Dear Enemy

But there seems to have been a very happy side to it--a great deal of

love and many friends, all more or less poor, but artistic and congenial

and high-thinking. The little lads, in their gentleness and fineness,

show that phase of their upbringing. They have an air which many of

my children, despite all the good manners I can pour into them, will

forever lack.

The mother died in the hospital a few days after Allegra's birth, and

the father struggled on for two years, caring for his brood and painting

like mad--advertisements, anything--to keep a roof over their heads.

He died in St. Vincent's three weeks ago,--overwork, worry, pneumonia.

His friends rallied about the babies, sold such of the studio fittings

as had escaped pawning, paid off the debts, and looked about for the

best asylum they could find. And, Heaven save them! they hit upon us!

Well, I kept the two artists for luncheon,--nice creatures in soft

hats and Windsor ties, and looking pretty frayed themselves,--and then

started them back to New York with the promise that I would give the

little family my most parental attention.

So here they are, one little mite in the nursery, two in the

kindergarten room, four big packing cases full of canvases in the

cellar, and a trunk in the store room with the letters of their

father and mother. And a look in their faces, an intangible spiritual

SOMETHING, that is their heritage.

I can't get them out of my mind. All night long I was planning their

future. The boys are easy. They have already been graduated from

college, Mr. Pendleton assisting, and are pursuing honorable business

careers. But Allegra I don't know about; I can't think what to wish for

the child. Of course the normal thing to wish for any sweet little girl

is that two kind foster parents will come along to take the place of the

real parents that Fate has robbed her of. But in this case it would be

cruel to steal her away from her brothers. Their love for the baby is

pitiful. You see, they have brought her up. The only time I ever hear

them laugh is when she has done something funny.

The poor little fellows miss their father horribly. I found Don, the

five-year-old one, sobbing in his crib last night because he couldn't

say good night to "daddy."

But Allegra is true to her name, the happiest young miss of three I have

ever seen. The poor father managed well by her, and she, little ingrate,

has already forgotten that she has lost him.