Dear Enemy

The mail has just come, with a letter from Mrs. Bretland, telling

how happy they are to have the children. She inclosed their first

photograph--all packed in a governess cart, with Clifford proudly

holding the reins, and a groom at the pony's head. How is that for three

late inmates of the John Grier Home?

It's all very inspiring when I think of their futures, but a trifle sad

when I remember their poor father, and how he worked himself to death

for those three chicks who are going to forget him. The Bretlands

will do their best to accomplish that. They are jealous of any outside

influence and want to make the babies wholly theirs. After all, I think

the natural way is best--for each family to produce its own children,

and keep them.

Friday.

I saw the doctor today. He's a pathetic sight, consisting mostly of

bandages. Somehow or other we got our misunderstandings all made up.

Isn't it dreadful the way two human beings, both endowed with fair

powers of speech, can manage to convey nothing of their psychological

processes to each other?

I haven't understood his mental attitude from the first, and he even

yet doesn't understand mine. This grim reticence that we Northern

people struggle so hard to maintain! I don't know after all but that the

excitable Southern safety valve method is the best.

But, Judy, such a dreadful thing--do you remember last year when he

visited that psychopathic institution, and stayed ten days, and I made

such a silly fuss about it? Oh, my dear, the impossible things I do! He

went to attend his wife's funeral. She died there in the institution.

Mrs. McGurk knew it all the time, and might have added it to the rest of

her news, but she didn't.

He told me all about her, very sweetly. The poor man for years and years

has undergone a terrible strain, and I fancy her death is a blessed

relief. He confesses that he knew at the time of his marriage that he

ought not to marry her, he knew all about her nervous instability;

but he thought, being a doctor, that he could overcome it, and she was

beautiful! He gave up his city practice and came to the country on her

account. And then after the little girl's birth she went all to pieces,

and he had to "put her away," to use Mrs. McGurk's phrase. The child is

six now, a sweet, lovely little thing to look at, but, I judge from what

he said, quite abnormal. He has a trained nurse with her always. Just

think of all that tragedy looming over our poor patient good doctor, for

he is patient, despite being the most impatient man that ever lived!