Monday.


This letter has been lying two days on my desk, and I haven't
found the time to stick on a stamp. But now I seem to have a
free evening ahead, so I will add a page or two more before
starting it on a pleasant journey to Florida.

I am just beginning to pick out individual faces among the
children. It seemed at first as though I could never learn them,
they looked so hopelessly cut out of one pattern, with those
unspeakably ugly uniforms. Now please don't write back that you
want the children put into new clothes immediately. I know you
do; you've already told me five times. In about a month I shall
be ready to consider the question, but just now their insides are
more important than their outsides.

There is no doubt about it--orphans in the mass do not appeal
to me. I am beginning to be afraid that this famous mother
instinct which we hear so much about was left out of my
character. Children as children are dirty, spitty little things,
and their noses all need wiping. Here and there I pick out a
naughty, mischievous little one that awakens a flicker of
interest; but for the most part they are just a composite blur of
white face and blue check.

With one exception, though. Sadie Kate Kilcoyne emerged from
the mass the first day, and bids fair to stay out for all time.
She is my special little errand girl, and she furnishes me