greatest pride,--so you can understand the necessity for\na girl.\n\nShe has just heard of an excellent English trained nurse that she can\nsecure, but she isn't sure but that it would be better to start with a\nFrench nurse, so that the child can learn the language before her vocal\ncords are set. Also, she was extremely interested when she heard that\nBetsy was a college woman. She couldn't make up her mind whether to\nsend the baby to college or not. What was Betsy's honest opinion? If the\nchild were Betsy's own daughter, would Betsy send her to college?\n\nAll this would be funny if it weren't so pathetic; but really I can't\nget away from the picture of that poor lonely woman sewing those doll\nclothes for the little unknown girl that she wasn't sure she could have.\nShe lost her own two babies years ago, or, rather, she never had them;\nthey were never alive.\n\nYou can see what a good home it's going to be. There's lots of love\nwaiting for the little mite, and that is better than all the wealth\nwhich, in this case, goes along.\n\nBut the problem now is to find the child, and that isn't easy. The J. F.\nBretlands are so abominably explicit in their requirements. I have\njust the baby boy to give them; but with that closetful of dolls, he is\nimpossible. Little Florence won't do--one tenacious parent living. I've\na wide variety of foreigners with liquid brown eyes--won't do at all.\nMrs. Bretland is a blonde, and daughter must resemble her. I have\nseveral sweet little mites with unspeakable heredity, but the Bretlands\nwant six generations of church-attending grandparents, with a colonial\ngovernor at the top. Also I have a darling little curly-headed girl (and\ncurls are getting rarer and rarer), but illegitimate. And that seems to\nbe an unsurmountable barrier in the eyes of adopting parents, though,\nas a matter of fact, it makes no slightest difference in the child.\nHowever, she won't do. The Bretlands hold out sternly for a marriage\ncertificate.\n\nThere remains just one child out of all these one hundred and seven that\nappears available. Our little Sophie's father and mother were killed in\na railroad accident, and the only reason she wasn't killed was because\nthey had just left her in a hospital to get an abscess cut out of her\nthroat. She comes from good common American stock, irreproachable and\nuninteresting in every way. She's a washed-out, spiritless, whiney\nlittle thing. The doctor has been pouring her full of his favorite\ncod-liver oil and spinach, but he can't get any cheerfulness into her.\n\nHowever, individual love and care does accomplish wonders in institution\nchildren, and she may bloom into something rare and beautiful after a\nfew months' transplanting. So I yesterday wrote a glowing account of her\nimmaculate family history to J. F. Bretland, offering to deliver her in\nGermantown.\n\nThis morning I received a telegram from J. F. B. Not at all! He does not\npurpose to buy any daughter sight unseen. He will come and inspect the\nchild in person at three o'clock on Wednesday next.\n\nOh dear, if he shouldn't like her! We are now bending all our energies\ntoward enhancing that child's beauty--like a pup bound for the dog\nshow. Do you think it would be awfully immoral if I rouged her cheeks a\nsuspicion? She is too young to pick up the habit.\n\nHeavens! what a letter! A million pages written without a break. You can\nsee where my heart is. I'm as excited over little Sophie's settling in\nlife as though she were my own darling daughter.\n\nRespectful regards to the president.\n\nSAL. McB.\n\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nThat was an obnoxious, beastly, low-down trick not to send me a cheering\nline for four weeks just because, in a period of abnormal stress I once\nlet you go for three. I had really begun to be worried for fear you'd\ntumbled into the Potomac. My chicks would miss you dreadfully; they love\ntheir uncle Gordon. Please remember that you promised to send them a\ndonkey.\n\nPlease also remember that I'm a busier person than you. It's a lot\nharder to run the John Grier Home than the House of Representatives.\nBesides, you have more efficient people to help.\n\nThis isn't a letter; it's an indignant remonstrance. I'll write\ntomorrow--or the next day.\n\nS.\n\nP.S. On reading your letter over again I am slightly mollified, but\ndinna think I believe a' your saft words. I ken weel ye only flatter\nwhen ye speak sae fair.\n\n\nJuly 17.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nI have a history to recount.\n\nThis, please remember, is Wednesday next. So at half-past two o'clock\nour little Sophie was bathed and brushed and clothed in fine linen, and\nput in charge of a trusty orphan, with anxious instructions to keep her\nclean.\n\nAt three-thirty to the minute--never have I known a human being so\ndisconcertingly businesslike as J. F. Bretland--an automobile of\nexpensive foreign design rolled up to the steps of this imposing\nchateau. A square-shouldered, square-jawed personage, with a chopped-off\nmustache and a manner that inclines one to hurry, presented himself\nthree minutes later at my library door. He greeted me briskly as \"Miss\nMcKosh.\" I gently corrected him, and he changed to \"Miss McKim.\" I\nindicated my most soothing armchair, and invited him to take some light\nrefreshment after his journey. He accepted a glass of water (I admire a\ntemperate parent), and evinced an impatient desire to be done with the\nbusiness. So I rang the bell and ordered the little Sophie to be brought\ndown.\n\n\"Hold on, Miss McGee!\" said he to me. \"I'd rather see her in her own\nenvironment. I will go with you to the playroom or corral or wherever\nyou keep your youngsters.\"\n\nSo I led him to the nursery, where thirteen or fourteen mites in gingham\nrompers were tumbling about on mattresses on the floor. Sophie, alone\nin the glory of feminine petticoats, was ensconced in the blue-ginghamed\narms of a very bored orphan. She was squirming and fighting to get down,\nand her feminine petticoats were tightly wound about her neck. I took\nher in my arms, smoothed her clothes, wiped her nose, and invited her to\nlook at the gentleman.\n\nThat child's whole future hung upon five minutes of sunniness, and\ninstead of a single smile, she WHINED!\n\nMr. Bretland shook her hand in a very gingerly fashion and chirruped to\nher as you might to a pup. Sophie took not the slightest notice of him,\nbut turned her back, and buried her face in my neck. He shrugged his\nshoulders, supposed that they could take her on trial. She might suit\nhis wife; he himself didn't want one, anyway. And we turned to go out.\n\nThen who should come toddling straight across his path but that little\nsunbeam Allegra! Exactly in front of him she staggered, threw her arms\nabout like a windmill, and plumped down on all fours. He hopped aside\nwith great agility to avoid stepping on her, and then picked her up and\nset her on her feet. She clasped her arms about his leg, and looked up\nat him with a gurgling laugh.\n\n\"Daddy! Frow baby up!\"\n\nHe is the first man, barring the doctor, whom the child has seen for\nweeks, and evidently he resembles somewhat her almost forgotten father.\n\nJ. F. Bretland picked her up and tossed her in the air as handily as\nthough it were a daily occurrence, while she ecstatically shrieked her\ndelight. Then when he showed signs of lowering her, she grasped him by\nan ear and a nose, and drummed a tattoo on his stomach with both feet.\nNo one could ever accuse Allegra of lacking vitality!\n\nJ. F. disentangled himself from her endearments, and emerged, rumpled as\nto hair, but with a firm-set jaw. He set her on her feet, but retained\nher little doubled-up fist.\n\n\"This is the kid for me,\" he said. \"I don't believe I need to look any\nfurther.\"\n\nI explained that we couldn't separate little Allegra from her brothers;\nbut the more I objected, the stubborner his jaw became. We went back to\nthe library, and argued about it for half an hour.\n\nHe liked her heredity, he liked her looks, he liked her spirit, he liked\nHER. If he was going to have a daughter foisted on him, he wanted one\nwith some ginger. He'd be hanged if he'd take that other whimpering\nlittle thing. It wasn't natural. But if I gave him Allegra, he would\nbring her up as his own child, and see that she was provided for for the\nrest of her life. Did I have any right to cut her out from all that just\nfor a lot of sentimental nonsense? The family was already broken up; the\nbest I could do for them now was to provide for them individually. \"Take\nall three,\" said I, quite brazenly.\n\nBut, no, he couldn't consider that; his wife was an invalid, and one\nchild was all that she could manage.\n\nWell, I was in a dreadful quandary. It seemed such a chance for the\nchild, and yet it did seem so cruel to separate her from those two\nadoring little brothers. I knew that if the Bretlands adopted her\nlegally, they would do their best to break all ties with the past, and\nthe child was still so tiny she would forget her brothers as quickly as\nshe had her father.\n\nThen I thought about you, Judy, and of how bitter you have always been\nbecause, when that family wanted to adopt you, the asylum wouldn't let\nyou go. You have always said that you might have had a home, too, like\nother children, but that Mrs. Lippett stole it away from you. Was I\nperhaps stealing little Allegra's home from her? With the two boys it\nwould be different; they could be educated and turned out to shift for\nthemselves. But to a girl a home like this would mean everything. Ever\nsince baby Allegra came to us, she has seemed to me just such another\nchild as baby Judy must have been. She has ability and spirit. We must\nsomehow furnish her with opportunity. She, too, deserves her share\nof the world's beauty and good--as much as nature has fitted her to\nappreciate. And could any asylum ever give her that? I stood and thought\nand thought while Mr. Bretland impatiently paced the floor.\n\n\"You have those boys down and let me talk to them,\" Mr. Bretland\ninsisted. \"If they have a spark of generosity, they'll be glad to let\nher go.\"\n\nI sent for them, but my heart was a solid lump of lead. They were still\nmissing their father; it seemed merciless to snatch away that darling\nbaby sister, too.\n\nThey came hand in hand, sturdy, fine little chaps, and stood solemnly at\nattention, with big, wondering eyes fixed on the strange gentleman.\n\n\"Come here, boys. I want to talk to you.\" He took each by a hand. \"In\nthe house I live in we haven't any little baby, so my wife and I\ndecided to come here, where there are so many babies without fathers and\nmothers, and take one home to be ours. She will have a beautiful house\nto live in, and lots of toys to play with, and she will be happy all her\nlife--much happier than she could ever be here. I know that you will be\nvery glad to hear that I have chosen your little sister.\"\n\n\"And won't we ever see her any more?\" asked Clifford.\n\n\"Oh, yes, sometimes.\"\n\nClifford looked from me to Mr. Bretland, and two big tears began rolling\ndown his cheeks. He jerked his hand away and came and hurled himself\ninto my arms.\n\n\"Don't let him have her! Please! Please! Send him away!\"\n\n\"Take them all!\" I begged.\n\nBut he's a hard man.\n\n\"I didn't come for an entire asylum,\" said he, shortly.\n\nBy this time Don was sobbing on the other side. And then who should\ninject himself into the hubbub but Dr. MacRae, with baby Allegra in his\narms!\n\nI introduced them, and explained. Mr. Bretland reached for the baby, and\nSandy held her tight.\n\n\"Quite impossible,\" said Sandy, shortly. \"Miss McBride will tell you\nthat it's one of the rules of this institution never to separate a\nfamily.\"\n\n\"Miss McBride has already decided,\" said J. F. B., stiffly. \"We have\nfully discussed the question.\"\n\n\"You must be mistaken,\" said Sandy, becoming his Scotchest, and turning\nto me. \"You surely had no intention of performing any such cruelty as\nthis?\"\n\nHere was the decision of Solomon all over again, with two of the\nstubbornest men that the good Lord ever made wresting poor little\nAllegra limb from limb.\n\nI despatched the three chicks back to the nursery and returned to the\nfray. We argued loud and hotly, until finally J. F. B. echoed my own\nfrequent query of the last five months: \"Who is the head of this asylum,\nthe superintendent or the visiting physician?\"\n\nI was furious with the doctor for placing me in such a position before\nthat man, but I couldn't quarrel with him in public; so I had ultimately\nto tell Mr. Bretland with finality and flatness, that Allegra was out of\nthe question. Would he not reconsider Sophie?\n\nNo, he'd be darned if he'd reconsider Sophie. Allegra or nobody. He\nhoped that I realized that I had weakly allowed the child's entire\nfuture to be ruined. And with that parting shot he backed to the door.\n\"Miss MacRae, Dr. McBride, good afternoon.\" He achieved two formal bows\nand withdrew.\n\nAnd the moment the door closed Sandy and I fought it out. He said that\nany person who claimed to have any modern, humane views on the subject\nof child-care ought to be ashamed to have considered for even a moment\nthe question of breaking up such a family. And I accused him of keeping\nher for the purely selfish reason that he was fond of the child and\ndidn't wish to lose her.\n\n(And that, I believe, is the truth.) Oh, we had the battle of our\ncareer, and he finally took himself off with a stiffness and politeness\nthat excelled J. F. B.'s.\n\nBetween the two of them I feel as limp as though I'd been run through\nour new mangling machine. And then Betsy came home, and reviled me for\nthrowing away the choicest family we have ever discovered!\n\nSo this is the end of our week of feverish activity; and both Sophie and\nAllegra are, after all, to be institution children. Oh dear! oh dear!\nPlease remove Sandy from the staff, and send me, instead, a German, a\nFrenchman, a Chinaman, if you choose--anything but a Scotchman.\n\nYours wearily,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nP.S. I dare say that Sandy is also passing a busy evening in writing\nto have me removed. I won't object if you wish to do it. I am tired of\ninstitutions.\n\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nYou are a captious, caviling, carping, crabbed, contentious,\ncantankerous chap. Hoot mon! an' why shouldna I drap into Scotch gin I\nchoose? An' I with a Mac in my name.\n\nOf course the John Grier will be delighted to welcome you on Thursday\nnext, not only for the donkey, but for your sweet sunny presence as\nwell. I was planning to write you a mile-long letter to make up for past\ndeficiencies, but wha's the use? I'll be seeing you the morn's morn, an'\nunco gude will be the sight o' you for sair een.\n\nDinna fash yoursel, Laddie, because o'my language. My forebears were\nfrom the Hielands.\n\nMcBRIDE.\n\n\nDear Judy:\n\nAll's well with the John Grier--except for a broken tooth, a sprained\nwrist, a badly scratched knee, and one case of pinkeye. Betsy and I are\nbeing polite, but cool, toward the doctor. The annoying thing is that\nhe is rather cool, too. And he seems to be under the impression that the\ndrop in temperature is all on his side. He goes about his business in a\nscientific, impersonal way, entirely courteous, but somewhat detached.\n\nHowever, the doctor is not disturbing us very extensively at present.\nWe are about to receive a visit from a far more fascinating person than\nSandy. The House of Representatives again rests from its labors, and\nGordon enjoys a vacation, two days of which he is planning to spend at\nthe Brantwood Inn.\n\nI am delighted to hear that you have had enough seaside, and are\nconsidering our neighborhood for the rest of the summer. There are\nseveral spacious estates to be had within a few miles of the John Grier,\nand it will be a nice change for Jervis to come home only at week ends.\nAfter a pleasantly occupied absence, you will each have some new ideas\nto add to the common stock.\n\nI can't add any further philosophy just now on the subject of married\nlife, having to refresh my memory on the Monroe Doctrine and one or two\nother political topics.\n\nI am looking eagerly forward to August and three months with you.\n\nAs ever,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nFriday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nIt's very forgiving of me to invite you to dinner after that volcanic\nexplosion of last week. However, please come. You remember our\nphilanthropic friend, Mr. Hallock, who sent us the peanuts and goldfish\nand other indigestible trifles? He will be with us tonight, so this is\nyour chance to turn the stream of his benevolence into more hygienic\nchannels.\n\nWe dine at seven.\n\nAs ever,\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\n\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nYou should have lived in the days when each man inhabited a separate\ncave on a separate mountain.\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nFriday, 6:30.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nGordon is here, and a reformed man so far as his attitude toward my\nasylum goes. He has discovered the world-old truth that the way to a\nmother's heart is through praise of her children, and he had nothing but\npraise for all 107 of mine. Even in the case of Loretta Higgins he found\nsomething pleasant to say. He thinks it nice that she isn't cross-eyed.\n\nHe went shopping with me in the village this afternoon, and was very\nhelpful about picking out hair-ribbons for a couple of dozen little\ngirls. He begged to choose Sadie Kate's himself, and after many\nhesitations he hit upon orange satin for one braid and emerald green for\nthe other.