that letter. Of course, I'm in some strained, abnormal condition, and
that's all, but send me another letter, for if one is a barricade two
should be a fortress. And I nearly broke down the barricade; Number
Two did, that is.

Is it hot in Warchester? It is so heavenly here this morning that I
wish I could send you a slice of it--coolness and birds singing and
trees rustling. I think of you going up and down tenement stairs in
the heat--and I know you hate heat--I took that in. This house stands
in big grounds and the lake, seventy-five miles long, you know, roars
up on the beach below it. I wish I could send you a slice. Write me,
please--and you so busy! I am a selfish person.

AUGUST FIRST.


WARCHESTER,
St. Andrew's Parish House,
August 12th.

Yesterday it rained. And then the telephone rang, and some incoherent
person mumbled an address out in the furthest suburb. It was North
Baxter Court. You never saw that--a row of yellow houses with the
door-sills level to the mud and ashes of the alley, and swarms of
children who stare and whisper, "Here's the 'Father.'" Number 7 1/2
was marked with a membraneous croup sign--the usual lie to avoid strict
quarantine and still get anti-toxin at the free dispensary; the room
was unspeakable--shut windows and a crowd of people. A woman, young,
sat rocking back and forth, half smothering a baby in her arms. Nobody
spoke. It took time to get the windows open and persuade the woman to