Yours,

With my mind made up,

SALLIE McBRIDE.



SUP'T'S OFFICE,

JOHN GRIER HOME,

February 27.
Dear Gordon:

Are you still insulted because I wouldn't take your advice?
Don't you know that a reddish-haired person of Irish forebears,
with a dash of Scotch, can't be driven, but must be gently led?
Had you been less obnoxiously insistent, I should have listened
sweetly, and been saved. As it is, I frankly confess that I have
spent the last five days in repenting our quarrel. You were
right, and I was wrong, and, as you see, I handsomely acknowledge
it. If I ever emerge from this present predicament, I shall in
the future be guided (almost always) by your judgment. Could any
woman make a more sweeping retraction than that?

The romantic glamour which Judy cast over this orphan asylum
exists only in her poetic imagination. The place is AWFUL.
Words can't tell you how dreary and dismal and smelly it is: long
corridors, bare walls; blue-uniformed, dough-faced little inmates