And I forgot to tell you about Punch. When the fire occurred, those two
nice women who kept him all summer were on the point of catching a train
for California--and they simply tucked him under their arms, along
with their luggage, and carried him off. So Punch spends the winter in
Pasadena and I rather fancy he is theirs for good. Do you wonder that I
am in an exalted mood over all these happenings?
LATER.
Poor bereaved Percy has just been spending the evening with me, because
I am supposed to understand his troubles. Why must I be supposed to
understand everybody's troubles? It's awfully wearing to be pouring out
sympathy from an empty heart. The poor boy at present is pretty low,
but I rather suspect--with Betsy's aid--that he will pull through. He is
just on the edge of falling in love with Betsy, but he doesn't know it.
He's in the stage now where he's sort of enjoying his troubles. He feels
himself a tragic hero, a man who has suffered deeply. But I notice that
when Betsy is about, he offers cheerful assistance in whatever work is
toward.
Gordon telegraphed today that he is coming tomorrow. I am dreading the
interview, for I know we are going to have an altercation. He wrote the
day after the fire and begged me to "chuck the asylum" and get married
immediately, and now he's coming to argue it out. I can't make him
understand that a job involving the happiness of one hundred or so
children can't be chucked with such charming insouciance. I tried my
best to keep him away, but, like the rest of his sex, he's stubborn. Oh
dear, I don't know what's ahead of us! I wish I could glance into next
year for a moment.
The doctor is still in his plaster cast, but I hear is doing well,
after a grumbly fashion. He is able to sit up a little every day and to
receive a carefully selected list of visitors. Mrs. McGurk sorts them
out at the door, and repudiates the ones she doesn't like.
Good-by. I'd write some more, but I'm so sleepy that my eyes are
shutting on me. (The idiom is Sadie Kate's.) I must go to bed and get
some sleep against the one hundred and seven troubles of tomorrow.
With love to the Pendletons,
S. McB.
January 22.
Dear Judy:
This letter has nothing to do with the John Grier Home. It's merely from
Sallie McBride.
Do you remember when we read Huxley's letters our senior year? That book
contained a phrase which has stuck in my memory ever since: "There is
always a Cape Horn in one's life that one either weathers or wrecks
oneself on." It's terribly true; and the trouble is that you can't
always recognize your Cape Horn when you see it. The sailing is
sometimes pretty foggy, and you're wrecked before you know it.