SALLIE.
Saturday.
Dear Enemy:
Will you be after dining with us at seven tonight? It's a real dinner party; we're going to have ice-cream.
My brother has discovered a promising young man to take charge of the boys,—maybe you know him,—Mr. Witherspoon, at the bank. I wish to introduce him to asylum circles by easy steps, so PLEASE don't mention insanity or epilepsy or alcoholism or any of your other favorite topics.
He is a gay young society leader, used to very fancy things to eat. Do you suppose we can ever make him happy at the John Grier Home? Yours in evident haste,
SALLIE McBRIDE.
Sunday.
Dear Judy:
Jimmie was back at eight Friday morning, and the doctor at a quarter past. They and the carpenter and our new farmer and Noah and our two horses and our eight biggest boys have been working ever since. Never were building operations set going in faster time. I wish I had a dozen Jimmies on the place, though I will say that my brother works faster if you catch him before the first edge of his enthusiasm wears away. He would not be much good at chiseling out a medieval cathedral.