\n\nWhile we were immersed in this business I became aware of a neighboring\ncustomer, ostensibly engaged with hooks and eyes, but straining every\near to listen to our nonsense.\n\nShe was so dressed up in a picture hat, a spotted veil, a feather boa,\nand a NOUVEAU ART parasol that I never dreamed she was any acquaintance\nof mine till I happened to catch her eye with a familiar malicious gleam\nin it. She bowed stiffly, and disapprovingly; and I nodded back. Mrs.\nMaggie McGurk in her company clothes!\n\nThat is a pleasanter expression than she really has. Her smile is due to\na slip of the pen.\n\nPoor Mrs. McGurk can't understand any possible intellectual interest in\na man. She suspects me of wanting to marry every single one that I meet.\nAt first she thought I wanted to snatch away her doctor; but now, after\nseeing me with Gordon, she considers me a bigamous monster who wants\nthem both.\n\nGood-by; some guests approach.\n\n\n11:30 P.M.\n\n\nI have just been giving a dinner for Gordon, with Betsy and Mrs.\nLivermore and Mr. Witherspoon as guests. I graciously included the\ndoctor, but he curtly declined on the ground that he wasn't in a social\nmood. Our Sandy does not let politeness interfere with truth!\n\nThere is no doubt about it, Gordon is the most presentable man that ever\nbreathed. He is so good looking and easy and gracious and witty, and his\nmanners are so impeccable--Oh, he would make a wonderfully decorative\nhusband! But after all, I suppose you do live with a husband. You don't\njust show him off at dinners and teas.\n\nHe was exceptionally nice tonight. Betsy and Mrs. Livermore both fell in\nlove with him--and I just a trifle. He entertained us with a speech in\nhis best public manner, apropos of Java's welfare. We have been having\na dreadful time finding a sleeping place for that monkey, and Gordon\nproved with incontestable logic that, since he was presented to us by\nJimmie, and Jimmie is Percy's friend, he should sleep with Percy. Gordon\nis a natural talker, and an audience affects him like champagne. He can\nargue with as much emotional earnestness on the subject of a monkey as\non the greatest hero that ever bled for his country.\n\nI felt tears coming to my eyes when he described Java's loneliness as he\nwatched out the night in our furnace cellar, and pictured his brothers\nat play in the far-off tropical jungle.\n\nA man who can talk like that has a future before him. I haven't a doubt\nbut that I shall be voting for him for President in another twenty\nyears.\n\nWe all had a beautiful time, and entirely forgot--for a space of three\nhours--that 107 orphans slumbered about us. Much as I love the little\ndears, it is pleasant to get away from them once in a while.\n\nMy guests left at ten, and it must be midnight by now. (This is the\neighth day, and my clock has stopped again; Jane forgets to wind it as\nregularly as Friday comes around.) However, I know it's late; and as a\nwoman, it's my duty to try for beauty sleep, especially with an eligible\nyoung suitor at hand.\n\nI'll finish tomorrow. Good night.\n\n\nSaturday.\n\n\nGordon spent this morning playing with my asylum and planning some\nintelligent presents to be sent later. He thinks that three neatly\npainted totem poles would add to the attractiveness of our Indian camps.\nHe is also going to make us a present of three dozen pink rompers for\nthe babies. Pink is a color that is very popular with the superintendent\nof this asylum, who is deadly tired of blue! Our generous friend is\nlikewise amusing himself with the idea of a couple of donkeys and\nsaddles and a little red cart. Isn't it nice that Gordon's father\nprovided for him so amply, and that he is such a charitably inclined\nyoung man? He is at present lunching with Percy at the hotel, and, I\ntrust, imbibing fresh ideas in the field of philanthropy.\n\nPerhaps you think I haven't enjoyed this interruption to the monotony\nof institution life! You can say all you please, my dear Mrs. Pendleton,\nabout how well I am managing your asylum, but, just the same, it isn't\nnatural for me to be so stationary. I very frequently need a change.\nThat is why Gordon, with his bubbling optimism and boyish spirits, is so\nexhilarating especially as a contrast to too much doctor.\n\n\nSunday morning.\n\n\nI must tell you the end of Gordon's visit. His intention had been to\nleave at four, but in an evil moment I begged him to stay over till\n9:30, and yesterday afternoon he and Singapore and I took a long\n'cross-country walk, far out of sight of the towers of this asylum,\nand stopped at a pretty little roadside inn, where we had a satisfying\nsupper of ham and eggs and cabbage. Sing stuffed so disgracefully that\nhe has been languid ever since.\n\nThe walk and all was fun, and a very grateful change from this\nmonotonous life I lead. It would have kept me pleasant and contented\nfor weeks if something most unpleasant hadn't happened later. We had\na beautiful, sunny, carefree afternoon, and I'm sorry to have had\nit spoiled. We came back very unromantically in the trolley car, and\nreached the J. G. H. before nine, just in good time for him to run on\nto the station and catch his train. So I didn't ask him to come in, but\npolitely wished him a pleasant journey at the porte-cochere.\n\nA car was standing at the side of the drive, in the shadow of the house.\nI recognized it, and thought the doctor was inside with Mr. Witherspoon.\n(They frequently spend their evenings together in the laboratory.) Well,\nGordon, at the moment of parting, was seized with an unfortunate impulse\nto ask me to abandon the management of this asylum, and take over the\nmanagement of a private house instead.\n\nDid you ever know anything like the man? He had the whole afternoon and\nmiles of empty meadow in which to discuss the question, but instead he\nmust choose our door mat!\n\nI don't know just what I did say. I tried to turn it off lightly and\nhurry him to his train. But he refused to be turned off lightly. He\nbraced himself against a post and insisted upon arguing it out. I knew\nthat he was missing his train, and that every window in this institution\nwas open. A man never has the slightest thought of possible overhearers.\nIt is always the woman who thinks of convention.\n\nBeing in a nervous twitter to get rid of him, I suppose I was pretty\nabrupt and tactless. He began to get angry, and then by some unlucky\nchance his eye fell on that car. He recognized it, too, and, being in\na savage mood, he began making fun of the doctor. \"Old Goggle-eyes\"\nhe called him, and \"Scatchy,\" and oh, the awfullest lot of unmannerly,\nsilly things!\n\nI was assuring him with convincing earnestness that I didn't care a rap\nabout the doctor, that I thought he was just as funny and impossible as\nhe could be, when suddenly the doctor rose out of his car and walked up\nto us.\n\nI could have evaporated from the earth very comfortably at that moment!\n\nSandy was quite clearly angry, as well he might be, after the things\nhe'd heard, but he was entirely cold and collected. Gordon was hot, and\nbursting with imaginary wrongs. I was aghast at this perfectly foolish\nand unnecessary muddle that had suddenly arisen out of nothing. Sandy\napologized to me with unimpeachable politeness for inadvertently\noverhearing, and then turned to Gordon and stiffly invited him to get\ninto his car and ride to the station.\n\nI begged him not to go. I didn't wish to be the cause of any silly\nquarrel between them. But without paying the slightest attention to\nme, they climbed into the car, and whirled away, leaving me placidly\nstanding on the door mat.\n\nI came in and went to bed, and lay awake for hours, expecting to hear--I\ndon't know what kind of explosion. It is now eleven o'clock, and the\ndoctor hasn't appeared. I don't know how on earth I shall meet him when\nhe does. I fancy I shall hide in the clothes closet.\n\nDid you ever know anything as unnecessary and stupid as this whole\nsituation? I suppose now I've quarreled with Gordon,--and I positively\ndon't know over what,--and of course my relations with the doctor are\ngoing to be terribly awkward. I said horrid things about him,--you know\nthe silly way I talk,--things I didn't mean in the least.\n\nI wish it were yesterday at this time. I would make Gordon go at four.\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\n\nSunday afternoon.\n\nDear Dr. MacRae:\n\nThat was a horrid, stupid, silly business last night. But by this time\nyou must know me well enough to realize that I never mean the foolish\nthings I say. My tongue has no slightest connection with my brain; it\njust runs along by itself. I must seem to you very ungrateful for\nall the help you have given me in this unaccustomed work and for the\npatience you have (occasionally) shown.\n\nI do appreciate the fact that I could never have run this asylum by\nmyself without your responsible presence in the background. And though\nonce in a while, as you yourself must acknowledge, you have been pretty\nimpatient and bad tempered and difficult, still I have never held it up\nagainst you, and I really didn't mean any of the ill-mannered things I\nsaid last night. Please forgive me for being rude. I should hate very\nmuch to lose your friendship. And we are friends, are we not? I like to\nthink so.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nDear Judy:\n\nI am sure I haven't an idea whether or not the doctor and I have made up\nour differences. I sent him a polite note of apology, which he received\nin abysmal silence. He didn't come near us until this afternoon, and\nhe hasn't by the blink of an eyelash referred to our unfortunate\ncontretemps. We talked exclusively about an ichthyol salve that will\nremove eczema from a baby's scalp; then, Sadie Kate being present, the\nconversation turned to cats. It seems that the doctor's Maltese cat has\nfour kittens, and Sadie Kate will not be silenced until she has\nseen them. Before I knew what was happening I found myself making an\nengagement to take her to see those miserable kittens at four o'clock\ntomorrow afternoon.\n\nWhereupon the doctor, with an indifferently polite bow, took himself\noff. And that apparently is the end.\n\nYour Sunday note arrives, and I am delighted to hear that you have taken\nthe house. It will be beautiful having you for a neighbor for so long.\nOur improvements ought to march along, with you and the president at\nour elbow. But it does seem as though, you ought to get out here before\nAugust 7. Are you sure that city air is good for you just now? I have\nnever known so devoted a wife.\n\nMy respects to the president.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nJuly 22.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nPlease listen to this!\n\nAt four o'clock I took Sadie Kate to the doctor's house to look at\nthose cats. But Freddy Howland just twenty minutes before had fallen\ndownstairs, so the doctor was at the Howland house occupying himself\nwith Freddy's collarbone. He had left word for us to sit down and wait,\nthat he would be back shortly.\n\nMrs. McGurk ushered us into the library; and then, not to leave us\nalone, came in herself on a pretense of polishing the brass. I don't\nknow what she thought we'd do! Run off with the pelican perhaps.\n\nI settled down to an article about the Chinese situation in the Century,\nand Sadie Kate roamed about at large examining everything she found,\nlike a curious little mongoose.\n\nShe commenced with his stuffed flamingo and wanted to know what made\nit so tall and what made it so red. Did it always eat frogs, and had it\nhurt its other foot? She ticks off questions with the steady persistency\nof an eight-day clock.\n\nI buried myself in my article and left Mrs. McGurk to deal with Sadie.\nFinally, after she had worked half-way around the room, she came to a\nportrait of a little girl occupying a leather frame in the center of the\ndoctor's writing desk--a child with a queer elf-like beauty, resembling\nvery strangely our little Allegra. This photograph might have been a\nportrait of Allegra grown five years older. I had noticed the picture\nthe night we took supper with the doctor, and had meant to ask which of\nhis little patients she was. Happily I didn't!\n\n\"Who's that?\" said Sadie Kate, pouncing upon it.\n\n\"It's the docthor's little gurrl.\"\n\n\"Where is she?\"\n\n\"Shure, she's far away wit' her gran'ma.\"\n\n\"Where'd he get her?\"\n\n\"His wife give her to him.\"\n\nI emerged from my book with electric suddenness.\n\n\"His wife!\" I cried.\n\nThe next instant I was furious with myself for having spoken, but I was\nso completely taken off my guard. Mrs. McGurk straightened up and became\nvolubly conversational at once.\n\n\"And didn't he never tell you about his wife? She went insane six years\nago. It got so it weren't safe to keep her in the house, and he had to\nput her away. It near killed him. I never seen a lady more beautiful\nthan her. I guess he didn't so much as smile for a year. It's funny he\nnever told you nothing, and you such a friend!\"\n\n\"Naturally it's not a subject he cares to talk about,\" said I dryly, and\nI asked her what kind of brass polish she used.\n\nSadie Kate and I went out to the garage and hunted up the kittens\nourselves; and we mercifully got away before the doctor came back.\n\nBut will you tell me what this means? Didn't Jervis know he was\nmarried? It's the queerest thing I ever heard. I do think, as the McGurk\nsuggests, that Sandy might casually have dropped the information that he\nhad a wife in an insane asylum.\n\nBut of course it must be a terrible tragedy and I suppose he can't bring\nhimself to talk about it. I see now why he's so morbid over the question\nof heredity--I dare say he fears for the little girl. When I think of\nall the jokes I've made on the subject, I'm aghast at how I must have\nhurt him, and angry with myself and angry with him.\n\nI feel as though I never wanted to see the man again. Mercy! did you\never know such a muddle as we are getting ourselves into?\n\nYours, SALLIE.\n\nP.S. Tom McCoomb has pushed Mamie Prout into the box of mortar that the\nmasons use. She's parboiled. I've sent for the doctor.\n\n\nJuly 24. My dear Madam:\n\nI have a shocking scandal to report about the superintendent of the John\nGrier Home. Don't let it get into the newspapers, please. I can picture\nthe spicy details of the investigation prior to her removal by the\n\"Cruelty.\"\n\nI was sitting in the sunshine by my open window this morning reading\na sweet book on the Froebel theory of child culture--never lose your\ntemper, always speak kindly to the little ones. Though they may appear\nbad, they are not so in reality. It is either that they are not feeling\nwell or have nothing interesting to do. Never punish; simply deflect\ntheir attention. I was entertaining a very loving, uplifted attitude\ntoward all this young life about me when my attention was attracted by a\ngroup of little boys beneath the window.\n\n\"Aw--John--don't hurt it!\"\n\n\"Let it go!\"\n\n\"Kill it quick!\"\n\nAnd above their remonstrances rose the agonized squealing of some animal\nin pain. I dropped Froebel and, running downstairs, burst upon them\nfrom the side door. They saw me coming, and scattered right and left,\nrevealing Johnnie Cobden engaged in torturing a mouse. I will spare you\nthe grisly details. I called to one of the boys to come and drown the\ncreature quick! John I seized by the collar; and dragged him squirming\nand kicking in at the kitchen door. He is a big, hulking boy of\nthirteen, and he fought like a little tiger, holding on to posts and\ndoorjambs as we passed. Ordinarily I doubt if I could have handled him,\nbut that one sixteenth Irish that I possess was all on top, and I was\nfighting mad. We burst into the kitchen, and I hastily looked about for\na means of chastisement. The pancake turner was the first utensil that\nmet my eyes. I seized it and beat that child with all my strength, until\nI had reduced him to a cowering, whimpering mendicant for mercy, instead\nof the fighting little bully he had been four minutes before.\n\nAnd then who should suddenly burst into the midst of this explosion but\nDr. MacRae! His face was blank with astonishment. He strode over and\ntook the pancake turner out of my hand and set the boy on his feet.\nJohnnie got behind him and clung! I was so angry that I really couldn't\ntalk. It was all I could do not to cry.\n\n\"Come, we will take him up to the office,\" was all the doctor said. And\nwe marched out, Johnnie keeping as far from me as possible and limping\nconspicuously. We left him in the outer office, and went into my library\nand shut the door.\n\n\"What in the world has the child done?\" he asked.\n\nAt that I simply laid my head down on the table and began to cry! I was\nutterly exhausted both emotionally and physically. It had taken all the\nstrength I possessed to make the pancake turner effective.\n\nI sobbed out all the bloody details, and he told me not to think about\nit; the mouse was dead now. Then he got me some water to drink, and told\nme to keep on crying till I was tired; it would do me good. I am\nnot sure that he didn't pat me on the head! Anyway, it was his best\nprofessional manner. I have watched him administer the same treatment a\ndozen times to hysterical orphans. And this was the first time in a week\nthat we had spoken beyond the formality of \"good morning\"!\n\nWell, as soon as I had got to the stage where I could sit up and laugh,\nintermittently dabbing my eyes with a wad of handkerchief, we began\na review of Johnnie's case. The boy has a morbid heredity, and may be\nslightly defective, says Sandy. We must deal with the fact as we would\nwith any other disease. Even normal boys are often cruel. A child's\nmoral sense is undeveloped at thirteen.