e is a world of beauty, but I'm worried and restless
and Edna Millay's lines keep running through my head:

"...East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat--the sky
Will cave in on him by and by!"

_Wednesday the Sixteenth_

Peter has written to me saying that unless he hears from me to the
contrary he thinks he can arrange to "run through" to the Coast in
time for the Rose Tournament here on New Year's Day. He takes the
trouble to explain that he'll stay at the Alexandria in Los Angeles,
so there'll be no possible disturbance to me and my family routine.

That's so like Peter!

But there's been no word from Dinky-Dunk. The conviction is growing in
my mind that he's not at Alabama Ranch.

_Monday the Twenty-first_

A letter has just come to me this morning from Whinstane Sandy,
written in lead-pencil. It said, with an orthography all its own, that
Duncan had been in bed for two weeks with what they thought was
pneumonia, but was up again and able to eat something, and not to
worry. It seemed a confident and cheerful message at first, but the
oftener I read it the more worried I became. So one load was taken off
my heart only to make room for another. My first decision was to start
north at once, to get back to Alabama Ranch and my Dinky-Dunk as fast
as steam could take me. I was still the sharer of his joys and
sorrows, and ought to be with him when things were at their worst. But
on second thought it didn't seem quite fair to the kiddies, to dump
them from midsummer into shack-life and a sub-zero climate. And
always, always, always, there were the children to be considered. So I
wired Ed Sherman, the station-agent at Buckhorn, asking him to send
out a message to Duncan, saying I was waiting for him in Pasadena and
to come at once....

I wonder what his answer will be? It's surrender, on my part. It's
capitulation, and Dinky-Dunk, of course, will recognize that fact. Or
he ought to. But it's not this I'm worrying over. It's Duncan himself,
and his health. It gives me a guilty feeling.... I once thought that I
was made to heal hearts. But about all I can do, I find, is to bruise
them.

_Thursday the Twenty-fourth_

A telegram of just one word has come from Duncan, dated at Calgary. It
said: "Coming." I could