S.

January 1.

Dear Judy:

Something terribly sort of queer has happened, and positively I don't

know whether it did happen or whether I dreamed it. I'll tell you

from the beginning, and I think it might be as well if you burned this

letter; it's not quite proper for Jervis's eyes.

You remember my telling you the case of Thomas Kehoe, whom we placed

out last June? He had an alcoholic heredity on both sides, and as a baby

seems to have been fattened on beer instead of milk. He entered the

John Grier at the age of nine, and twice, according to his record in

the Doomsday Book, he managed to get himself intoxicated, once on beer

stolen from some workmen, and once (and thoroughly) on cooking brandy.

You can see with what misgivings we placed him out. But we warned the

family (hard-working temperate farming people) and hoped for the best.

Yesterday the family telegraphed that they could keep him no longer.

Would I please meet him on the six o'clock train? Turnfelt met the six

o'clock train. No boy. I sent a night message telling of his non-arrival

and asking for particulars.

I stayed up later than usual last night putting my desk in order

and--sort of making up my mind to face the New Year. Toward twelve I

suddenly realized that the hour was late and that I was very tired. I

had begun getting ready for bed when I was startled by a banging on

the front door. I stuck my head out of the window and demanded who was

there.

"Tommy Kehoe," said a very shaky voice.

I went down and opened the door, and that lad, sixteen years old,

tumbled in, dead drunk. Thank Heaven! Percy Witherspoon was within call,

and not away off in the Indian camp.

I roused him, and together we conveyed Thomas to our guest room, the

only decently isolated spot in the building. Then I telephoned for the

doctor, who, I am afraid, had already had a long day. He came, and we

put in a pretty terrible night. It developed afterward that the boy had

brought along with his luggage a bottle of liniment belonging to his

employer. It was made half of alcohol and half of witch hazel; and

Thomas had refreshed his journey with this!

He was in such shape that positively I didn't think we'd pull him

through--and I hoped we wouldn't. If I were a physician, I'd let such

cases gently slip away for the good of society; but you should have seen

Sandy work! That terrible lifesaving instinct of his was aroused, and he

fought with every inch of energy he possessed.

I made black coffee, and helped all I could, but the details were pretty

messy, and I left the two men to deal with him alone and went back to

my room. But I didn't attempt to go to bed; I was afraid they might be

wanting me again. Toward four o'clock Sandy came to my library with

word that the boy was asleep and that Percy had moved up a cot and would

sleep in his room the rest of the night. Poor Sandy looked sort of ashen

and haggard and done with life. As I looked at him, I thought about how

desperately he worked to save others, and never saved himself, and about

that dismal home of his, with never a touch of cheer, and the horrible

tragedy in the background of his life. All the rancor I've been saving

up seemed to vanish, and a wave of sympathy swept over me. I stretched

my hand out to him; he stretched his out to me. And suddenly--I don't

know--something electric happened. In another moment we were in each

other's arms. He loosened my hands, and put me down in the big armchair.

"My God! Sallie, do you think I'm made of iron?" he said and walked out.

I went to sleep in the chair, and when I woke the sun was shining in my

eyes and Jane was standing over me in amazed consternation.

This morning at eleven he came back, looked me coldly in the eye without

so much as the flicker of an eyelash, and told me that Thomas was to

have hot milk every two hours and that the spots in Maggie Peters's

throat must be watched.

Here we are back on our old standing, and positively I don't know but

what I dreamed that one minute in the night!

But it would be a piquant situation, wouldn't it, if Sandy and I

should discover that we were falling in love with each other, he with a

perfectly good wife in the insane asylum and I with an outraged fiance

in Washington? I don't know but what the wisest thing for me to do is to

resign at once and take myself home, where I can placidly settle down

to a few months of embroidering "S McB" on table-cloths, like any other

respectable engaged girl.

I repeat very firmly that this letter isn't for Jervis's consumption.

Tear it into little pieces and scatter them in the Caribbean.