\n\nThen he suggested that I bathe my eyes with hot water and resume\nmy dignity. Which I did. And we had Johnnie in. He stood--by\npreference--through the entire interview. The doctor talked to him, oh,\nso sensibly and kindly and humanely! John put up the plea that the mouse\nwas a pest and ought to be killed. The doctor replied that the welfare\nof the human race demanded the sacrifice of many animals for its own\ngood, not for revenge, but that the sacrifice must be carried out with\nthe least possible hurt to the animal. He explained about the mouse's\nnervous system, and how the poor little creature had no means of defense.\nIt was a cowardly thing to hurt it wantonly. He told John to try to\ndevelop imagination enough to look at things from the other person's\npoint of view, even if the other person was only a mouse. Then he went\nto the bookcase and took down my copy of Burns, and told the boy what a\ngreat poet he was, and how all Scotchmen loved his memory.\n\n\"And this is what he wrote about a mouse,\" said Sandy, turning to the\n\"Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, timorous beastie,\" which he read and explained\nto the lad as only a Scotchman could.\n\nJohnnie departed penitent, and Sandy redirected his professional\nattention to me. He said I was tired and in need of a change. Why not\ngo to the Adirondacks for a week? He and Betsy and Mr. Witherspoon would\nmake themselves into a committee to run the asylum.\n\nYou know, that's exactly what I was longing to do! I need a shifting of\nideas and some pine-scented air. My family opened the camp last week,\nand think I'm awful not to join them. They won't understand that\nwhen you accept a position like this you can't casually toss it aside\nwhenever you feel like it. But for a few days I can easily manage. My\nasylum is wound up like an eight-day clock, and will run until a week\nfrom next Monday at 4 P.M., when my train will return me. Then I shall\nbe comfortably settled again before you arrive, and with no errant\nfancies in my brain.\n\nMeanwhile Master John is in a happily chastened frame of mind and body.\nAnd I rather suspect that Sandy's moralizing had the more force because\nit was preceded by my pancake turner! But one thing I know--Suzanne\nEstelle is terrified whenever I step into her kitchen. I casually picked\nup the potato-masher this morning while I was commenting upon last\nnight's over-salty soup, and she ran to cover behind the woodshed door.\n\nTomorrow at nine I set out on my travels, after preparing the way with\nfive telegrams. And, oh! you can't imagine how I'm looking forward to\nbeing a gay, carefree young thing again--to canoeing on the lake and\ntramping in the woods and dancing at the clubhouse. I was in a state of\ndelirium all night long at the prospect. Really, I hadn't realized how\nmortally tired I had become of all this asylum scenery.\n\n\"What you need,\" said Sandy to me, \"is to get away for a little and sow\nsome wild oats.\"\n\nThat diagnosis was positively clairvoyant. I can't think of anything in\nthe world I'd rather do than sow a few wild oats. I'll come back with\nfresh energy, ready to welcome you and a busy summer.\n\nAs ever,\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. Jimmie and Gordon are both going to be up there. How I wish you\ncould join us! A husband is very discommoding.\n\n\nCAMP McBRIDE,\n\nJuly 29.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nThis is to tell you that the mountains are higher than usual, the woods\ngreener, and the lake bluer.\n\nPeople seem late about coming up this year. The Harrimans' camp is the\nonly other one at our end of the lake that is open. The clubhouse is\nvery scantily supplied with dancing men, but we have as house guest an\nobliging young politician who likes to dance, so I am not discommoded by\nthe general scarcity.\n\nThe affairs of the nation and the rearing of orphans are alike delegated\nto the background while we paddle about among the lily pads of this\ndelectable lake. I look forward with reluctance to 7:56 next Monday\nmorning, when I turn my back on the mountains. The awful thing about a\nvacation is that the moment it begins your happiness is already clouded\nby its approaching end.\n\nI hear a voice on the veranda asking if Sallie is to be found within or\nwithout.\n\n\nADDIO!\n\nS.\n\n\nAugust 3.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nBack at the John Grier, reshouldering the burdens of the coming\ngeneration. What should meet my eyes upon entering these grounds but\nJohn Cobden, of pancake turner memory, wearing a badge upon his sleeve.\nI turned it to me and read \"S. P. C. A.\" in letters of gold! The doctor,\nduring my absence, has formed a local branch of the Cruelty to Animals,\nand made Johnnie its president.\n\nI hear that yesterday he stopped the workmen on the foundation for the\nnew farm cottage and scolded them severely for whipping their horses up\nthe incline! None of all this strikes any one but me as funny.\n\nThere's a lot of news, but with you due in four days, why bother to\nwrite? Just one delicious bit I am saving for the end.\n\nSo hold your breath. You are going to receive a thrill on page 4. You\nshould hear Sadie Kate squeal! Jane is cutting her hair.\n\nInstead of wearing it in two tight braids like this--our little colleen\nwill in the future look like this--\n\n\n\"Them pigtails got on my nerves,\" says Jane.\n\nYou can see how much more stylish and becoming the present coiffure is.\nI think somebody will be wanting to adopt her. Only Sadie Kate is such\nan independent, manly little creature; she is eminently fitted by nature\nto shift for herself. I must save adopting parents for the helpless\nones.\n\nYou should see our new clothes! I can't wait for this assemblage\nof rosebuds to burst upon you. And you should have seen those blue\nginghamed eyes brighten when the new frocks were actually given\nout--three for each girl, all different colors, and all perfectly\nprivate personal property, with the owner's indelible name inside the\ncollar. Mrs. Lippett's lazy system of having each child draw from the\nwash a promiscuous dress each week, was an insult to feminine nature.\n\nSadie Kate is squealing like a baby pig. I must go to see if Jane has by\nmistake clipped off an ear.\n\n\nJane hasn't. Sadie's excellent ears are still intact. She is just\nsquealing on principle; the way one does in a dentist's chair, under the\nbelief that it is going to hurt the next instant.\n\nI really can't think of anything else to write except my news,--so here\nit is,--and I hope you'll like it.\n\nI am engaged to be married.\n\nMy love to you both.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nNovember 15.\n\nDear Judy:\n\n\nBetsy and I are just back from a GIRO in our new motor car. It\nundoubtedly does add to the pleasure of institution life. The car of its\nown accord turned up Long Ridge Road, and stopped before the gates of\nShadywell. The chains were up, and the shutters battened down, and the\nplace looked closed and gloomy and rain-soaked. It wore a sort of fall\nof the House of Usher air, and didn't in the least resemble the cheerful\nhouse that used to greet me hospitably of an afternoon.\n\nI hate to have our nice summer ended. It seems as though a section of\nmy life was shut away behind me, and the unknown future was pressing\nawfully close. Positively, I'd like to postpone that wedding another six\nmonths, but I'm afraid poor Gordon would make too dreadful a fuss. Don't\nthink I'm getting wobbly, for I'm not. It's just that somehow I need\nmore time to think about it, and March is getting nearer every day. I\nknow absolutely that I'm doing the most sensible thing. Everybody,\nman or woman, is the better for being nicely and appropriately and\ncheerfully married. But oh dear! oh dear! I do hate upheavals, and this\nis going to be such a world-without-end upheaval! Sometimes when the\nday's work is over, and I'm tired, I haven't the spirit to rise and meet\nit.\n\nAnd now especially since you've bought Shadywell, and are going to be\nhere every summer, I resent having to leave. Next year, when I'm far\naway, I'll be consumed with homesickness, thinking of all the busy,\nhappy times at the John Grier, with you and Betsy and Percy and our\ngrumbly Scotchman working away cheerfully without me. How can anything\never make up to a mother for the loss of 107 children?\n\nI trust that Judy, junior, stood the journey into town without upsetting\nher usual poise. I am sending her a bit giftie, made partly by myself\nand chiefly by Jane. But two rows, I must inform you, were done by the\ndoctor. One only gradually plumbs the depths of Sandy's nature. After a\nten-months' acquaintance with the man, I discover that he knows how to\nknit, an accomplishment he picked up in his boyhood from an old shepherd\non the Scotch moors.\n\nHe dropped in three days ago and stayed for tea, really in almost his\nold friendly mood. But he has since stiffened up again to the same man\nof granite we knew all summer. I've given up trying to make him out. I\nsuppose, however, that any one might be expected to be a bit down with\na wife in an insane asylum. I wish he'd talk about it once. It's awful\nhaving such a shadow hovering in the background of your thoughts and\nnever coming out into plain sight.\n\nI know that this letter doesn't contain a word of the kind of news that\nyou like to hear. But it's that beastly twilight hour of a damp November\nday, and I'm in a beastly uncheerful mood. I'm awfully afraid that I\nam developing into a temperamental person, and Heaven knows Gordon can\nsupply all the temperament that one family needs! I don't know where\nwe'll land if I don't preserve my sensibly stolid, cheerful nature.\n\nHave you really decided to go South with Jervis? I appreciate your\nfeeling (to a slight extent) about not wanting to be separated from a\nhusband; but it does seem sort of hazardous to me to move so young a\ndaughter to the tropics.\n\nThe children are playing blind man's buff in the lower corridor. I think\nI'll have a romp with them, and try to be in a more affable mood before\nresuming my pen.\n\nA BIENTOT!\n\nSALLIE.\n\nP.S. These November nights are pretty cold, and we are getting ready to\nmove the camps indoors. Our Indians are very pampered young savages at\npresent, with a double supply of blankets and hot-water bottles. I shall\nhate to see the camps go; they have done a lot for us. Our lads will be\nas tough as Canadian trappers when they come in.\n\n\nNovember 20.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nYour motherly solicitude is sweet, but I didn't mean what I said.\n\nOf course it's perfectly safe to convey Judy, junior, to the temperately\ntropical lands that are washed by the Caribbean. She'll thrive as\nlong as you don't set her absolutely on top of the equator. And your\nbungalow, shaded by palms and fanned by sea breezes, with an ice machine\nin the back yard and an English doctor across the bay, sounds made for\nthe rearing of babies.\n\nMy objections were all due to the selfish fact that I and the John Grier\nare going to be lonely without you this winter. I really think it's\nentrancing to have a husband who engages in such picturesque pursuits\nas financing tropical railroads and developing asphalt lakes and rubber\ngroves and mahogany forests. I wish that Gordon would take to life\nin those picturesque countries; I'd be more thrilled by the romantic\npossibilities of the future. Washington seems awfully commonplace\ncompared with Honduras and Nicaragua and the islands of the Caribbean.\n\nI'll be down to wave good-by.\n\nADDIO!\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\n\nNovember 24.\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nJudy has gone back to town, and is sailing next week for Jamaica, where\nshe is to make her headquarters while Jervis cruises about adjacent\nwaters on these entertaining new ventures of his. Couldn't you engage in\ntraffic in the South Seas? I think I'd feel pleasanter about leaving my\nasylum if you had something romantic and adventurous to offer instead.\nAnd think how beautiful you'd be in those white linen clothes! I really\nbelieve I might be able to stay in love with a man quite permanently if\nhe always dressed in white.\n\nYou can't imagine how I miss Judy. Her absence leaves a dreadful hole in\nmy afternoons. Can't you run up for a week end soon? I think the sight\nof you would be very cheering, and I'm feeling awfully down of late.\nYou know, my dear Gordon, I like you much better when you're right here\nbefore my eyes than when I merely think about you from a distance. I\nbelieve you must have a sort of hypnotic influence. Occasionally, after\nyou've been away a long time, your spell wears a little thin. But when I\nsee you, it all comes back. You've been away now a long, long time; so,\nplease come fast and bewitch me over again!\n\nS.\n\n\nDecember 2.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nDo you remember in college, when you and I used to plan our favorite\nfutures, how we were forever turning our faces southward? And now to\nthink it has really come true, and you are there, coasting around those\ntropical isles! Did you ever have such a thrill in the whole of your\nlife, barring one or two connected with Jervis, as when you came up on\ndeck in the early dawn and found yourself riding at anchor in the harbor\nof Kingston, with the water so blue and the palms so green and the beach\nso white?\n\nI remember when I first woke in that harbor. I felt like a heroine of\ngrand opera surrounded by untruly beautiful painted scenery. Nothing\nin my four trips to Europe ever thrilled me like the queer sights and\ntastes and smells of those three warm weeks seven years ago. And ever\nsince, I've panted to get back. When I stop to think about it, I can\nhardly bring myself to swallow our unexciting meals; I wish to be dining\non curries and tamales and mangos. Isn't it funny? You'd think I must\nhave a dash of Creole or Spanish or some warm blood in me somewhere,\nbut I'm nothing on earth but a chilly mixture of English and Irish and\nScotch. Perhaps that is why I hear the South calling. \"The palm dreams\nof the pine, and the pine of the palm.\"\n\nAfter seeing you off, I turned back to New York with an awful\nwander-thirst gnawing at my vitals. I, too, wanted to be starting off\non my travels in a new blue hat and a new blue suit with a big bunch\nof violets in my hand. For five minutes I would cheerfully have said\ngood-by forever to poor dear Gordon in return for the wide world\nto wander in. I suppose you are thinking they are not entirely\nincompatible--Gordon and the wide world--but I don't seem able to get\nyour point of view about husbands. I see marriage as a man must, a good,\nsensible workaday institution; but awfully curbing to one's liberty.\nSomehow, after you're married forever, life has lost its feeling of\nadventure. There aren't any romantic possibilities waiting to surprise\nyou around each corner.\n\nThe disgraceful truth is that one man doesn't seem quite enough for me.\nI like the variety of sensation that you get only from a variety of men.\nI'm afraid I've spent too flirtatious a youth, and it isn't easy for me\nto settle.\n\nI seem to have a very wandering pen. To return: I saw you off, and took\nthe ferry back to New York with a horribly empty feeling. After our\nintimate, gossipy three months together, it seems a terrible task to\ntell you my troubles in tones that will reach to the bottom of the\ncontinent. My ferry slid right under the nose of your steamer, and\nI could see you and Jervis plainly leaning on the rail. I waved\nfrantically, but you never blinked an eyelash. Your gaze was fixed in\nhomesick contemplation upon the top of the Woolworth Building.\n\nBack in New York, I took myself to a department store to accomplish\na few trifles in the way of shopping. As I was entering through their\nrevolving doors, who should be revolving in the other direction but\nHelen Brooks! We had a terrible time meeting, as I tried to go back out,\nand she tried to come back in; I thought we should revolve eternally.\nBut we finally got together and shook hands, and she obligingly helped\nme choose fifteen dozen pairs of stockings and fifty caps and sweaters\nand two hundred union suits, and then we gossiped all the way up to\nFifty-second Street, where we had luncheon at the Women's University\nClub.\n\nI always liked Helen. She's not spectacular, but steady and dependable.\nWill you ever forget the way she took hold of that senior pageant\ncommittee and whipped it into shape after Mildred had made such a mess\nof it? How would she do here as a successor to me? I am filled with\njealousy at the thought of a successor, but I suppose I must face it.\n\n\"When did you last see Judy Abbott?\" was Helen's first question.\n\n\"Fifteen minutes ago,\" said I. \"She has just set sail for the Spanish\nmain with a husband and daughter and nurse and maid and valet and dog.\"\n\n\"Has she a nice husband?\"\n\n\"None better.\"\n\n\"And does she still like him?\"\n\n\"Never saw a happier marriage.\"\n\nIt struck me that Helen looked a trifle bleak, and I suddenly remembered\nall that gossip that Marty Keene told us last summer; so I hastily\nchanged the conversation to a perfectly safe subject like orphans.\n\nBut later she told me the whole story herself in as detached and\nimpersonal a way as though she were discussing the characters in a book.