thinking that
I had nicely cured you of this morbid predilection for psychopathic
institutions! It's very disappointing. You had seemed almost human of
late.

May I ask how long you are intending to stay? You had permission to go
for two days, and you've already been away four.

Charlie Martin fell out of a cherry tree yesterday and cut his head
open, and we were driven to calling in a foreign doctor. Five stitches.
Patient doing well. But we don't like to depend on strangers. I wouldn't
say a word if you were away on legitimate business, but you know very
well that, after associating with melancholics for a week, you will come
back home in a dreadful state of gloom, dead sure that humanity is going
to the dogs; and upon me will fall the burden of getting you decently
cheerful again.

Do leave those insane people to their delusions, and come back to the
John Grier Home, which needs you.

I am most fervent' Your friend and servant, S. McB.

P.S. Don't you admire that poetical ending? It was borrowed from Robert
Burns, whose works I am reading assiduously as a compliment to a Scotch
friend.

July 6.

Dear Judy:

That doctor man is still away. No word; just disappeared into space.
I don't know whether he is ever coming back or not, but we seem to be
running very happily without him.

I lunched yesterday CHEZ the two kind ladies who have taken our Punch to
their hearts. The young man seems to be very much at home. He took me
by the hand, and did the honors of the garden, presenting me with the
bluebell of my choice. At luncheon the English butler lifted him into
his chair and tied on his bib with as much manner as though he were
serving a prince of the blood. The butler has lately come from the
household of the Earl of Durham, Punch from a cellar in Houston Street.
It was a very uplifting spectacle.

My hostesses entertained me afterward with excerpts from their table
conversations of the last two weeks. (I wonder the butler hasn't given
notice; he looked like a respectable man.) If nothing more comes of it,
at least Punch has furnished them with funny stories for the rest of
their lives. One of them is even thinking of writing a book. "At least,"
says she, wiping hysterical tears from her eyes, "we have lived!"

The Hon. Cy dropped in at 6:30 last night, and found me in an evening
gown, starting for a dinner at Mrs. Livermore's house. He mildly
observed that Mrs. Lippett did not aspire to be a society lea