ay he fears for the little girl. When I think of
all the jokes I've made on the subject, I'm aghast at how I must have
hurt him, and angry with myself and angry with him.

I feel as though I never wanted to see the man again. Mercy! did you
ever know such a muddle as we are getting ourselves into?

Yours, SALLIE.

P.S. Tom McCoomb has pushed Mamie Prout into the box of mortar that the
masons use. She's parboiled. I've sent for the doctor.

July 24. My dear Madam:

I have a shocking scandal to report about the superintendent of the John
Grier Home. Don't let it get into the newspapers, please. I can picture
the spicy details of the investigation prior to her removal by the
"Cruelty."

I was sitting in the sunshine by my open window this morning reading
a sweet book on the Froebel theory of child culture--never lose your
temper, always speak kindly to the little ones. Though they may appear
bad, they are not so in reality. It is either that they are not feeling
well or have nothing interesting to do. Never punish; simply deflect
their attention. I was entertaining a very loving, uplifted attitude
toward all this young life about me when my attention was attracted by a
group of little boys beneath the window.

"Aw--John--don't hurt it!"

"Let it go!"

"Kill it quick!"

And above their remonstrances rose the agonized squealing of some animal
in pain. I dropped Froebel and, running downstairs, burst upon them
from the side door. They saw me coming, and scattered right and left,
revealing Johnnie Cobden engaged in torturing a mouse. I will spare you
the grisly details. I called to one of the boys to come and drown the
creature quick! John I seized by the collar; and dragged him squirming
and kicking in at the kitchen door. He is a big, hulking boy of
thirteen, and he fought like a little tiger, holding on to posts and
doorjambs as we passed. Ordinarily I doubt if I could have handled him,
but that one sixteenth Irish that I possess was all on top, and I was
fighting mad. We burst into the kitchen, and I hastily looked about for
a means of chastisement. The pancake turner was the first utensil that
met my eyes. I seized it and beat that child with all my strength, until
I had reduced him to a cowering, whimpering mendicant for mercy, instead
of the fighting little bully he had been four minutes before.

And then who should suddenly burst into the midst of this explosion but
Dr. MacRae! His face was blank with a