\nShe has been living alone in the city, hardly seeing any one, and she\nseemed low in spirits and glad to talk. Poor Helen appears to have made\nan awful mess of her life. I don't know any one who has covered so much\nground in such a short space of time. Since her graduation she has been\nmarried, has had a baby and lost him, divorced her husband, quarreled\nwith her family, and come to the city to earn her own living. She is\nreading manuscript for a publishing house.\n\nThere seems to have been no reason for her divorce from the ordinary\npoint of view; the marriage just simply didn't work. They weren't\nfriends. If he had been a woman, she wouldn't have wasted half an hour\ntalking with him. If she had been a man, he would have said: \"Glad\nto see you. How are you?\" and gone on. And yet they MARRIED. Isn't it\ndreadful how blind this sex business can make people?\n\nShe was brought up on the theory that a woman's only legitimate\nprofession is homemaking. When she finished college, she was naturally\neager to start on her career, and Henry presented himself. Her family\nscanned him closely, and found him perfect in every respect--good\nfamily, good morals, good financial position, good looking. Helen was in\nlove with him. She had a big wedding and lots of new clothes and dozens\nof embroidered towels. Everything looked propitious.\n\nBut as they began to get acquainted, they didn't like the same books\nor jokes or people or amusements. He was expansive and social and\nhilarious, and she wasn't. First they bored, and then they irritated,\neach other. Her orderliness made him impatient, and his disorderliness\ndrove her wild. She would spend a day getting closets and bureau drawers\nin order, and in five minutes he would stir them into chaos. He would\nleave his clothes about for her to pick up, and his towels in a messy\nheap on the bathroom floor, and he never scrubbed out the tub. And she,\non her side, was awfully unresponsive and irritating,--she realized it\nfully,--she got to the point where she wouldn't laugh at his jokes.\n\nI suppose most old-fashioned, orthodox people would think it awful to\nbreak up a marriage on such innocent grounds. It seemed so to me at\nfirst; but as she went on piling up detail on detail each trivial in\nitself, but making a mountainous total, I agreed with Helen that it was\nawful to keep it going. It wasn't really a marriage; it was a mistake.\n\nSo one morning at breakfast, when the subject of what they should do for\nthe summer came up, she said quite casually that she thought she would\ngo West and get a residence in some State where you could get a divorce\nfor a respectable cause; and for the first time in months he agreed with\nher.\n\nYou can imagine the outraged feelings of her Victorian family. In all\nthe seven generations of their sojourn in America they have never had\nanything like this to record in the family Bible. It all comes from\nsending her to college and letting her read such dreadful modern people\nas Ellen Key and Bernard Shaw.\n\n\"If he had only got drunk and dragged me about by the hair,\" Helen\nwailed, \"it would have been legitimate; but because we didn't actually\nthrow things at each other, no one could see any reason for a divorce.\"\n\nThe pathetic part of the whole business is that both she and Henry were\nadmirably fitted to make some one else happy. They just simply didn't\nmatch each other; and when two people don't match, all the ceremonies in\nthe world can't marry them.\n\nSaturday morning.\n\n\nI meant to get this letter off two days ago; and here I am with volumes\nwritten, but nothing mailed.\n\nWe've just had one of those miserable deceiving nights--cold and frosty\nwhen you go to bed, and warm and lifeless when you wake in the dark,\nsmothered under a mountain of blankets. By the time I had removed my own\nextra covers and plumped up my pillow and settled comfortably, I thought\nof those fourteen bundled-up babies in the fresh-air nursery. Their\nso-called night nurse sleeps like a top the whole night through. (Her\nname is next on the list to be expunged.) So I roused myself again, and\nmade a little blanket removing tour, and by the time I had finished I\nwas forever awake. It is not often that I pass a NUIT BLANCHE; but when\nI do, I settle world problems. Isn't it funny how much keener your mind\nis when you are lying awake in the dark?\n\nI began thinking about Helen Brooks, and I planned her whole life over\nagain. I don't know why her miserable story has taken such a hold over\nme. It's a disheartening subject for an engaged girl to contemplate.\nI keep saying to myself, what if Gordon and I, when we really get\nacquainted, should change our minds about liking each other? The fear\ngrips my heart and wrings it dry. But I am marrying him for no reason in\nthe world except affection. I'm not particularly ambitious. Neither his\nposition nor his money ever tempted me in the least. And certainly I am\nnot doing it to find my life work, for in order to marry I am having\nto give up the work that I love. I really do love this work. I go about\nplanning and planning their baby futures, feeling that I'm constructing\nthe nation. Whatever becomes of me in after life, I am sure I'll be\nthe more capable for having had this tremendous experience. And it IS a\ntremendous experience, the nearness to humanity that an asylum brings.\nI am learning so many new things every day that when each Saturday night\ncomes I look back on the Sallie of last Saturday night, amazed at her\nignorance.\n\nYou know I am developing a funny old characteristic; I am getting to\nhate change. I don't like the prospect of having my life disrupted. I\nused to love the excitement of volcanoes, but now a high level plateau\nis my choice in landscape. I am very comfortable where I am. My desk\nand closet and bureau drawers are organized to suit me; and, oh, I dread\nunspeakably the thought of the upheaval that is going to happen to me\nnext year! Please don't imagine that I don't care for Gordon quite as\nmuch as any man has a right to be cared for. It isn't that I like him\nany the less, but I am getting to like orphans the more.\n\nI just met our medical adviser a few minutes ago as he was emerging\nfrom the nursery--Allegra is the only person in the institution who is\nfavored by his austere social attentions. He paused in passing to make a\npolite comment upon the sudden change in the weather, and to express the\nhope that I would remember him to Mrs. Pendleton when I wrote.\n\nThis is a miserable letter to send off on its travels, with scarcely\na word of the kind of news that you like to hear. But our bare little\norphan asylum up in the hills must seem awfully far away from the palms\nand orange groves and lizards and tarantulas that you are enjoying.\n\nHave a good time, and don't forget the John Grier Home\n\nand\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nDecember 11.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nYour Jamaica letter is here, and I'm glad to learn that Judy, Junior,\nenjoys traveling. Write me every detail about your house, and send some\nphotographs, so I can see you in it. What fun it must be to have a boat\nof your own that chugs about those entertaining seas! Have you worn all\nof your eighteen white dresses yet? And aren't you glad now that I made\nyou wait about buying a Panama hat till you reached Kingston?\n\nWe are running along here very much as usual without anything exciting\nto chronicle. You remember little Maybelle Fuller, don't you--the chorus\ngirl's daughter whom our doctor doesn't like? We have placed her out.\nI tried to make the woman take Hattie Heaphy instead,--the quiet little\none who stole the communion cup,--but no, indeed! Maybelle's eyelashes\nwon the day. After all, as poor Marie says, the chief thing is to be\npretty. All else in life depends on that.\n\nWhen I got home last week, after my dash to New York, I made a brief\nspeech to the children. I told them that I had just been seeing Aunt\nJudy off on a big ship, and I am embarrassed to have to report that the\ninterest--at least on the part of the boys--immediately abandoned Aunt\nJudy and centered upon the ship. How many tons of coal did she burn a\nday? Was she long enough to reach from the carriage house to the Indian\ncamp? Were there any guns aboard, and if a privateer should attack her,\ncould she hold her own? In case of a mutiny, could the captain shoot\ndown anybody he chose, and wouldn't he be hanged when he got to shore?\n\nI had ignominiously to call upon Sandy to finish my speech. I realize\nthat the best-equipped feminine mind in the world can't cope with the\npeculiar class of questions that originate in a thirteen-year boy's\nbrain.\n\nAs a result of their seafaring interest, the doctor conceived the idea\nof inviting seven of the oldest and most alert lads to spend the day\nwith him in New York and see with their own eyes an oceanliner. They\nrose at five yesterday morning, caught the 7:30 train, and had the most\nwonderful adventure that has happened in all their seven lives. They\nvisited one of the big liners (Sandy knows the Scotch engineer),\nand were conducted from the bottom of the hold to the top of the\ncrow's-nest, and then had luncheon on board. And after luncheon they\nvisited the aquarium and the top of the Singer Building, and took\nthe subway uptown to spend an hour with the birds of America in their\nhabitats. Sandy with great difficulty pried them away from the\nNatural History Museum in time to catch the 6:15 train. Dinner in the\ndining-car. They inquired with great particularity how much it was\ncosting, and when they heard that it was the same, no matter how much\nyou ate, they drew deep breaths and settled quietly and steadily to the\ntask of not allowing their host to be cheated. The railroad made nothing\non that party, and all the tables around stopped eating to stare. One\ntraveler asked the doctor if it was a boarding school he had in charge;\nso you can see how the manners and bearing of our lads have picked up.\nI don't wish to boast, but no one would ever have asked such a question\nconcerning seven of Mrs. Lippett's youngsters. \"Are they bound for a\nreformatory?\" would have been the natural question after observing the\ntable manners of her offspring.\n\nMy little band tumbled in toward ten o'clock, excitedly babbling a\nmess of statistics about reciprocating compound engines and watertight\nbulkheads, devil-fish and sky-scrapers and birds of paradise. I thought\nI should never get them to bed. And, oh, but they had had a glorious\nday! I do wish I could manage breaks in the routine oftener. It gives\nthem a new outlook on life and makes them more like normal children.\nWasn't it really nice of Sandy? But you should have seen that man's\nbehavior when I tried to thank him. He waved me aside in the middle of\na sentence, and growlingly asked Miss Snaith if she couldn't economize a\nlittle on carbolic acid. The house smelt like a hospital.\n\nI must tell you that Punch is back with us again, entirely renovated as\nto manners. I am looking for a family to adopt him.\n\nI had hoped those two intelligent spinsters would see their way to\nkeeping him forever, but they want to travel, and they feel he's too\nconsuming of their liberty. I inclose a sketch in colored chalk of your\nsteamer, which he has just completed. There is some doubt as to the\ndirection in which it is going; it looks as though it might progress\nbackward and end in Brooklyn. Owing to the loss of my blue pencil, our\nflag has had to adopt the Italian colors.\n\nThe three figures on the bridge are you and Jervis and the baby. I am\npained to note that you carry your daughter by the back of her neck, as\nif she were a kitten. That is not the way we handle babies in the J. G.\nH. nursery. Please also note that the artist has given Jervis his full\ndue in the matter of legs. When I asked Punch what had become of the\ncaptain, he said that the captain was inside, putting coal on the fire.\nPunch was terribly impressed, as well he might be, when he heard that\nyour steamer burned three hundred wagonloads a day, and he naturally\nsupposed that all hands had been piped to the stokehole.\n\nBOW! WOW!\n\nThat's a bark from Sing. I told him I was writing to you, and he\nresponded instantly.\n\nWe both send love.\n\nYours,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nSaturday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nYou were so terribly gruff last night when I tried to thank you for\ngiving my boys such a wonderful day that I didn't have a chance to\nexpress half of the appreciation I felt.\n\nWhat on earth is the matter with you, Sandy? You used to be a tolerably\nnice man--in spots, but these last three or four months you have only\nbeen nice to other people, never to me. We have had from the first a\nlong series of misunderstandings and foolish contretemps, but after each\none we seemed to reach a solider basis of understanding, until I had\nthought our friendship was on a pretty firm foundation, capable of\nwithstanding any reasonable shock.\n\nAnd then came that unfortunate evening last June when you overheard some\nfoolish impolitenesses, which I did not in the slightest degree mean;\nand from then on you faded into the distance. Really, I have felt\nterribly bad about it, and have wanted to apologize, but your manner\nhas not been inviting of confidence. It isn't that I have any excuse or\nexplanation to offer; I haven't. You know how foolish and silly I am on\noccasions, but you will just have to realize that though I'm flippant\nand foolish and trivial on top, I am pretty solid inside; and you've got\nto forgive the silly part. The Pendletons knew that long ago, or they\nwouldn't have sent me up here. I have tried hard to pull off an honest\njob, partly because I wanted to justify their judgment, partly because\nI was really interested in giving the poor little kiddies their share of\nhappiness, but mostly, I actually believe, because I wanted to show\nyou that your first derogatory opinion of me was ill founded. Won't you\nplease expunge that unfortunate fifteen minutes at the porte-cochere\nlast June, and remember instead the fifteen hours I spent reading the\nKallikak Family?\n\nI would like to feel that we're friends again.\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nSunday.\n\nDear Dr. MacRae:\n\nI am in receipt of your calling card with an eleven-word answer to my\nletter on the back. I didn't mean to annoy you by my attentions. What\nyou think and how you behave are really matters of extreme indifference\nto me. Be just as impolite as you choose.\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nDecember 14.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nPLEASE pepper your letters with stamps, inside and out. I have thirty\ncollectors in the family. Since you have taken to travel, every day\nabout post time an eager group gathers at the gate, waiting to snatch\nany letters of foreign design, and by the time the letters reach me\nthey are almost in shreds through the tenacity of rival snatchers. Tell\nJervis to send us some more of those purple pine trees from Honduras;\nlikewise some green parrots from Guatemala. I could use a pint of them!\n\nIsn't it wonderful to have got these apathetic little things so\nenthusiastic? My children are getting to be almost like real children.\nB dormitory started a pillow fight last night of its own accord; and\nthough it was very wearing to our scant supply of linen, I stood by and\nbeamed, and even tossed a pillow myself.\n\nLast Saturday those two desirable friends of Percy's spent the whole\nafternoon playing with my boys. They brought up three rifles, and each\nman took the lead of a camp of Indians, and passed the afternoon in a\nbottle shooting contest, with a prize for the winning camp. They brought\nthe prize with them--an atrocious head of an Indian painted on leather.\nDreadful taste; but the men thought it lovely, so I admired it with all\nthe ardor I could assume.\n\nWhen they had finished, I warmed them up with cookies and hot chocolate,\nand I really think the men enjoyed it as much as the boys; they\nundoubtedly enjoyed it more than I did. I couldn't help being in a\nfeminine twitter all the time the firing was going on for fear somebody\nwould shoot somebody else. But I know that I can't keep twenty-four\nIndians tied to my apron strings, and I never could find in the whole\nwide world three nicer men to take an interest in them.\n\nJust think of all that healthy, exuberant volunteer service going to\nwaste under the asylum's nose! I suppose the neighborhood is full of\nplenty more of it, and I am going to make it my business to dig it out.\n\nWhat I want most are about eight nice, pretty, sensible young women to\ncome up here one night a week, and sit before the fire and tell stories\nwhile the chicks pop corn. I do so want to contrive a little individual\npetting for my babies. You see, Judy, I am remembering your own\nchildhood, and am trying hard to fill in the gaps.\n\nThe trustees' meeting last week went beautifully. The new women are most\nhelpful, and only the nice men came. I am happy to announce that the\nHon. Cy Wykoff is visiting his married daughter in Scranton. I wish she\nwould invite father to live with her permanently.\n\n\nWednesday.\n\n\nI am in the most childish temper with the doctor, and for no very\ndefinite reason. He keeps along his even, unemotional way without paying\nthe slightest attention to anything or anybody. I have swallowed more\nslights during these last few months than in the whole of my life\nbefore, and I'm developing the most shockingly revengeful nature. I\nspend all my spare time planning situations in which he will be\nterribly hurt and in need of my help, and in which 1, with the utmost\ncallousness, will shrug my shoulders and turn away. I am growing into\na person entirely foreign to the sweet, sunny young thing you used to\nknow.