nursery, we might as well run it for three as for one."

I led him up to my library, where our little family has been
domiciled since the fire, and ten minutes later, when I was
called down to confer with the trustees, I left J. F. Bretland
with his new daughter on his knee and a son leaning against each
arm, the proudest father in the United States.

So, you see, our fire has accomplished one thing: those three
children are settled for life. It is almost worth the loss.

But I don't believe I told you how the fire started. There
are so many things I haven't told you that my arm aches at the
thought of writing them all. Sterry, we have since discovered,
was spending the week end as our guest. After a bibulous evening
passed at "Jack's Place," he returned to our carriage house,
climbed in through a window, lighted a candle, made himself
comfortable, and dropped asleep. He must have forgotten to put
out the candle; anyway, the fire happened, and Sterry just
escaped with his life. He is now in the town hospital, bathed in
sweet oil, and painfully regretting his share in our troubles.

I am pleased to learn that our insurance was pretty adequate,
so the money loss won't be so tremendous, after all. As for
other kinds of loss, there aren't any! Actually, nothing but
gain so far as I can make out, barring, of course, our poor
smashed-up doctor. Everybody has been wonderful; I didn't know
that so much charity and kindness existed in the human race. Did
I ever say anything against trustees? I take it back. Four of
them posted up from New York the morning after the fire, and all