Dear Enemy

Respectful regards to the president.

SAL. McB.

Dear Gordon:

That was an obnoxious, beastly, low-down trick not to send me a cheering

line for four weeks just because, in a period of abnormal stress I once

let you go for three. I had really begun to be worried for fear you'd

tumbled into the Potomac. My chicks would miss you dreadfully; they love

their uncle Gordon. Please remember that you promised to send them a

donkey.

Please also remember that I'm a busier person than you. It's a lot

harder to run the John Grier Home than the House of Representatives.

Besides, you have more efficient people to help.

This isn't a letter; it's an indignant remonstrance. I'll write

tomorrow--or the next day.

S.

P.S. On reading your letter over again I am slightly mollified, but

dinna think I believe a' your saft words. I ken weel ye only flatter

when ye speak sae fair.

July 17.

Dear Judy:

I have a history to recount.

This, please remember, is Wednesday next. So at half-past two o'clock

our little Sophie was bathed and brushed and clothed in fine linen, and

put in charge of a trusty orphan, with anxious instructions to keep her

clean.

At three-thirty to the minute--never have I known a human being so

disconcertingly businesslike as J. F. Bretland--an automobile of

expensive foreign design rolled up to the steps of this imposing

chateau. A square-shouldered, square-jawed personage, with a chopped-off

mustache and a manner that inclines one to hurry, presented himself

three minutes later at my library door. He greeted me briskly as "Miss

McKosh." I gently corrected him, and he changed to "Miss McKim." I

indicated my most soothing armchair, and invited him to take some light

refreshment after his journey. He accepted a glass of water (I admire a

temperate parent), and evinced an impatient desire to be done with the

business. So I rang the bell and ordered the little Sophie to be brought

down.

"Hold on, Miss McGee!" said he to me. "I'd rather see her in her own

environment. I will go with you to the playroom or corral or wherever

you keep your youngsters."

So I led him to the nursery, where thirteen or fourteen mites in gingham

rompers were tumbling about on mattresses on the floor. Sophie, alone

in the glory of feminine petticoats, was ensconced in the blue-ginghamed

arms of a very bored orphan. She was squirming and fighting to get down,

and her feminine petticoats were tightly wound about her neck. I took

her in my arms, smoothed her clothes, wiped her nose, and invited her to

look at the gentleman.