\n\n\nEvening.\n\n\nDo you realize that I am an authority on the care of dependent children?\nTomorrow I and other authorities visit officially the Hebrew Sheltering\nGuardian Society's Orphan Asylum at Pleasantville. (All that's its\nname!) It's a terribly difficult and roundabout journey from this point,\ninvolving a daybreak start and two trains and an automobile. But if I'm\nto be an authority, I must live up to the title. I'm keen about looking\nover other institutions and gleaning as many ideas as possible against\nour own alterations next year. And this Pleasantville asylum is an\narchitectural model.\n\nI acknowledge now, upon sober reflection, that we were wise to postpone\nextensive building operations until next summer. Of course I was\ndisappointed, because it meant that I won't be the center of the\nripping-up, and I do so love to be the center of ripping-ups! But,\nanyway, you'll take my advice, even though I'm no longer an official\nhead? The two building details we did accomplish are very promising. Our\nnew laundry grows better and better; it has removed from us that steamy\nsmell so dear to asylums. The farmer's cottage will finally be ready\nfor occupancy next week. All it now lacks is a coat of paint and some\ndoorknobs.\n\nBut, oh dear! oh dear! another bubble has burst! Mrs Turnfelt, for all\nher comfortable figure and sunny smile, hates to have children messing\nabout. They make her nervous. And as for Turnfelt himself, though\nindustrious and methodical and an excellent gardener, still, his mental\nprocesses are not quite what I had hoped for. When he first came, I made\nhim free of the library. He began at the case nearest the door, which\ncontains thirty-seven volumes of Pansy's works. Finally, after he had\nspent four months on Pansy, I suggested a change, and sent him home with\n\"Huckleberry Finn.\" But he brought it back in a few days, and shook his\nhead. He says that after reading Pansy, anything else seems tame. I\nam afraid I shall have to look about for some one a little more\nup-and-coming. But at least, compared with Sterry, Turnfelt is a\nscholar!\n\nAnd speaking of Sterry, he paid us a social call a few days ago, in\nquite a chastened frame of mind. It seems that the \"rich city feller\"\nwhose estate he has been managing no longer needs his services; and\nSterry has graciously consented to return to us and let the children\nhave gardens if they wish. I kindly, but convincingly, declined his\noffer.\n\n\nFriday.\n\n\nI came back from Pleasantville last night with a heart full of envy.\nPlease, Mr. President, I want some gray stucco cottages, with Luca\ndella Robbia figures baked into the front. They have nearly 700 children\nthere, and all sizable youngsters. Of course that makes a very different\nproblem from my hundred and seven, ranging from babyhood up. But\nI borrowed from their superintendent several very fancy ideas. I'm\ndividing my chicks into big and little sisters and brothers, each big\none to have a little one to love and help and fight for. Big sister\nSadie Kate has to see that little sister Gladiola always has her hair\nneatly combed and her stockings pulled up and knows her lessons and gets\na touch of petting and her share of candy--very pleasant for Gladiola,\nbut especially developing for Sadie Kate.\n\nAlso I am going to start among our older children a limited form of\nself-government such as we had in college. That will help fit them to\ngo out into the world and govern themselves when they get there. This\nshoving children into the world at the age of sixteen seems terribly\nmerciless. Five of my children are ready to be shoved, but I can't bring\nmyself to do it. I keep remembering my own irresponsible silly young\nself, and wondering what would have happened to me had I been turned out\nto work at the age of sixteen!\n\nI must leave you now to write an interesting letter to my politician in\nWashington, and it's hard work. What have I to say that will interest a\npolitician? I can't do anything any more but babble about babies, and\nhe wouldn't care if every baby was swept from the face of the earth. Oh,\nyes, he would, too! I'm afraid I'm slandering him. Babies--at least boy\nbabies--grow into voters.\n\nGood-by,\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nDearest Judy:\n\nIf you expect a cheerful letter from me the day, don't read this.\n\nThe life of man is a wintry road. Fog, snow, rain, slush, drizzle,\ncold--such weather! such weather! And you in dear Jamaica with the\nsunshine and the orange blossoms!\n\nWe've got whooping cough, and you can hear us whoop when you get off\nthe train two miles away. We don't know how we got it--just one of the\npleasures of institution life. Cook has left,--in the night,--what the\nScotch call a \"moonlight flitting.\" I don't know how she got her trunk\naway, but it's gone. The kitchen fire went with her. The pipes are\nfrozen. The plumbers are here, and the kitchen floor is all ripped\nup. One of our horses has the spavin. And, to crown all, our cheery,\nresourceful Percy is down, down, down in the depths of despair. We have\nnot been quite certain for three days past whether we could keep him\nfrom suicide. The girl in Detroit,--I knew she was a heartless little\nminx,--without so much as going through the formality of sending\nback his ring, has gone and married herself to a man and a couple of\nautomobiles and a yacht. It is the best thing that could ever have\nhappened to Percy, but it will be a long, long time before he realizes\nit.\n\nWe have our twenty-four Indians back in the house with us. I was sorry\nto have to bring them in, but the shacks were scarcely planned for\nwinter quarters. I have stowed them away very comfortably, however,\nthanks to the spacious iron verandas surrounding our new fire-escape.\nIt was a happy idea of Jervis's having them glassed in for sleeping\nporches. The babies' sun parlor is a wonderful addition to our nursery.\nWe can fairly see the little tots bloom under the influence of that\nextra air and sunshine.\n\nWith the return of the Indians to civilized life, Percy's occupation was\nended, and he was supposed to remove himself to the hotel. But he didn't\nwant to remove himself. He has got used to orphans, he says, and he\nwould miss not seeing them about. I think the truth is that he is\nfeeling so miserable over his wrecked engagement that he is afraid to be\nalone. He needs something to occupy every waking moment out of banking\nhours. And goodness knows we're glad enough to keep him! He has been\nwonderful with those youngsters, and they need a man's influence.\n\nBut what on earth to do with the man? As you discovered last summer,\nthis spacious chateau does not contain a superabundance of guest rooms.\nHe has finally fitted himself into the doctor's laboratory, and the\nmedicines have moved themselves to a closet down the hall. He and the\ndoctor fixed it up between them, and if they are willing to be mutually\ninconvenienced, I have no fault to find.\n\nMercy! I've just looked at the calendar, and it's the eighteenth, with\nChristmas only a week away. However shall we finish all our plans in a\nweek? The chicks are making presents for one another, and something like\na thousand secrets have been whispered in my ear.\n\nSnow last night. The boys have spent the morning in the woods, gathering\nevergreens and drawing them home on sleds; and twenty girls are spending\nthe afternoon in the laundry, winding wreaths for the windows. I don't\nknow how we are going to do our washing this week. We were planning to\nkeep the Christmas tree a secret, but fully fifty children have been\nboosted up to the carriage house window to take a peep at it, and I am\nafraid the news has spread among the remaining fifty.\n\nAt your insistence, we have sedulously fostered the Santa Claus myth,\nbut it doesn't meet with much credence. \"Why didn't he ever come\nbefore?\" was Sadie Kate's skeptical question. But Santa Claus is\nundoubtedly coming this time. I asked the doctor, out of politeness, to\nplay the chief role at our Christmas tree; and being certain ahead of\ntime that he was going to refuse, I had already engaged Percy as an\nunderstudy. But there is no counting on a Scotchman. Sandy accepted with\nunprecedented graciousness, and I had privately to unengage Percy!\n\n\nTuesday.\n\n\nIsn't it funny, the way some inconsequential people have of pouring out\nwhatever happens to be churning about in their minds at the moment? They\nseem to have no residue of small talk, and are never able to dismiss a\ncrisis in order to discuss the weather.\n\nThis is apropos of a call I received today. A woman had come to deliver\nher sister's child--sister in a sanatorium for tuberculosis; we to keep\nthe child until the mother is cured, though I fear, from what I hear,\nthat will never be. But, anyway, all the arrangements had been made, and\nthe woman had merely to hand in the little girl and retire. But having a\ncouple of hours between trains, she intimated a desire to look about, so\nI showed her the kindergarten rooms and the little crib that Lily will\noccupy, and our yellow dining room, with its frieze of bunnies, in order\nthat she might report as many cheerful details as possible to the poor\nmother. After this, as she seemed tired, I socially asked her to walk\ninto my parlor and have a cup of tea. Doctor MacRae, being at hand and\nin a hungry mood (a rare state for him; he now condescends to a cup of\ntea with the officers of this institution about twice a month), came,\ntoo, and we had a little party.\n\nThe woman seemed to feel that the burden of entertainment rested upon\nher, and by way of making conversation, she told us that her husband had\nfallen in love with the girl who sold tickets at a moving picture show\n(a painted, yellow-haired thing who chewed gum like a cow, was her\ndescription of the enchantress), and he spent all of his money on the\ngirl, and never came home except when he was drunk. Then he smashed the\nfurniture something awful. An easel, with her mother's picture on it,\nthat she had had since before she was married, he had thrown down just\nfor the pleasure of hearing it crash. And finally she had just got too\ntired to live, so she drank a bottle of swamp root because somebody had\ntold her it was poison if you took it all at once. But it didn't kill\nher; it only made her sick. And he came back, and said he would choke\nher if she ever tried that on him again; so she guessed he must still\ncare something for her. All this quite casually while she stirred her\ntea.\n\nI tried to think of something to say, but it was a social exigency that\nleft me dumb. But Sandy rose to the occasion like a gentleman. He talked\nto her beautifully and sanely, and sent her away actually uplifted. Our\nSandy, when he tries, can be exceptionally nice, particularly to people\nwho have no claim upon him. I suppose it is a matter of professional\netiquette--part of a doctor's business to heal the spirit as well as the\nbody. Most spirits appear to need it in this world. My caller has left\nme needing it. I have been wondering ever since what I should do if I\nmarried a man who deserted me for a chewing gum girl, and who came home\nand smashed the bric-a-brac. I suppose, judging from the theaters this\nwinter, that it is a thing that might happen to any one, particularly in\nthe best society.\n\nYou ought to be thankful you've got Jervis. There is something awfully\ncertain about a man like him. The longer I live, the surer I am that\ncharacter is the only thing that counts. But how on earth can you ever\ntell? Men are so good at talking! Good-by, and a merry Christmas to\nJervis and both Judies.\n\nS. McB.\n\nP.S. It would be a pleasant attention if you would answer my letters a\nlittle more promptly.\n\n\nJOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nDecember 29.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nSadie Kate has spent the week composing a Christmas letter to you,\nand it leaves nothing for me to tell. Oh, we've had a wonderful time!\nBesides all the presents and games and fancy things to eat, we have had\nhayrides and skating parties and candy pulls. I don't know whether\nthese pampered little orphans will ever settle down again into normal\nchildren.\n\nMany thanks for my six gifts. I like them all, particularly the picture\nof Judy, junior; the tooth adds a pleasant touch to her smile.\n\nYou'll be glad to hear that I've placed out Hattie Heaphy in a\nminister's family, and a dear family they are. They never blinked an\neyelash when I told them about the communion cup. They've given her\nto themselves for a Christmas present, and she went off so happily,\nclinging to her new father's hand!\n\nI won't write more now, because fifty children are writing thank-you\nletters, and poor Aunt Judy will be buried beneath her mail when this\nweek's steamer gets in.\n\nMy love to the Pendletons.\n\nS. McB.\n\nP.S. Singapore sends his love to Togo, and is sorry he bit him on the\near.\n\n\nJOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nDecember 30.\n\nO DEAR, Gordon, I have been reading the most upsetting book!\n\nI tried to talk some French the other day, and not making out very well,\ndecided that I had better take my French in hand if I didn't want to\nlose it entirely. That Scotch doctor of ours has mercifully abandoned\nmy scientific education, so I have a little time at my own disposal. By\nsome unlucky chance I began with \"Numa Roumestan,\" by Daudet. It is\na terribly disturbing book for a girl to read who is engaged to a\npolitician. Read it, Gordon dear, and assiduously train your character\naway from Numa's. It's the story of a politician who is disquietingly\nfascinating (like you). Who is adored by all who know him (like you).\nWho has a most persuasive way of talking and makes wonderful speeches\n(again like you). He is worshiped by everybody, and they all say to\nhis wife, \"What a happy life you must lead, knowing so intimately that\nwonderful man!\"\n\nBut he wasn't very wonderful when he came home to her--only when he had\nan audience and applause. He would drink with every casual acquaintance,\nand be gay and bubbling and expansive; and then return morose and sullen\nand down. \"Joie de rue, douleur de maison,\" is the burden of the book.\n\nI read it till twelve last night, and honestly I didn't sleep for being\nscared. I know you'll be angry, but really and truly, Gordon dear,\nthere's just a touch too much truth in it for my entire amusement. I\ndidn't mean ever to refer again to that unhappy matter of August 20,--we\ntalked it all out at the time,--but you know perfectly that you need a\nbit of watching. And I don't like the idea. I want to have a feeling of\nabsolute confidence and stability about the man I marry. I never could\nlive in a state of anxious waiting for him to come home.\n\nRead \"Numa\" for yourself, and you'll see the woman's point of view.\nI'm not patient or meek or long-suffering in any way, and I'm a little\nafraid of what I'm capable of doing if I have the provocation. My heart\nhas to be in a thing in order to make it work, and, oh, I do so want our\nmarriage to work!\n\nPlease forgive me for writing all this. I don't mean that I really think\nyou'll be a \"joy of the street, and sorrow of the home.\" It's just that\nI didn't sleep last night, and I feel sort of hollow behind the eyes.\n\nMay the year that's coming bring good counsel and happiness and\ntranquillity to both of us!\n\nAs ever,\n\nS.\n\nJanuary 1.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nSomething terribly sort of queer has happened, and positively I don't\nknow whether it did happen or whether I dreamed it. I'll tell you\nfrom the beginning, and I think it might be as well if you burned this\nletter; it's not quite proper for Jervis's eyes.\n\nYou remember my telling you the case of Thomas Kehoe, whom we placed\nout last June? He had an alcoholic heredity on both sides, and as a baby\nseems to have been fattened on beer instead of milk. He entered the\nJohn Grier at the age of nine, and twice, according to his record in\nthe Doomsday Book, he managed to get himself intoxicated, once on beer\nstolen from some workmen, and once (and thoroughly) on cooking brandy.\nYou can see with what misgivings we placed him out. But we warned the\nfamily (hard-working temperate farming people) and hoped for the best.\n\nYesterday the family telegraphed that they could keep him no longer.\nWould I please meet him on the six o'clock train? Turnfelt met the six\no'clock train. No boy. I sent a night message telling of his non-arrival\nand asking for particulars.\n\nI stayed up later than usual last night putting my desk in order\nand--sort of making up my mind to face the New Year. Toward twelve I\nsuddenly realized that the hour was late and that I was very tired. I\nhad begun getting ready for bed when I was startled by a banging on\nthe front door. I stuck my head out of the window and demanded who was\nthere.\n\n\"Tommy Kehoe,\" said a very shaky voice.\n\nI went down and opened the door, and that lad, sixteen years old,\ntumbled in, dead drunk. Thank Heaven! Percy Witherspoon was within call,\nand not away off in the Indian camp.\n\nI roused him, and together we conveyed Thomas to our guest room, the\nonly decently isolated spot in the building. Then I telephoned for the\ndoctor, who, I am afraid, had already had a long day. He came, and we\nput in a pretty terrible night. It developed afterward that the boy had\nbrought along with his luggage a bottle of liniment belonging to his\nemployer. It was made half of alcohol and half of witch hazel; and\nThomas had refreshed his journey with this!