Dear Enemy

"He's got a peach of a name. It's Percy de Forest Witherspoon."

I nearly had hysterics. Imagine a Percy de Forest Witherspoon in charge

of those twenty-four wild little savages!

But you know Jimmie when he has an idea. He had already invited Mr.

Witherspoon to dine with me on Saturday evening, and had ordered oysters

and squabs and ice-cream from the village caterer to help out my veal.

It ended by my giving a very formal dinner party, with Miss Matthews and

Betsy and the doctor included.

I almost asked the Hon. Cy and Miss Snaith. Ever since I have known

those two, I have felt that there ought to be a romance between them.

Never have I known two people who matched so perfectly. He's a widower

with five children. Don't you suppose it might be arranged? If he had

a wife to take up his attention, it might deflect him a little from us.

I'd be getting rid of them both at one stroke. It's to be considered

among our future improvements.

Anyway, we had our dinner. And during the course of the evening my

anxiety grew, not as to whether Percy would do for us, but as to whether

we should do for Percy. If I searched the world over, I never could

find a young man more calculated to win the affection of those boys.

You know, just by looking at him, that he does everything well, at least

everything vigorous. His literary and artistic accomplishments I suspect

a bit, but he rides and shoots and plays golf and football and sails a

boat. He likes to sleep out of doors and he likes boys. He has always

wanted to know some orphans; often read about 'em in books, he says, but

never met any face to face. Percy does seem too good to be true.

Before they left, Jimmie and the doctor hunted up a lantern, and in

their evening clothes conducted Mr. Witherspoon across a plowed field to

inspect his future dwelling.

And such a Sunday as we passed! I had absolutely to forbid their

carpentering. Those men would have put in a full day, quite irrespective

of the damage done to one hundred and four little moral natures. As it

is, they have just stood and looked at those shacks and handled their

hammers, and thought about where they would drive the first nail

tomorrow morning. The more I study men, the more I realize that they are

nothing in the world but boys grown too big to be spankable.

I am awfully worried as to how to feed Mr. Witherspoon. He looks as

though he had a frightfully healthy appetite, and he looks as though he

couldn't swallow his dinner unless he had on evening clothes. I've made

Betsy send home for a trunkful of evening gowns in order to keep up our

social standing. One thing is fortunate: he takes his luncheon at the

hotel, and I hear their luncheons are very filling.