Dear Enemy

It's up wi' the bonnets o' McBride and MacRae!

I am,

Indignantly yours, SALLIE.

THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

Monday.

Dear Dr. MacRae:

I am sending this note by Sadie Kate, as it seems impossible to reach

you by telephone. Is the person who calls herself Mrs. McGur-rk and

hangs up in the middle of a sentence your housekeeper? If she answers

the telephone often, I don't see how your patients have any patience

left.

As you did not come this morning, per agreement, and the painters did

come, I was fain to choose a cheerful corn color to be placed upon the

walls of your new laboratory room. I trust there is nothing unhygienic

about corn color.

Also, if you can spare a moment this afternoon, kindly motor yourself

to Dr. Brice's on Water Street and look at the dentist's chair and

appurtenances which are to be had at half-price. If all of the pleasant

paraphernalia of his profession were here,--in a corner of your

laboratory,--Dr. Brice could finish his 111 new patients with much more

despatch than if we had to transport them separately to Water Street.

Don't you think that's a useful idea? It came to me in the middle of

the night, but as I never happened to buy a dentist's chair before, I'd

appreciate some professional advice. Yours truly,

S. McBRIDE.

THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

March 1.

Dear Judy:

Do stop sending me telegrams!

Of course I know that you want to know everything that is happening, and

I would send a daily bulletin, but I truly don't find a minute. I am so

tired when night comes that if it weren't for Jane's strict discipline,

I should go to bed with my clothes on.

Later, when we slip a little more into routine, and I can be sure that

my assistants are all running off their respective jobs, I shall be the

regularest correspondent you ever had.

It was five days ago, wasn't it, that I wrote? Things have been

happening in those five days. The MacRae and I have mapped out a plan of

campaign, and are stirring up this place to its sluggish depths. I like

him less and less, but we have declared a sort of working truce. And the

man IS a worker. I always thought I had sufficient energy myself, but

when an improvement is to be introduced, I toil along panting in his

wake. He is as stubborn and tenacious and bull-doggish as a Scotchman

can be, but he does understand babies; that is, he understands their

physiological aspects. He hasn't any more feeling for them personally

than for so many frogs that he might happen to be dissecting.