\n\nHe was in such shape that positively I didn't think we'd pull him\nthrough--and I hoped we wouldn't. If I were a physician, I'd let such\ncases gently slip away for the good of society; but you should have seen\nSandy work! That terrible lifesaving instinct of his was aroused, and he\nfought with every inch of energy he possessed.\n\nI made black coffee, and helped all I could, but the details were pretty\nmessy, and I left the two men to deal with him alone and went back to\nmy room. But I didn't attempt to go to bed; I was afraid they might be\nwanting me again. Toward four o'clock Sandy came to my library with\nword that the boy was asleep and that Percy had moved up a cot and would\nsleep in his room the rest of the night. Poor Sandy looked sort of ashen\nand haggard and done with life. As I looked at him, I thought about how\ndesperately he worked to save others, and never saved himself, and about\nthat dismal home of his, with never a touch of cheer, and the horrible\ntragedy in the background of his life. All the rancor I've been saving\nup seemed to vanish, and a wave of sympathy swept over me. I stretched\nmy hand out to him; he stretched his out to me. And suddenly--I don't\nknow--something electric happened. In another moment we were in each\nother's arms. He loosened my hands, and put me down in the big armchair.\n\n\"My God! Sallie, do you think I'm made of iron?\" he said and walked out.\nI went to sleep in the chair, and when I woke the sun was shining in my\neyes and Jane was standing over me in amazed consternation.\n\nThis morning at eleven he came back, looked me coldly in the eye without\nso much as the flicker of an eyelash, and told me that Thomas was to\nhave hot milk every two hours and that the spots in Maggie Peters's\nthroat must be watched.\n\nHere we are back on our old standing, and positively I don't know but\nwhat I dreamed that one minute in the night!\n\nBut it would be a piquant situation, wouldn't it, if Sandy and I\nshould discover that we were falling in love with each other, he with a\nperfectly good wife in the insane asylum and I with an outraged fiance\nin Washington? I don't know but what the wisest thing for me to do is to\nresign at once and take myself home, where I can placidly settle down\nto a few months of embroidering \"S McB\" on table-cloths, like any other\nrespectable engaged girl.\n\nI repeat very firmly that this letter isn't for Jervis's consumption.\nTear it into little pieces and scatter them in the Caribbean.\n\nS.\n\n\n\nJanuary 3.\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nYou are right to be annoyed. I know I'm not a satisfactory love letter\nwriter. I have only to glance at the published correspondence of\nElizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning to realize that the warmth of my\nstyle is not up to standard. But you know already--you have known a long\ntime--that I am not a very emotional person. I suppose I might write a\nlot of such things as: \"Every waking moment you are in my thoughts.\" \"My\ndear boy, I only live when you are near.\" But it wouldn't be absolutely\ntrue. You don't fill all my thoughts; 107 orphans do that. And I really\nam quite comfortably alive whether you are here or not. I have to be\nnatural. You surely don't want me to pretend more desolation than I\nfeel. But I do love to see you,--you know that perfectly,--and I am\ndisappointed when you can't come. I fully appreciate all your charming\nqualities, but, my dear boy, I CAN'T be sentimental on paper. I am\nalways thinking about the hotel chambermaid who reads the letters you\ncasually leave on your bureau. You needn't expostulate that you carry\nthem next your heart, for I know perfectly well that you don't.\n\nForgive me for that last letter if it hurt your feelings. Since I came\nto this asylum I am extremely touchy on the subject of drink. You would\nbe, too, if you had seen what I have seen. Several of my chicks are the\nsad result of alcoholic parents, and they are never going to have a fair\nchance all their lives. You can't look about a place like this without\n\"aye keeping up a terrible thinking.\"\n\nYou are right, I am afraid, about its being a woman's trick to make a\ngreat show of forgiving a man, and then never letting him hear the end\nof it. Well, Gordon, I positively don't know what the word \"forgiving\"\nmeans. It can't include \"forgetting,\" for that is a physiological\nprocess, and does not result from an act of the will. We all have a\ncollection of memories that we would happily lose, but somehow those are\njust the ones that insist upon sticking. If \"forgiving\" means promising\nnever to speak of a thing again, I can doubtless manage that. But it\nisn't always the wisest way to shut an unpleasant memory inside you. It\ngrows and grows, and runs all through you like a poison.\n\nOh dear! I really didn't mean to be saying all this. I try to be the\ncheerful, carefree (and somewhat light-headed) Sallie you like best; but\nI've come in touch with a great deal of REALNESS during this last year,\nand I'm afraid I've grown into a very different person from the girl you\nfell in love with. I'm no longer a gay young thing playing with life.\nI know it pretty thoroughly now, and that means that I can't be always\nlaughing.\n\nI know this is another beastly uncheerful letter,--as bad as the last,\nand maybe worse,--but if you knew what we've just been through! A\nboy--sixteen--of unspeakable heredity has nearly poisoned himself with\na disgusting mixture of alcohol and witch hazel. We have been working\nthree days over him, and are just sure now that he is going to\nrecuperate sufficiently to do it again! \"It's a gude warld, but they're\nill that's in 't.\"\n\nPlease excuse that Scotch--it slipped out. Please excuse everything.\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nJanuary 11.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nI hope my two cablegrams didn't give you too terrible a shock. I would\nhave waited to let the first news come by letter, with a chance for\ndetails, but I was so afraid you might hear it in some indirect way.\nThe whole thing is dreadful enough, but no lives were lost, and only one\nserious accident. We can't help shuddering at the thought of how much\nworse it might have been, with over a hundred sleeping children in this\nfiretrap of a building. That new fire escape was absolutely useless. The\nwind was blowing toward it, and the flames simply enveloped it. We saved\nthem all by the center stairs--but I'll begin at the beginning, and tell\nthe whole story.\n\nIt had rained all day Friday, thanks to a merciful Providence, and the\nroofs were thoroughly soaked. Toward night it began to freeze, and the\nrain turned to sleet. By ten o'clock, when I went to bed the wind was\nblowing a terrible gale from the northwest, and everything loose about\nthe building was banging and rattling. About two o'clock I suddenly\nstarted wide awake, with a bright light in my eyes. I jumped out of bed\nand ran to the window. The carriage house was a mass of flames, and\na shower of sparks was sweeping over our eastern wing. I ran to the\nbathroom and leaned out of the window. I could see that the roof over\nthe nursery was already blazing in half a dozen places.\n\nWell, my dear, my heart just simply didn't beat for as much as a minute.\nI thought of those seventeen babies up under that roof, and I couldn't\nswallow. I finally managed to get my shaking knees to work again, and I\ndashed back to the hall, grabbing my automobile coat as I ran.\n\nI drummed on Betsy's and Miss Matthews' and Miss Snaith's doors, just as\nMr. Witherspoon, who had also been wakened by the light, came tumbling\nupstairs three steps at a time, struggling into an overcoat as he ran.\n\n\"Get all the children down to the dining room, babies first,\" I gasped.\n\"I'll turn in the alarm.\"\n\nHe dashed on up to the third floor while I ran to the telephone--and oh,\nI thought I'd never get Central! She was sound asleep.\n\n\"The John Grier Home is burning! Turn in the fire alarm and rouse the\nvillage. Give me 505,\" I said.\n\nIn one second I had the doctor. Maybe I wasn't glad to hear his cool,\nunexcited voice!\n\n\"We're on fire!\" I cried. \"Come quick, and bring all the men you can!\"\n\n\"I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Fill the bathtubs with water and put\nin blankets.\" And he hung up.\n\nI dashed back to the hall. Betsy was ringing our fire bell, and Percy\nhad already routed out his Indian tribes in dormitories B and C.\n\nOur first thought was not to stop the fire, but to get the children to a\nplace of safety. We began in G, and went from crib to crib, snatching a\nbaby and a blanket, and rushing them to the door, and handing them out\nto the Indians, who lugged them downstairs. Both G and F were full of\nsmoke, and the children so dead asleep that we couldn't rouse them to a\nwalking state.\n\nMany times during the next hour did I thank Providence--and Percy\nWitherspoon--for those vociferous fire drills we have suffered weekly.\nThe twenty-four oldest boys, under his direction, never lost their heads\nfor a second. They divided into four tribes, and sprang to their posts\nlike little soldiers.\n\nTwo tribes helped in the work of clearing the dormitories and keeping\nthe terrified children in order. One tribe worked the hose from the\ncupola tank until the firemen came, and the rest devoted themselves to\nsalvage. They spread sheets on the floor, dumped the contents of lockers\nand bureau drawers into them, and bundled them down the stairs. All of\nthe extra clothes were saved except those the children had actually been\nwearing the day before, and most of the staff's things. But clothes,\nbedding--everything belonging to G and F went. The rooms were too full\nof smoke to make it safe to enter after we had got out the last child.\n\nBy the time the doctor arrived with Luellen and two neighbors he had\npicked up, we were marching the last dormitory down to the kitchen, the\nmost remote corner from the fire. The poor chicks were mainly barefooted\nand wrapped in blankets. We told them to bring their clothes when we\nwakened them, but in their fright they thought only of getting out.\n\nBy this time the halls were so full of smoke we could scarcely breathe.\nIt looked as though the whole building would go, though the wind was\nblowing away from my west wing.\n\nAnother automobile full of retainers from Knowltop came up almost\nimmediately, and they all fell to fighting the fire. The regular fire\ndepartment didn't come for ten minutes after that. You see, they have\nonly horses, and we are three miles out, and the roads pretty bad. It\nwas a dreadful night, cold and sleety, and such a wind blowing that you\ncould scarcely stand up. The men climbed out on the roof, and worked in\ntheir stocking feet to keep from slipping off. They beat out the sparks\nwith wet blankets, and chopped, and squirted that tankful of water, and\nbehaved like heroes.\n\nThe doctor meanwhile took charge of the children. Our first thought was\nto get them away to a place of safety, for if the whole building should\ngo, we couldn't march them out of doors into that awful wind, with only\ntheir night clothes and blankets for protection. By this time several\nmore automobiles full of men had come, and we requisitioned the cars.\n\nKnowltop had providentially been opened for the week end in order to\nentertain a house party in honor of the old gentleman's sixty-seventh\nbirthday. He was one of the first to arrive, and he put his entire\nplace at our disposal. It was the nearest refuge, and we accepted it\ninstantaneously. We bundled our twenty littlest tots into cars, and ran\nthem down to the house. The guests, who were excitedly dressing in order\nto come to the fire, received the chicks and tucked them away into their\nown beds. This pretty well filled up all the available house room, but\nMr. Reimer (Mr. Knowltop's family name) has just built a big new stucco\nbarn, with a garage hitched to it, all nicely heated, and ready for us.\n\nAfter the babies were disposed of in the house, those helpful guests\ngot to work and fixed the barn to receive the next older kiddies. They\ncovered the floor with hay, and spread blankets and carriage robes over\nit, and bedded down thirty of the children in rows like little calves.\nMiss Matthews and a nurse went with them, administered hot milk all\naround, and within half an hour the tots were sleeping as peacefully as\nin their little cribs.\n\nBut meanwhile we at the house were having sensations. The doctor's first\nquestion upon arrival had been:\n\n\"You've counted the children? You know they're all here?\"\n\n\"We've made certain that every dormitory was empty before we left it,\" I\nreplied.\n\nYou see, they couldn't be counted in that confusion. Twenty or so of the\nboys were still in the dormitories, working under Percy Witherspoon\nto save clothing and furniture, and the older girls were sorting over\nbushels of shoes and trying to fit them to the little ones, who were\nrunning about underfoot and wailing dismally.\n\nWell, after we had loaded and despatched about seven car loads of\nchildren, the doctor suddenly called out:\n\n\"Where's Allegra?\"\n\nThere was a horrified silence. No one had seen her. And then Miss Snaith\nstood up and SHRIEKED. Betsy took her by the shoulders, and shook her\ninto coherence.\n\nIt seems that she had thought Allegra was coming down with a cough, and\nin order to get her out of the cold, had moved her crib from the fresh\nair nursery into the store room--and then forgotten it.\n\nWell, my dear, you know where the store room is! We simply stared at one\nanother with white faces. By this time the whole east wing was gutted\nand the third-floor stairs in flames. There didn't seem a chance that\nthe child was still alive. The doctor was the first to move. He snatched\nup a wet blanket that was lying in a soppy pile on the floor of the\nhall and sprang for the stairs. We yelled to him to come back. It simply\nlooked like suicide; but he kept on, and disappeared into the smoke. I\ndashed outside and shouted to the firemen on the roof. The store room\nwindow was too little for a man to go through, and they hadn't opened it\nfor fear of creating a draft.\n\nI can't describe what happened in the next agonizing ten minutes. The\nthird-floor stairs fell in with a crash and a burst of flame about five\nseconds after the doctor passed over them. We had given him up for lost\nwhen a shout went up from the crowd on the lawn, and he appeared for an\ninstant at one of those dormer windows in the attic, and called for the\nfiremen to put up a ladder. Then he disappeared, and it seemed to us\nthat they'd never get that ladder in place; but they finally did, and\ntwo men went up. The opening of the window had created a draft, and they\nwere almost overpowered by the volume of smoke that burst out at the\ntop. After an eternity the doctor appeared again with a white bundle in\nhis arms. He passed it out to the men, and then he staggered back and\ndropped out of sight!\n\nI don't know what happened for the next few minutes; I turned away and\nshut my eyes. Somehow or other they got him out and halfway down the\nladder, and then they let him slip. You see, he was unconscious from\nall the smoke he'd swallowed, and the ladder was slippery with ice and\nterribly wobbly. Anyway, when I looked again he was lying in a heap on\nthe ground, with the crowd all running, and somebody yelling to give him\nair. They thought at first he was dead. But Dr. Metcalf from the village\nexamined him, and said his leg was broken, and two ribs, and that aside\nfrom that he seemed whole. He was still unconscious when they put him on\ntwo of the baby mattresses that had been thrown out of the windows and\nlaid him in the wagon that brought the ladders and started him home.\n\nAnd the rest of us, left behind, kept right on with the work as though\nnothing had happened. The queer thing about a calamity like this is that\nthere is so much to be done on every side that you don't have a moment\nto think, and you don't get any of your values straightened out until\nafterward. The doctor, without a moment's hesitation, had risked his\nlife to save Allegra. It was the bravest thing I ever saw, and yet the\nwhole business occupied only fifteen minutes out of that dreadful night.\nAt the time, it was just an incident.\n\nAnd he saved Allegra. She came out of that blanket with rumpled hair\nand a look of pleased surprise at the new game of peek-a-boo. She was\nsmiling! The child's escape was little short of a miracle. The fire had\nstarted within three feet of her wall, but owing to the direction of the\nwind, it had worked away from her. If Miss Snaith had believed a little\nmore in fresh air and had left the window open, the fire would have\neaten back. But fortunately Miss Snaith does not believe in fresh air,\nand no such thing happened. If Allegra had gone, I never should have\nforgiven myself for not letting the Bretlands take her, and I know that\nSandy wouldn't.\n\nDespite all the loss, I can't be anything but happy when I think of the\ntwo horrible tragedies that have been averted. For seven minutes, while\nthe doctor was penned in that blazing third floor, I lived through\nthe agony of believing them both gone, and I start awake in the night\ntrembling with horror.\n\nBut I'll try to tell you the rest. The firemen and the\nvolunteers--particularly the chauffeur and stablemen from\nKnowltop--worked all night in an absolute frenzy. Our newest negro cook,\nwho is a heroine in her own right, went out and started the laundry\nfire and made up a boilerful of coffee. It was her own idea. The\nnon-combatants served it to the firemen when they relieved one another\nfor a few minutes' rest, and it helped.