rt the child, it might be a delicate attention
to consult him about its adoption. She argued stubbornly that it was
none of his business, seeing that the onerous work of washing and
dressing and training would fall upon her. I am really beginning to feel
sorry for men. Some of them seem to have very few rights.

Even our pugnacious doctor I suspect of being a victim of domestic
tyranny, and his housekeeper's at that. It is scandalous the way Maggie
McGurk neglects the poor man. I have had to put him in charge of an
orphan. Sadie Kate, with a very housewifely air, is this moment sitting
cross-legged on the hearth rug sewing buttons on his overcoat while he
is upstairs tending babies.

You would never believe it, but Sandy and I are growing quite
confidential in a dour Scotch fashion. It has become his habit, when
homeward bound after his professional calls, to chug up to our door
about four in the afternoon, and make the rounds of the house to
make sure that we are not developing cholera morbus or infanticide or
anything catching, and then present himself at four-thirty at my library
door to talk over our mutual problems.

Does he come to see me? Oh, no, indeed; he comes to get tea and toast
and marmalade. The man hath a lean and hungry look. His housekeeper
doesn't feed him enough. As soon as I get the upper hand of him a little
more, I am going to urge him on to revolt.

Meanwhile he is very grateful for something to eat, but oh, so funny in
his attempts at social grace! At first he would hold a cup of tea in
one hand, a plate of muffins in the other, and then search blankly for a
third hand to eat them with. Now he has solved the problem. He turns in
his toes and brings his knees together; then he folds his napkin into
a long, narrow wedge that fills the crack between them, thus forming a
very workable pseudo lap; after that he sits with tense muscles
until the tea is drunk. I suppose I ought to provide a table, but the
spectacle of Sandy with his toes turned in is the one gleam of amusement
that my day affords.

The postman is just driving in with, I trust, a letter from you. Letters
make a very interesting break in the monotony of asylum life. If you
wish to keep this superintendent contented, you'd better write often.

. . . . . . . .

Mail received and contents noted.

Kindly convey my thanks to Jervis for three alligators in a swamp.
He shows rare artistic taste in the selection of his post cards. Your