with
the greatest readiness, and one wonders what life holds in store for
her.

[Illustration: TOPSY WAS CREEPING FROM BED TO BED WITH THE
CARVING-KNIFE]

We have just admitted three children, so we now number more than the
three dozen. One little mite of five was found last winter in a
Labrador hut, deserted, half-starved, and nearly frozen to death. She
was kept by a kindly neighbour until the ice conditions allowed of her
being brought here. The other two, brother and sister, were found, the
girl clothed in a sack, her one and only garment, and the boy in bed,
minus even that covering. This is the type of child who comes to us.

The doctor in charge has just paid me a visit. He says there is an
epidemic of smallpox in the island, and he wants all the children to
be vaccinated. The number of cases of smallpox this year in this
"insignificant little island" is greater _pro rata_ than in any other
country of the world. So two o'clock this afternoon is the time set
apart for the massacre of the innocents.

The laugh is against me! Two of our boys fell ill with a mysterious
sickness, and tenderly and carefully were they nursed by me and fed
with delicate portions from the king's table. I later learned with
much chagrin that "chewing tobacco" (strictly forbidden) was the cause
of this sudden onset. My sense of humour alone saved the situation for
them!

_The Children's Home
August 19_

In response to my frantic cables your box reached here safely, but it
has not reached me. Picture if you can my amazed incredulity yesterday
to see an exact replica of myself as I once was, walking on the dock.
I rubbed my eyes and stared. Yes, it _was_ my purple gown. My first
impulse was to jerk it off the culprit, but I decided on more
diplomatic tactics. A very little detective work elucidated the
mystery. You had addressed the box in care of the Mission, thinking
doubtless, in your far-sighted, Scotch way, that if sent to an
individual, the said individual would have duty to pay. Knowing all
too well the chronic state of my pocket-book, you anticipated untoward
complications. Now, none of the Mission staff pay duties. The contents
of the box were mistaken for reinforcements for the charity clothing
store, and to-day my purple chambray gown, "to memory dear," walks
the street on another. _Sic transit_. I should add that one of the
modernists of our harbour has chosen it. The old conservatives regard
our collarl