\n\nWe got the remainder of the children off to various hospitable houses,\nexcept the older boys, who worked all night as well as any one. It was\nabsolutely inspiring to see the way this entire township turned out and\nhelped. People who haven't appeared to know that the asylum existed came\nin the middle of the night and put their whole houses at our disposal.\nThey took the children in, gave them hot baths and hot soup, and tucked\nthem into bed. And so far as I can make out, not one of my one hundred\nand seven chicks is any the worse for hopping about on drenched floors\nin their bare feet, not even the whooping cough cases.\n\nIt was broad daylight before the fire was sufficiently under control\nto let us know just what we had saved. I will report that my wing is\nentirely intact, though a little smoky, and the main corridor is pretty\nnearly all right up to the center staircase; after that everything is\ncharred and drenched. The east wing is a blackened, roofless shell.\nYour hated Ward F, dear Judy, is gone forever. I wish that you could\nobliterate it from your mind as absolutely as it is obliterated from the\nearth. Both in substance and in spirit the old John Grier is done for.\n\nI must tell you something funny. I never saw so many funny things in my\nlife as happened through that night. When everybody there was in extreme\nnegligee, most of the men in pajamas and ulsters, and all of them\nwithout collars, the Hon. Cyrus Wykoff put in a tardy appearance,\narrayed as for an afternoon tea. He wore a pearl scarf pin and white\nspats! But he really was extremely helpful. He put his entire house\nat our disposal, and I turned over to him Miss Snaith in a state of\nhysterics; and her nerves so fully occupied him that he didn't get in\nour way the whole night through.\n\nI can't write any more details now; I've never been so rushed in the\nwhole of my life. I'll just assure you that there's no slightest reason\nfor you to cut your trip short. Five trustees were on the spot early\nSaturday morning, and we are all working like mad to get affairs into\nsome semblance of order. Our asylum at the present moment is scattered\nover the entire township; but don't be unduly anxious. We know where\nall the children are. None of them is permanently mislaid. I didn't know\nthat perfect strangers could be so kind. My opinion of the human race\nhas gone up.\n\nI haven't seen the doctor. They telegraphed to New York for a surgeon,\nwho set his leg. The break was pretty bad, and will take time. They\ndon't think there are any internal injuries, though he is awfully\nbattered up. As soon as we are allowed to see him I will send more\ndetailed particulars. I really must stop if I am to catch tomorrow's\nsteamer.\n\nGood-by. Don't worry. There are a dozen silver linings to this cloud\nthat I'll write about tomorrow.\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nGood heavens! here comes an automobile with J. F. Bretland in it!\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nJanuary 14.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nListen to this! J. F. Bretland read about our fire in a New York paper\n(I will say that the metropolitan press made the most of details), and\nhe posted up here in a twitter of anxiety. His first question as he\ntumbled across our blackened threshold was,\n\n\"Is Allegra safe?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said I.\n\n\"Thank God!\" he cried, and dropped into a chair. \"This is no place for\nchildren,\" he said severely, \"and I have come to take her home. I want\nthe boys, too,\" he added hastily before I had a chance to speak. \"My\nwife and I have talked it over, and we have decided that since we are\ngoing to the trouble of starting a nursery, we might as well run it for\nthree as for one.\"\n\nI led him up to my library, where our little family has been domiciled\nsince the fire, and ten minutes later, when I was called down to confer\nwith the trustees, I left J. F. Bretland with his new daughter on his\nknee and a son leaning against each arm, the proudest father in the\nUnited States.\n\nSo, you see, our fire has accomplished one thing: those three children\nare settled for life. It is almost worth the loss.\n\nBut I don't believe I told you how the fire started. There are so many\nthings I haven't told you that my arm aches at the thought of writing\nthem all. Sterry, we have since discovered, was spending the week end\nas our guest. After a bibulous evening passed at \"Jack's Place,\" he\nreturned to our carriage house, climbed in through a window, lighted\na candle, made himself comfortable, and dropped asleep. He must have\nforgotten to put out the candle; anyway, the fire happened, and Sterry\njust escaped with his life. He is now in the town hospital, bathed in\nsweet oil, and painfully regretting his share in our troubles.\n\nI am pleased to learn that our insurance was pretty adequate, so the\nmoney loss won't be so tremendous, after all. As for other kinds of\nloss, there aren't any! Actually, nothing but gain so far as I can make\nout, barring, of course, our poor smashed-up doctor. Everybody has been\nwonderful; I didn't know that so much charity and kindness existed in\nthe human race. Did I ever say anything against trustees? I take it\nback. Four of them posted up from New York the morning after the fire,\nand all of the local people have been wonderful. Even the Hon. Cy has\nbeen so occupied in remaking the morals of the five orphans quartered\nupon him that he hasn't caused any trouble at all.\n\nThe fire occurred early Saturday morning, and Sunday the ministers in\nall the churches called for volunteers to accept in their houses one or\ntwo children as guests for three weeks, until the asylum could get its\nplant into working order again.\n\nIt was inspiring to see the response. Every child was disposed of within\nhalf an hour. And consider what that means for the future: every one of\nthose families is going to take a personal interest in this asylum from\nnow on. Also, consider what it means for the children. They are finding\nout how a real family lives, and this is the first time that dozens of\nthem have ever crossed the threshold of a private house.\n\nAs for more permanent plans to take us through the winter, listen to all\nthis. The country club has a caddies' clubhouse which they don't use in\nwinter and which they have politely put at our disposal. It joins our\nland on the back, and we are fitting it up for fourteen children, with\nMiss Matthews in charge. Our dining room and kitchen still being intact,\nthey will come here for meals and school, returning home at night all\nthe better for half a mile walk. \"The Pavilion on the Links\" we are\ncalling it.\n\nThen that nice motherly Mrs. Wilson, next door to the doctor's,--she who\nhas been so efficient with our little Loretta,--has agreed to take in\nfive more at four dollars a week each. I am leaving with her some of the\nmost promising older girls who have shown housekeeping instincts, and\nwould like to learn cooking on a decently small scale. Mrs. Wilson and\nher husband are such a wonderful couple, thrifty and industrious and\nsimple and loving, I think it would do the girls good to observe them. A\ntraining class in wifehood!\n\nI told you about the Knowltop people on the east of us, who took in\nforty-seven youngsters the night of the fire, and how their entire house\nparty turned themselves into emergency nursemaids? We relieved them of\nthirty-six the next day, but they still have eleven. Did I ever call Mr.\nKnowltop a crusty old curmudgeon? I take it back. I beg his pardon.\nHe's a sweet lamb. Now, in the time of our need, what do you think that\nblessed man has done? He has fitted up an empty tenant house on the\nestate for our babies, has himself engaged an English trained baby nurse\nto take charge, and furnishes them with the superior milk from his own\nmodel dairy. He says he has been wondering for years what to do with\nthat milk. He can't afford to sell it, because he loses four cents on\nevery quart!\n\nThe twelve older girls from dormitory A I am putting into the farmer's\nnew cottage. The poor Turnfelts, who had occupied it just two days,\nare being shoved on into the village. But they wouldn't be any good\nin looking after the children, and I need their room. Three or four of\nthese girls have been returned from foster homes as intractable, and\nthey require pretty efficient supervision. So what do you think I've\ndone? Telegraphed to Helen Brooks to chuck the publishers and take\ncharge of my girls instead. You know she will be wonderful with\nthem. She accepted provisionally. Poor Helen has had enough of this\nirrevocable contract business; she wants everything in life to be on\ntrial!\n\nFor the older boys something particularly nice has happened; we have\nreceived a gift of gratitude from J. F. Bretland. He went down to thank\nthe doctor for Allegra. They had a long talk about the needs of the\ninstitution, and J. F. B. came back and gave me a check for $3000 to\nbuild the Indian camps on a substantial scale. He and Percy and the\nvillage architect have drawn up plans, and in two weeks, we hope, the\ntribes will move into winter quarters.\n\nWhat does it matter if my one hundred and seven children have been\nburned out, since they live in such a kind-hearted world as this?\n\nFriday.\n\n\nI suppose you are wondering why I don't vouchsafe some details about the\ndoctor's condition. I can't give any first-hand information, since he\nwon't see me. However, he has seen everybody except me--Betsy, Allegra,\nMrs. Livermore, Mr. Bretland, Percy, various trustees. They all report\nthat he is progressing as comfortably as could be expected with two\nbroken ribs and a fractured fibula. That, I believe, is the professional\nname of the particular leg bone he broke. He doesn't like to have a\nfuss made over him, and he won't pose gracefully as a hero. I myself, as\ngrateful head of this institution, called on several different occasions\nto present my official thanks, but I was invariably met at the door with\nword that he was sleeping and did not wish to be disturbed. The first\ntwo times I believed Mrs. McGurk; after that--well, I know our doctor!\nSo when it came time to send our little maid to prattle her unconscious\ngood-bys to the man who had saved her life, I despatched her in charge\nof Betsy.\n\nI haven't an idea what is the matter with the man. He was friendly\nenough last week, but now, if I want an opinion from him, I have to\nsend Percy to extract it. I do think that he might see me as the\nsuperintendent of the asylum, even if he doesn't wish our acquaintance\nto be on a personal basis. There is no doubt about it, our Sandy is\nScotch!\n\n\nLATER.\n\n\nIt is going to require a fortune in stamps to get this letter to\nJamaica, but I do want you to know all the news, and we have never had\nso many exhilarating things happen since 1876, when we were founded.\nThis fire has given us such a shock that we are going to be more alive\nfor years to come. I believe that every institution ought to be\nburned to the ground every twenty-five years in order to get rid of\nold-fashioned equipment and obsolete ideas. I am superlatively glad\nnow that we didn't spend Jervis's money last summer; it would have been\nintensively tragic to have had that burn. I don't mind so much about\nJohn Grier's, since he made it in a patent medicine which, I hear,\ncontained opium.\n\nAs to the remnant of us that the fire left behind, it is already boarded\nup and covered with tar-paper, and we are living along quite comfortably\nin our portion of a house. It affords sufficient room for the staff and\nthe children's dining room and kitchen, and more permanent plans can be\nmade later.\n\nDo you perceive what has happened to us? The good Lord has heard my\nprayer, and the John Grier Home is a cottage institution!\n\n\nI am,\n\nThe busiest person north of the equator,\n\nS. McBRIDE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nJanuary 16.\n\nDear Gordon:\n\nPlease, please behave yourself, and don't make things harder than they\nare. It's absolutely out of the question for me to give up the asylum\nthis instant. You ought to realize that I can't abandon my chicks just\nwhen they are so terribly in need of me. Neither am I ready to drop\nthis blasted philanthropy. (You can see how your language looks in my\nhandwriting!)\n\nYou have no cause to worry. I am not overworking. I am enjoying it;\nnever was so busy and happy in my life. The papers made the fire out\nmuch more lurid than it really was. That picture of me leaping from\nthe roof with a baby under each arm was overdrawn. One or two of the\nchildren have sore throats, and our poor doctor is in a plaster cast.\nBut we're all alive, thank Heaven! and are going to pull through without\npermanent scars.\n\nI can't write details now; I'm simply rushed to death. And don't\ncome--please! Later, when things have settled just a little, you and\nI must have a talk about you and me, but I want time to think about it\nfirst.\n\nS.\n\n\nJanuary 21.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nHelen Brooks is taking hold of those fourteen fractious girls in a most\nmasterly fashion. The job is quite the toughest I had to offer, and she\nlikes it. I think she is going to be a valuable addition to our staff.\n\nAnd I forgot to tell you about Punch. When the fire occurred, those two\nnice women who kept him all summer were on the point of catching a train\nfor California--and they simply tucked him under their arms, along\nwith their luggage, and carried him off. So Punch spends the winter in\nPasadena and I rather fancy he is theirs for good. Do you wonder that I\nam in an exalted mood over all these happenings?\n\nLATER.\n\n\nPoor bereaved Percy has just been spending the evening with me, because\nI am supposed to understand his troubles. Why must I be supposed to\nunderstand everybody's troubles? It's awfully wearing to be pouring out\nsympathy from an empty heart. The poor boy at present is pretty low,\nbut I rather suspect--with Betsy's aid--that he will pull through. He is\njust on the edge of falling in love with Betsy, but he doesn't know it.\nHe's in the stage now where he's sort of enjoying his troubles. He feels\nhimself a tragic hero, a man who has suffered deeply. But I notice that\nwhen Betsy is about, he offers cheerful assistance in whatever work is\ntoward.\n\nGordon telegraphed today that he is coming tomorrow. I am dreading the\ninterview, for I know we are going to have an altercation. He wrote the\nday after the fire and begged me to \"chuck the asylum\" and get married\nimmediately, and now he's coming to argue it out. I can't make him\nunderstand that a job involving the happiness of one hundred or so\nchildren can't be chucked with such charming insouciance. I tried my\nbest to keep him away, but, like the rest of his sex, he's stubborn. Oh\ndear, I don't know what's ahead of us! I wish I could glance into next\nyear for a moment.\n\nThe doctor is still in his plaster cast, but I hear is doing well,\nafter a grumbly fashion. He is able to sit up a little every day and to\nreceive a carefully selected list of visitors. Mrs. McGurk sorts them\nout at the door, and repudiates the ones she doesn't like.\n\nGood-by. I'd write some more, but I'm so sleepy that my eyes are\nshutting on me. (The idiom is Sadie Kate's.) I must go to bed and get\nsome sleep against the one hundred and seven troubles of tomorrow.\n\nWith love to the Pendletons,\n\nS. McB.\n\n\nJanuary 22.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nThis letter has nothing to do with the John Grier Home. It's merely from\nSallie McBride.\n\nDo you remember when we read Huxley's letters our senior year? That book\ncontained a phrase which has stuck in my memory ever since: \"There is\nalways a Cape Horn in one's life that one either weathers or wrecks\noneself on.\" It's terribly true; and the trouble is that you can't\nalways recognize your Cape Horn when you see it. The sailing is\nsometimes pretty foggy, and you're wrecked before you know it.\n\nI've been realizing of late that I have reached the Cape Horn of my own\nlife. I entered upon my engagement to Gordon honestly and hopefully, but\nlittle by little I've grown doubtful of the outcome. The girl he loves\nis not the ME I want to be. It's the ME I've been trying to grow away\nfrom all this last year. I'm not sure she ever really existed. Gordon\njust imagined she did. Anyway, she doesn't exist any more, and the only\nfair course both to him and to myself was to end it.\n\nWe no longer have any interests in common; we are not friends. He\ndoesn't comprehend it; he thinks that I am making it up, that all I have\nto do is to take an interest in his life, and everything will turn out\nhappily. Of course I do take an interest when he's with me. I talk about\nthe things he wants to talk about, and he doesn't know that there's a\nwhole part of me--the biggest part of me--that simply doesn't meet him\nat any point. I pretend when I am with him. I am not myself, and if we\nwere to live together in constant daily intercourse, I'd have to keep on\npretending all my life. He wants me to watch his face and smile when he\nsmiles and frown when he frowns. He can't realize that I'm an individual\njust as much as he is.\n\nI have social accomplishments. I dress well, I'm spectacular, I would\nbe an ideal hostess in a politician's household--and that's why he likes\nme.\n\nAnyway, I suddenly saw with awful distinctness that if I kept on I'd\nbe in a few years where Helen Brooks is. She's a far better model of\nmarried life for me to contemplate just this moment than you, dear Judy.