The twelve older girls from dormitory A I am putting into the farmer's
new cottage. The poor Turnfelts, who had occupied it just two days,
are being shoved on into the village. But they wouldn't be any good
in looking after the children, and I need their room. Three or four of
these girls have been returned from foster homes as intractable, and
they require pretty efficient supervision. So what do you think I've
done? Telegraphed to Helen Brooks to chuck the publishers and take
charge of my girls instead. You know she will be wonderful with
them. She accepted provisionally. Poor Helen has had enough of this
irrevocable contract business; she wants everything in life to be on
trial!
For the older boys something particularly nice has happened; we have
received a gift of gratitude from J. F. Bretland. He went down to thank
the doctor for Allegra. They had a long talk about the needs of the
institution, and J. F. B. came back and gave me a check for $3000 to
build the Indian camps on a substantial scale. He and Percy and the
village architect have drawn up plans, and in two weeks, we hope, the
tribes will move into winter quarters.
What does it matter if my one hundred and seven children have been
burned out, since they live in such a kind-hearted world as this?
Friday.
I suppose you are wondering why I don't vouchsafe some details about the
doctor's condition. I can't give any first-hand information, since he
won't see me. However, he has seen everybody except me--Betsy, Allegra,
Mrs. Livermore, Mr. Bretland, Percy, various trustees. They all report
that he is progressing as comfortably as could be expected with two
broken ribs and a fractured fibula. That, I believe, is the professional
name of the particular leg bone he broke. He doesn't like to have a
fuss made over him, and he won't pose gracefully as a hero. I myself, as
grateful head of this institution, called on several different occasions
to present my official thanks, but I was invariably met at the door with
word that he was sleeping and did not wish to be disturbed. The first
two times I believed Mrs. McGurk; after that--well, I know our doctor!
So when it came time to send our little maid to prattle her unconscious
good-bys to the man who had saved her life, I despatched her in charge
of Betsy.
I haven't an idea what is the matter with the man. He was friendly
enough last week, but now, if I want an opinion from him, I have to
send Percy to extract it. I do think that he might see me as the
superintendent of the asylum, even if he doesn't wish our acquaintance
to be on a personal basis. There is no doubt about it, our Sandy is
Scotch!