with the owner's indelible name inside the
collar. Mrs. Lippett's lazy system of having each child draw from the
wash a promiscuous dress each week, was an insult to feminine nature.

Sadie Kate is squealing like a baby pig. I must go to see if Jane has by
mistake clipped off an ear.

Jane hasn't. Sadie's excellent ears are still intact. She is just
squealing on principle; the way one does in a dentist's chair, under the
belief that it is going to hurt the next instant.

I really can't think of anything else to write except my news,--so here
it is,--and I hope you'll like it.

I am engaged to be married.

My love to you both.

S. McB.

THE JOHN GRIER HOME,

November 15.

Dear Judy:

Betsy and I are just back from a GIRO in our new motor car. It
undoubtedly does add to the pleasure of institution life. The car of its
own accord turned up Long Ridge Road, and stopped before the gates of
Shadywell. The chains were up, and the shutters battened down, and the
place looked closed and gloomy and rain-soaked. It wore a sort of fall
of the House of Usher air, and didn't in the least resemble the cheerful
house that used to greet me hospitably of an afternoon.

I hate to have our nice summer ended. It seems as though a section of
my life was shut away behind me, and the unknown future was pressing
awfully close. Positively, I'd like to postpone that wedding another six
months, but I'm afraid poor Gordon would make too dreadful a fuss. Don't
think I'm getting wobbly, for I'm not. It's just that somehow I need
more time to think about it, and March is getting nearer every day. I
know absolutely that I'm doing the most sensible thing. Everybody,
man or woman, is the better for being nicely and appropriately and
cheerfully married. But oh dear! oh dear! I do hate upheavals, and this
is going to be such a world-without-end upheaval! Sometimes when the
day's work is over, and I'm tired, I haven't the spirit to rise and meet
it.

And now especially since you've bought Shadywell, and are going to be
here every summer, I resent having to leave. Next year, when I'm far
away, I'll be consumed with homesickness, thinking of all the busy,
happy times at the John Grier, with you and Betsy and Percy and our
grumbly Scotchman working away cheerfully without me. How can anything
ever make up to a mother for the loss of 107 children?

I trust that Judy, junior, stood the journey into town without upsetting
her usual poise.