\nI think that such a spectacle as you and Jervis is a menace to society.\nYou look so happy and peaceful and companionable that you induce\na defenseless onlooker to rush off and snap up the first man she\nmeets--and he's always the wrong man.\n\nAnyway, Gordon and I have quarreled definitely and finally. I\nshould rather have ended without a quarrel, but considering his\ntemperament,--and mine, too, I must confess,--we had to go off in a big\nsmoky explosion. He came yesterday afternoon, after I'd written him not\nto come, and we went walking over Knowltop. For three and a half hours\nwe paced back and forth over that windy moor and discussed ourselves\nto the bottommost recesses of our beings. No one can ever say the break\ncame through misunderstanding each other!\n\nIt ended by Gordon's going, never to return. As I stood there at the\nend and watched him drop out of sight over the brow of the hill, and\nrealized that I was free and alone and my own master well, Judy, such a\nsense of joyous relief, of freedom, swept over me! I can't tell you;\nI don't believe any happily married person could ever realize how\nwonderfully, beautifully ALONE I felt. I wanted to throw my arms out and\nembrace the whole waiting world that belonged suddenly to me. Oh, it\nis such a relief to have it settled! I faced the truth the night of\nthe fire when I saw the old John Grier go, and realized that a new John\nGrier would be built in its place and that I wouldn't be here to do it.\nA horrible jealousy clutched at my heart. I couldn't give it up, and\nduring those agonizing moments while I thought we had lost our doctor,\nI realized what his life meant, and how much more significant than\nGordon's. And I knew then that I couldn't desert him. I had to go on and\ncarry out all of the plans we made together.\n\nI don't seem to be telling you anything but a mess of words, I am so\nfull of such a mess of crowding emotions. I want to talk and talk and\ntalk myself into coherence. But, anyway, I stood alone in the winter\ntwilight, and I took a deep breath of clear cold air, and I felt\nbeautifully, wonderfully, electrically free.\n\nAnd then I ran and leaped and skipped down the hill and across the\npastures toward our iron confines, and I sang to myself. Oh, it was a\nscandalous proceeding, when, according to all precedent, I should have\ngone trailing home with a broken wing. I never gave one thought to\npoor Gordon, who was carrying a broken, bruised, betrayed heart to the\nrailroad station.\n\nAs I entered the house I was greeted by the joyous clatter of the\nchildren trooping to their supper. They were suddenly MINE, and lately,\nas my doom became more and more imminent, they had seemed fading away\ninto little strangers. I seized the three nearest and hugged them hard.\nI have suddenly found such new life and exuberance, I feel as though I\nhad been released from prison and were free. I feel,--oh, I'll stop,--I\njust want you to know the truth. Don't show Jervis this letter, but tell\nhim what's in it in a decently subdued and mournful fashion.\n\nIt's midnight now, and I'm going to try to go to sleep. It's wonderful\nnot to be going to marry some one you don't want to marry. I'm glad of\nall these children's needs, I'm glad of Helen Brooks, and, yes, of the\nfire, and everything that has made me see clearly. There's never been a\ndivorce in my family, and they would have hated it.\n\nI know I'm horribly egotistical and selfish; I ought to be thinking\nof poor Gordon's broken heart. But really it would just be a pose if I\npretended to be very sorrowful. He'll find some one else with just as\nconspicuous hair as mine, who will make just as effective a hostess, and\nwho won't be bothered by any of these damned modern ideas about public\nservice and woman's mission and all the rest of the tomfoolery the\nmodern generation of women is addicted to. (I paraphrase, and soften our\nyoung man's heartbroken utterances.)\n\nGood-by, dear people. How I wish I could stand with you on your beach\nand look across the blue, blue sea! I salute the Spanish main.\n\nADDIO!\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nJanuary 27.\n\nDear Dr. MacRae:\n\nI wonder if this note will be so fortunate as to find you awake? Perhaps\nyou are not aware that I have called four times to offer thanks and\nconsolation in my best bed-side manner? I am touched by the news that\nMrs. McGurk's time is entirely occupied in taking in flowers and jelly\nand chicken broth, donated by the adoring ladies of the parish to\nthe ungracious hero in a plaster cast. I know that you find a cap of\nhomespun more comfortable than a halo, but I really do think that you\nmight have regarded me in a different light from the hysterical ladies\nin question. You and I used to be friends (intermittently), and though\nthere are one or two details in our past intercourse that might better\nbe expunged, still I don't see why we should let them upset our entire\nrelationship. Can't we be sensible and expunge them?\n\nThe fire has brought out such a lot of unexpected kindliness and\ncharity, I wish it might bring out a little from you. You see, Sandy,\nI know you well. You may pose to the world as being gruff and curt and\nungracious and scientific and inhuman and S C O T C H, but you can't\nfool me. My newly trained psychological eye has been upon you for ten\nmonths, and I have applied the Binet test. You are really kind and\nsympathetic and wise and forgiving and big, so please be at home the\nnext time I come to see you, and we will perform a surgical operation\nupon Time and amputate five months.\n\nDo you remember the Sunday afternoon we ran away, and what a nice time\nwe had? It is now the day after that.\n\nSALLIE McBRIDE.\n\nP.S. If I condescend to call upon you again, please condescend to see\nme, for I assure you I won't try more than once! Also, I assure you that\nI won't drip tears on your counterpane or try to kiss your hand, as I\nhear one admiring lady did.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nThursday.\n\nDear Enemy:\n\nYou see, I'm feeling very friendly toward you this moment. When I call\nyou \"MacRae\" I don't like you, and when I call you \"Enemy\" I do.\n\nSadie Kate delivered your note (as an afterthought). And it's a very\ncreditable production for a left-handed man; I thought at first glance\nit was from Punch.\n\nYou may expect me tomorrow at four, and mind you're awake! I'm glad that\nyou think we're friends. Really, I feel that I've got back something\nquite precious which I had carelessly mislaid.\n\nS. McB.\n\nP.S. Java caught cold the night of the fire and he has the toothache. He\nsits and holds his cheek like a poor little kiddie.\n\n\nThursday, January 29.\n\nDear Judy:\n\nThose must have been ten terribly incoherent pages I dashed off to you\nlast week. Did you respect my command to destroy that letter? I should\nnot care to have it appear in my collected correspondence. I know that\nmy state of mind is disgraceful, shocking, scandalous, but one really\ncan't help the way one feels. It is usually considered a pleasant\nsensation to be engaged, but, oh, it is nothing compared with the\nwonderful untrammeled, joyous, free sensation of being unengaged! I have\nhad a terribly unstable feeling these last few months, and now at last\nI am settled. No one ever looked forward to spinsterhood more thankfully\nthan I.\n\nOur fire, I have come to believe, was providential. It was sent from\nheaven to clear the way for a new John Grier. We are already deep in\nplans for cottages. I favor gray stucco, Betsy leans to brick, and\nPercy, half-timber. I don't know what our poor doctor would prefer;\nolive green with a mansard roof appears to be his taste.\n\nWith ten different kitchens to practice in, won't our children learn how\nto cook! I am already looking about for ten loving house mothers to put\nin charge. I think, in fact, I'll search for eleven, in order to have\none for Sandy. He's as pathetically in need of a little mothering as\nany of the chicks.\n\nIt must be pretty dispiriting to come home every night to the\nministrations of Mrs. McGur-rk.\n\nHow I do not like that woman! She has with complacent firmness told me\nfour different times that the dochther was ashleep and not wantin' to be\ndisturbed. I haven't set eyes on him yet, and I have just about finished\nbeing polite. However, I waive judgment until tomorrow at four, when\nI am to pay a short, unexciting call of half an hour. He made the\nappointment himself, and if she tells me again that he is ashleep,\nI shall give her a gentle push and tip her over (she's very fat and\nunstable) and, planting a foot firmly on her stomach, pursue my way\ntranquilly in and up. Luellen, formerly chauffeur, chambermaid, and\ngardener, is now also trained nurse. I am eager to see how he looks in a\nwhite cap and apron.\n\nThe mail has just come, with a letter from Mrs. Bretland, telling\nhow happy they are to have the children. She inclosed their first\nphotograph--all packed in a governess cart, with Clifford proudly\nholding the reins, and a groom at the pony's head. How is that for three\nlate inmates of the John Grier Home?\n\nIt's all very inspiring when I think of their futures, but a trifle sad\nwhen I remember their poor father, and how he worked himself to death\nfor those three chicks who are going to forget him. The Bretlands\nwill do their best to accomplish that. They are jealous of any outside\ninfluence and want to make the babies wholly theirs. After all, I think\nthe natural way is best--for each family to produce its own children,\nand keep them.\n\nFriday.\n\n\nI saw the doctor today. He's a pathetic sight, consisting mostly of\nbandages. Somehow or other we got our misunderstandings all made up.\nIsn't it dreadful the way two human beings, both endowed with fair\npowers of speech, can manage to convey nothing of their psychological\nprocesses to each other?\n\nI haven't understood his mental attitude from the first, and he even\nyet doesn't understand mine. This grim reticence that we Northern\npeople struggle so hard to maintain! I don't know after all but that the\nexcitable Southern safety valve method is the best.\n\nBut, Judy, such a dreadful thing--do you remember last year when he\nvisited that psychopathic institution, and stayed ten days, and I made\nsuch a silly fuss about it? Oh, my dear, the impossible things I do! He\nwent to attend his wife's funeral. She died there in the institution.\nMrs. McGurk knew it all the time, and might have added it to the rest of\nher news, but she didn't.\n\nHe told me all about her, very sweetly. The poor man for years and years\nhas undergone a terrible strain, and I fancy her death is a blessed\nrelief. He confesses that he knew at the time of his marriage that he\nought not to marry her, he knew all about her nervous instability;\nbut he thought, being a doctor, that he could overcome it, and she was\nbeautiful! He gave up his city practice and came to the country on her\naccount. And then after the little girl's birth she went all to pieces,\nand he had to \"put her away,\" to use Mrs. McGurk's phrase. The child is\nsix now, a sweet, lovely little thing to look at, but, I judge from what\nhe said, quite abnormal. He has a trained nurse with her always. Just\nthink of all that tragedy looming over our poor patient good doctor, for\nhe is patient, despite being the most impatient man that ever lived!\n\nThank Jervis for his letter. He's a dear man, and I'm glad to see him\ngetting his deserts. What fun we are going to have when you get back to\nShadywell, and we lay our plans for a new John Grier! I feel as though I\nhad spent this past year learning, and am now just ready to begin. We'll\nturn this into the nicest orphan asylum that ever lived. I'm so absurdly\nhappy at the prospect that I start in the morning with a spring, and go\nabout my various businesses singing inside.\n\nThe John Grier Home sends its blessing to the two best friends it ever\nhad!\n\nADDIO!\n\nSALLIE.\n\n\nTHE JOHN GRIER HOME,\n\nSaturday at half-past six in the morning!\n\nMy dearest Enemy:\n\n\"Some day soon something nice is going to happen.\"\n\nWeren't you surprised when you woke up this morning and remembered the\ntruth? I was! I couldn't think for about two minutes what made me so\nhappy.\n\nIt's not light yet, but I'm wide awake and excited and having to write\nto you. I shall despatch this note by the first to-be-trusted little\norphan who appears, and it will go up on your breakfast tray along with\nyour oatmeal.\n\nI shall follow VERY PROMPTLY at four o'clock this afternoon. Do you\nthink Mrs. McGurk will ever countenance the scandal if I stay two hours,\nand no orphan for a chaperon?\n\nIt was in all good faith, Sandy, that I promised not to kiss your hand\nor drip tears on the counterpane, but I'm afraid I did both--or worse!\nPositively, I didn't suspect how much I cared for you till I crossed the\nthreshold and saw you propped up against the pillows, all covered with\nbandages, and your hair singed off. You are a sight! If I love you now,\nwhen fully one third of you is plaster of Paris and surgical dressing,\nyou can imagine how I'm going to love you when it's all you!\n\nBut my dear, dear Robin, what a foolish man you are! How should I ever\nhave dreamed all those months that you were caring for me when you acted\nso abominably S C O T C H? With most men, behavior like yours would\nnot be considered a mark of affection. I wish you had just given me a\nglimmering of an idea of the truth, and maybe you would have saved us\nboth a few heartaches.\n\nBut we mustn't be looking back; we must look forward and be grateful.\nThe two happiest things in life are going to be ours, a FRIENDLY\nmarriage and work that we love.\n\nYesterday, after leaving you, I walked back to the asylum sort of dazed.\nI wanted to get by myself and THINK, but instead of being by myself,\nI had to have Betsy and Percy and Mrs. Livermore for dinner (already\ninvited) and then go down and talk to the children. Friday night-social\nevening. They had a lot of new records for the victrola, given by\nMrs. Livermore, and I had to sit politely and listen to them. And, my\ndear--you'll think this funny--the last thing they played was \"John\nAnderson, my jo John,\" and suddenly I found myself crying! I had to\nsnatch up the earnest orphan and hug her hard, with my head buried in\nher shoulder, to keep them all from seeing.\n\n     John Anderson, my jo John,\n     We clamb the hill thegither,\n     And monie a canty day, John,\n     We've had wi' ane anither;\n     Now we maun totter down, John,\n     But hand in hand we'll go,\n     And sleep thegither at the foot,\n     John Anderson, my jo.\n\nI wonder, when we are old and bent and tottery, can you and I look back,\nwith no regrets, on monie a canty day we've had wi' ane anither? It's\nnice to look forward to, isn't it--a life of work and play and little\ndaily adventures side by side with somebody you love? I'm not afraid of\nthe future any more. I don't mind growing old with you, Sandy. \"Time is\nbut the stream I go a-fishing in.\"\n\nThe reason I've grown to love these orphans is because they need me so,\nand that's the reason--at least one of the reasons--I've grown to love\nyou. You're a pathetic figure of a man, my dear, and since you won't\nmake yourself comfortable, you must be MADE comfortable.\n\nWe'll build a house on the hillside just beyond the asylum--how does a\nyellow Italian villa strike you, or preferably a pink one? Anyway, it\nwon't be green. And it won't have a mansard roof. And we'll have a big\ncheerful living room, all fireplace and windows and view, and no McGURK.\nPoor old thing! won't she be in a temper and cook you a dreadful dinner\nwhen she hears the news! But we won't tell her for a long, long time--or\nanybody else. It's too scandalous a proceeding right on top of my own\nbroken engagement. I wrote to Judy last night, and with unprecedented\nself-control I never let fall so much as a hint. I'm growing Scotch\nmysel'!\n\nPerhaps I didn't tell you the exact truth, Sandy, when I said I hadn't\nknown how much I cared. I think it came to me the night the John Grier\nburned. When you were up under that blazing roof, and for the half hour\nthat followed, when we didn't know whether or not you would live, I\ncan't tell you what agonies I went through. It seemed to me, if you did\ngo, that I would never get over it all my life; that somehow to have\nlet the best friend I ever had pass away with a dreadful chasm of\nmisunderstanding between us--well--I couldn't wait for the moment when I\nshould be allowed to see you and talk out all that I have been shutting\ninside me for five months. And then--you know that you gave strict\norders to keep me out; and it hurt me dreadfully. How should I suspect\nthat you really wanted to see me more than any of the others, and that\nit was just that terrible Scotch moral sense that was holding you back?\nYou are a very good actor, Sandy. But, my dear, if ever in our lives\nagain we have the tiniest little cloud of a misunderstanding, let's\npromise not to shut it up inside ourselves, but to TALK.\n\nLast night, after they all got off,--early, I am pleased to say, since\nthe chicks no longer live at home,--I came upstairs and finished my\nletter to Judy, and then I looked at the telephone and struggled with\ntemptation. I wanted to call up 505 and say good night to you. But I\ndidn't dare. I'm still quite respectably bashful! So, as the next best\nthing to talking with you, I got out Burns and read him for an hour. I\ndropped asleep with all those Scotch love songs running in my head, and\nhere I am at daybreak writing them to you.\n\nGood-by, Robin lad, I lo'e you weel.\n\nSALLIE."