o like to put the business
through. As a usual thing, we work with the State Charities' Aid
Association. They have a lot of trained agents traveling about the
State, keeping in touch with families who are willing to take children,
and with asylums that have them to give. Since they are willing to
work for us, there is no slightest use in our going to the expense
of peddling our own babies. And I do want to place out as many as are
available, for I firmly believe that a private home is the best thing
for the child, provided, of course, that we are very fussy about the
character of the homes we choose. I don't require rich foster parents,
but I do require kind, loving, intelligent parents. This time I think
Betsy has landed a gem of a family. The child is not yet delivered or
the papers signed, and of course there is always danger that they may
give a sudden flop, and splash back into the water.

Ask Jervis if he ever heard of J. F. Bretland of Philadelphia. He seems
to move in financial circles. The first I ever heard of him was a
letter addressed to the "Supt. John Grier Home, Dear Sir,"--a curt,
typewritten, businesslike letter, from an AWFULLY businesslike lawyer,
saying that his wife had determined to adopt a baby girl of attractive
appearance and good health between the ages of two and three years. The
child must be an orphan of American stock, with unimpeachable heredity,
and no relatives to interfere. Could I furnish one as required and
oblige, yours truly, J. F. Bretland?

By way of reference he mentioned "Bradstreets." Did you ever hear of
anything so funny? You would think he was opening a charge account at a
nursery, and inclosing an order from our seed catalogue.

We began our usual investigation by mailing a reference blank to a
clergyman in Germantown, where the J. F. B.'s reside.

Does he own any property?

Does he pay his bills?

Is he kind to animals?

Does he attend church?

Does he quarrel with his wife? And a dozen other impertinent questions.

We evidently picked a clergyman with a sense of humor. Instead of
answering in laborious detail, he wrote up and down and across the
sheet, "I wish they'd adopt me!"

This looked promising, so B. Kindred obligingly dashed out to Germantown
as soon as the wedding breakfast was over. She is developing the most
phenomenal detective instinct. In the course of a social call she can
absorb from the chairs and tables a family's entire moral history.

She