We've got whooping cough, and you can hear us whoop when you
get off the train two miles away. We don't know how we got it--
just one of the pleasures of institution life. Cook has left,--
in the night,--what the Scotch call a "moonlight flitting." I
don't know how she got her trunk away, but it's gone. The
kitchen fire went with her. The pipes are frozen. The plumbers
are here, and the kitchen floor is all ripped up. One of our
horses has the spavin. And, to crown all, our cheery,
resourceful Percy is down, down, down in the depths of despair.
We have not been quite certain for three days past whether
we could keep him from suicide. The girl in Detroit,--I knew she
was a heartless little minx,--without so much as going through
the formality of sending back his ring, has gone and married
herself to a man and a couple of automobiles and a yacht. It is
the best thing that could ever have happened to Percy, but it
will be a long, long time before he realizes it.

We have our twenty-four Indians back in the house with us. I
was sorry to have to bring them in, but the shacks were scarcely
planned for winter quarters. I have stowed them away very
comfortably, however, thanks to the spacious iron verandas
surrounding our new fire-escape. It was a happy idea of Jervis's
having them glassed in for sleeping porches. The babies' sun
parlor is a wonderful addition to our nursery. We can fairly see
the little tots bloom under the influence of that extra air and
sunshine.

With the return of the Indians to civilized life, Percy's
occupation was ended, and he was supposed to remove himself to
the hotel. But he didn't want to remove himself. He has got