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Dear Enemy

Page 5

He is tall and thinnish, with sandy hair and cold gray eyes. During the

hour he spent in my society (and I was very sprightly) no shadow of a

smile so much as lightened the straight line of his mouth. Can a shadow

lighten? Maybe not; but, anyway, what IS the matter with the man? Has he

committed some remorseful crime, or is his taciturnity due merely to his

natural Scotchness? He's as companionable as a granite tombstone!

Incidentally, our doctor didn't like me any more than I liked him. He

thinks I'm frivolous and inconsequential, and totally unfitted for this

position of trust. I dare say Jervis has had a letter from him by now

asking to have me removed.

In the matter of conversation we didn't hit it off in the least. He

discussed broadly and philosophically the evils of institutional care

for dependent children, while I lightly deplored the unbecoming coiffure

that prevails among our girls.

To prove my point, I had in Sadie Kate, my special errand orphan. Her

hair is strained back as tightly as though it had been done with a

monkey wrench, and is braided behind into two wiry little pigtails.

Decidedly, orphans' ears need to be softened. But Dr. Robin MacRae

doesn't give a hang whether their ears are becoming or not; what he

cares about is their stomachs. We also split upon the subject of

red petticoats. I don't see how any little girl can preserve any

self-respect when dressed in a red flannel petticoat an irregular inch

longer than her blue checked gingham dress; but he thinks that red

petticoats are cheerful and warm and hygienic. I foresee a warlike reign

for the new superintendent.

In regard to the doctor, there is just one detail to be thankful for: he

is almost as new as I am, and he cannot instruct me in the traditions

of the asylum. I don't believe I COULD have worked with the old doctor,

who, judging from the specimens of his art that he left behind, knew as

much about babies as a veterinary surgeon.

In the matter of asylum etiquette, the entire staff has undertaken my

education. Even the cook this morning told me firmly that the John Grier

Home has corn meal mush on Wednesday nights.

Are you searching hard for another superintendent? I'll stay until she

comes, but please find her fast.

Yours,

With my mind made up,

SALLIE McBRIDE.

SUP'T'S OFFICE,

JOHN GRIER HOME,

February 27.

Dear Gordon:

Are you still insulted because I wouldn't take your advice? Don't you

know that a reddish-haired person of Irish forebears, with a dash of

Scotch, can't be driven, but must be gently led? Had you been less

obnoxiously insistent, I should have listened sweetly, and been saved.

As it is, I frankly confess that I have spent the last five days in

repenting our quarrel. You were right, and I was wrong, and, as you

see, I handsomely acknowledge it. If I ever emerge from this present

predicament, I shall in the future be guided (almost always) by your

judgment. Could any woman make a more sweeping retraction than that?

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