ous system. She's taken a fixed
idea that she must get to the top o' the hills."

"My car is a grand climber. In fifteen minutes--"

"Wait!" said I. "Bring with ye a frying pan that's a decent size for
two. There's nothing in my kitchen smaller than a cart wheel. And ask
Mrs. McGurk can ye stay out for supper."

So I packed in a basket a jar of bacon and some eggs and muffins and
ginger cookies, with hot coffee in the thermos bottle, and was waiting
on the steps when Sandy chugged up with his automobile and frying pan.

We really had a beautiful adventure, and he enjoyed the sensation
of running away exactly as much as I. Not once did I let him mention
insanity. I made him look at the wide stretches of meadow and the lines
of pollard willows backed by billowing hills, and sniff the air, and
listen to the cawing crows and the tinkle of cowbells and the gurgling
of the river. And we talked--oh, about a million things far removed from
our asylum. I made him throw away the idea that he is a scientist, and
pretend to be a boy. You will scarcely credit the assertion, but he
succeeded--more or less. He did pull off one or two really boyish
pranks. Sandy is not yet out of his thirties and, mercy! that is too
early to be grown up.

We camped on a bluff overlooking our view, gathered some driftwood,
built a fire, and cooked the NICEST supper--a sprinkling of burnt stick
in our fried eggs, but charcoal's healthy. Then, when Sandy had finished
his pipe and "the sun was setting in its wonted west," we packed up and
coasted back home.

He says it was the nicest afternoon he has had in years, and, poor
deluded man of science, I actually believe it's true. His olive green
home is so uncomfortable and dreary and uninspiring that I don't wonder
he drowns his troubles in books. Just as soon as I can find a nice
comfortable house mother to put in charge, I am going to plot for the
dismissal of Maggie McGurk, though I foresee that she will be even
harder than Sterry to pry from her moorings.

Please don't draw the conclusion that I am becoming unduly interested
in our bad-tempered doctor, for I'm not. It's just that he leads such a
comfortless life that I sometimes long to pat him on the head and tell
him to cheer up; the world's full of sunshine, and some of it's for
him--just as I long to comfort my hundred and seven orphans; so much and
no more.

I am sure that I had some real news to tell you, but it has completely
gone out of