experience when I should be able to
appreciate your alluring phrase, "the fun of mothering an orphanage."

I must begin and tell you now about the children we have received
since my last letter. Mike, aged eight, came to us from St. Barbe
Hospital, as he had no home to which he could return. Incidentally it
takes the entire staff to keep this boy moderately tidy, for he and
his garments have an unfortunate inclination to part asunder, and we
are kept in constant apprehension for the credit of the Orphanage. But
Mike, whether with his clothes or without, always turns up smiling and
on excellent terms with himself, entirely regardless of the mental
torture we endure as he comes into view. Indeed, the wider apart are
his garments, the broader is his smile. He weeps quietly each night as
we wash him, for that is a work of supererogation for which he has at
present no use.

Deborah and her brother Gabriel were here when I came. Their ages are
eleven and five, and they come from the far north. Deborah was in the
Mission Hospital at Iron Bound Islands for some time as the result of
a burning accident. While trying to lift a pan of dog-food from the
stove she upset the scalding contents over her legs. Her elder brother
had to drive her eighteen miles on a komatik to the hospital, and the
poor child must have suffered greatly. Gabriel is a very naughty, but
equally lovable child. He is never out of mischief, but he is always
very penitent for his misdeeds--afterwards! His bent is towards
theology, and he speaks with the authority of an ancient divine on all
matters pertaining thereto, and with an air of finality which brooks
no argument. When some one was being given the priority in point of
age over me, he was heard to indignantly exclaim that "Jesus and
Teacher are the oldest people in the world." He is no advocate for the
equality of the sexes, and closes all discussion on equal rights by
explaining that "God made the boys and Jesus the girls."

Our fast-coming winter is sending its harbingers, seen and unseen,
into our harbour. Chief among these one notices the assertiveness of
the dogs. All through the summer they slink pariah-like about the
place, eating whatever they can pick up, and seeking to keep their
miserable existence as much in the background as possible. Now the
winter is approaching, and it is "their little day." Mrs. Uncle Life
can testify to the fact that they are not wholly suppressed when it is
not "thei