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Dear Enemy

Page 65

I shall hate to give up the asylum after getting so excited over it,

but unless you are willing to move it to the capital, I don't see any

alternative.

The train was awfully late. We sat and smoked on a siding while two

accommodations and a freight dashed past. I think we must have broken

something, and had to tinker up our engine. The conductor was soothing,

but uncommunicative.

It was 7:30 when I descended, the only passenger, at our insignificant

station in the pitch darkness and RAIN, without an umbrella, and wearing

that precious new hat. No Turnfelt to meet me; not even a station hack.

To be sure, I hadn't telegraphed the exact time of my arrival, but,

still, I did feel rather neglected. I had sort of vaguely expected all

ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN to be drawn up by the platform, scattering

flowers and singing songs of welcome. Just as I was telling the station

man that I would watch his telegraph instrument while he ran across

to the corner saloon and telephoned for a vehicle, there came whirling

around the corner two big searchlights aimed straight at me. They

stopped nine inches before running me down, and I heard Sandy's voice

saying:

"Weel, weel, Miss Sallie McBride! I'm thinking it's ower time you came

back to tak' the bit bairns off my hands."

That man had come three times to meet me on the off chance of the

train's getting in some time. He tucked me and my new hat and bags and

books and chocolates all in under his waterproof flap, and we splashed

off. Really, I felt as if I was getting back home again, and quite sad

at the thought of ever having to leave. Mentally, you see, I had already

resigned and packed and gone. The mere idea that you are not in a place

for the rest of your life gives you an awfully unstable feeling. That's

why trial marriages would never work. You've got to feel you're in a

thing irrevocably and forever in order to buckle down and really put

your whole mind into making it a success.

It's astounding how much news can accrue in four days. Sandy just

couldn't talk fast enough to tell me everything I wanted to hear.

Among other items, I learned that Sadie Kate had spent two days in the

infirmary, her malady being, according to the doctor's diagnosis, half a

jar of gooseberry jam and Heaven knows how many doughnuts. Her work had

been changed during my absence to dishwashing in the officers' pantry,

and the juxtaposition of so many exotic luxuries was too much for her

fragile virtue.

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