Dear Enemy

The twelve older girls from dormitory A I am putting into the farmer's

new cottage. The poor Turnfelts, who had occupied it just two days,

are being shoved on into the village. But they wouldn't be any good

in looking after the children, and I need their room. Three or four of

these girls have been returned from foster homes as intractable, and

they require pretty efficient supervision. So what do you think I've

done? Telegraphed to Helen Brooks to chuck the publishers and take

charge of my girls instead. You know she will be wonderful with

them. She accepted provisionally. Poor Helen has had enough of this

irrevocable contract business; she wants everything in life to be on

trial!

For the older boys something particularly nice has happened; we have

received a gift of gratitude from J. F. Bretland. He went down to thank

the doctor for Allegra. They had a long talk about the needs of the

institution, and J. F. B. came back and gave me a check for $3000 to

build the Indian camps on a substantial scale. He and Percy and the

village architect have drawn up plans, and in two weeks, we hope, the

tribes will move into winter quarters.

What does it matter if my one hundred and seven children have been

burned out, since they live in such a kind-hearted world as this?

Friday.

I suppose you are wondering why I don't vouchsafe some details about the

doctor's condition. I can't give any first-hand information, since he

won't see me. However, he has seen everybody except me--Betsy, Allegra,

Mrs. Livermore, Mr. Bretland, Percy, various trustees. They all report

that he is progressing as comfortably as could be expected with two

broken ribs and a fractured fibula. That, I believe, is the professional

name of the particular leg bone he broke. He doesn't like to have a

fuss made over him, and he won't pose gracefully as a hero. I myself, as

grateful head of this institution, called on several different occasions

to present my official thanks, but I was invariably met at the door with

word that he was sleeping and did not wish to be disturbed. The first

two times I believed Mrs. McGurk; after that--well, I know our doctor!

So when it came time to send our little maid to prattle her unconscious

good-bys to the man who had saved her life, I despatched her in charge

of Betsy.

I haven't an idea what is the matter with the man. He was friendly

enough last week, but now, if I want an opinion from him, I have to

send Percy to extract it. I do think that he might see me as the

superintendent of the asylum, even if he doesn't wish our acquaintance

to be on a personal basis. There is no doubt about it, our Sandy is

Scotch!