Livermore for dinner (already invited) and then go down and talk
to the children. Friday night-social evening. They had a lot of
new records for the victrola, given by Mrs. Livermore, and I had
to sit politely and listen to them. And, my dear--you'll think
this funny--the last thing they played was "John Anderson, my jo
John," and suddenly I found myself crying! I had to snatch up
the earnest orphan and hug her hard, with my head buried in her
shoulder, to keep them all from seeing.

John Anderson, my jo John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

I wonder, when we are old and bent and tottery, can you and I
look back, with no regrets, on monie a canty day we've had wi'
ane anither? It's nice to look forward to, isn't it--a life of
work and play and little daily adventures side by side with
somebody you love? I'm not afraid of the future any more. I
don't mind growing old with you, Sandy. "Time is but the stream
I go a-fishing in."

The reason I've grown to love these orphans is because they
need me so, and that's the reason--at least one of the reasons--
I've grown to love you. You're a pathetic figure of a man, my
dear, and since you won't make yourself comfortable, you must be