ose
very sound made me weak with dismay; but terms descriptive of new ways
in which I can help weak and suffering babyhood. It has been hard, but
soul-satisfying, work. I love it all, and have never regretted the
decision made, centuries ago it seems, on the mountain. I have just been
re-reading Donald's first letter to me--the one in which he frankly
warned me of the hardships which would be mine to face, if I should
attempt to carry out my plan. It was, I think, the only time that he was
ever wrong ... no, I had forgotten that afternoon at Judd's still. Work
may be hard, and yet entail no hardship, especially when it brings the
satisfaction of winning against odds. I know that he did not really mean
what he said in that letter. It was written merely as a test of my
resolve; to deter me, if it wasn't strong enough to carry me through.
There have been times when I have myself wondered if it would, but,
thanks to dear old Mr. Talmadge, and his 'sermon on the mount' I have
always been able to find the help that he told us about. I wonder if
Donald has, too? Surely he must have, he has been doing such wonderful
work 'over there.' It is like him to say so little about it in his
letters, but Dr. Roland gave us a talk about what they have been doing
in Toul and Leslie, when he returned from France, and he sang Donald's
praises _fortissimo_. I was so happy, and so proud.

"They all tell me that the coming year is the hardest of all with its
practical training at the Massachusetts General Hospital, and in the
Manhattan Maternity in New York. I have a feeling that I am not going to
enjoy the former. Nursing 'grown-ups' does not appeal to me as the
caring for the little flowers does. But I shall love the other.
Motherhood is sacred and beautiful....

"I shall have to be very economical this year, little diary, and
especially careful when I get to New York. When I paid the final
installment on my tuition fee, I was frightened to find how little
remained of what granddaddy left me, and what I had saved, myself.
Nearly thirteen hundred dollars looked like a huge fortune to me in
those days, but it is nothing at all in a city, where there is so much
poverty, and there are so many appeals to one's heart. I know that
Donald--or Philip--would lend me a little money until the time when I
get to earning it for myself, if I should ask them. But of course I
cannot do that. Perhaps I can earn a little during my afternoons and
evenings off