Dear Enemy

So, though Sandy quite plainly sees my faults, still, he thinks that

some of them may be corrected; and he has determined to carry on my

education from the point where the college dropped it. A person in

my position ought to be well read in physiology, biology, psychology,

sociology, and eugenics; she should know the hereditary effects of

insanity, idiocy, and alcohol; should be able to administer the Binet

test; and should understand the nervous system of a frog. In pursuance

whereof, he has placed at my disposal his own scientific library of four

thousand volumes. He not only fetches in the books he wants me to read,

but comes and asks questions to make sure I haven't skipped.

We devoted last week to the life and letters of the Jukes family.

Margaret, the mother of criminals, six generations ago, founded a

prolific line, and her progeny, mostly in jail, now numbers some twelve

hundred. Moral: watch the children with a bad heredity so carefully that

none of them can ever have any excuse for growing up into Jukeses.

So now, as soon as we have finished our tea, Sandy and I get out

the Doomsday Book, and pore over its pages in an anxious search for

alcoholic parents. It's a cheerful little game to while away the

twilight hour after the day's work is done.

QUELLE VIE! Come home fast and take me out of it. I'm wearying for the

sight of you.

SALLIE.

J. G. H.,

Thursday morning. My dear Pendleton Family:

I have received your letter, and I seize my pen to stop you. I don't

wish to be relieved. I take it back. I change my mind. The person you

are planning to send sounds like an exact twin of Miss Snaith. How can

you ask me to turn over my darling children to a kind, but ineffectual,

middle-aged lady without any chin? The very thought of it wrings a

mother's heart.

Do you imagine that such a woman can carry on this work even

temporarily? No! The manager of an institution like this has got to be

young and husky and energetic and forceful and efficient and red-haired

and sweet-tempered, like me. Of course I've been discontented,--anybody

would be with things in such a mess,--but it's what you socialists call

a holy discontent. And do you think that I am going to abandon all of

the beautiful reforms I have so painstakingly started? No! I am not

to be moved from this spot until you find a superintendent superior to

Sallie McBride.

That does not mean, though, that I am mortgaging myself forever. Just

for the present, until things get on their feet. While the face washing,

airing, reconstructing period lasts, I honestly believe you chose the

right person when you hit upon me. I LOVE to plan improvements and order

people about.