Respectfully yours, ~Rae Malgregor, as was~. P.S. Oh, I hope it wasn’t wrong, but in your ulster pocket, when I went to put it away, I found a bottle of something that smelled as though it had been forgotten. I threw it out. It was this letter that drew the only definite message from the itinerant bridegroom. “Kindly refrain from rummaging in my ulster pockets,” wrote the Senior Surgeon, briefly. “The ‘thing’ you threw out happened to be the cerebellum and medulla of an extremely eminent English theologian.” “Even so, it was sour,” telegraphed the White Linen Nurse in a perfect agony of remorse and humiliation. The telegram took an Indian with a birch canoe two days to deliver, and cost the Senior Surgeon twelve dollars. Just impulsively the Senior Surgeon decided to make no further comments on domestic affairs at that particular range. Very fortunately for this impulse, the White Linen Nurse’s second letter concerned itself almost entirely with matters quite extraneous to the home. The second letter ran: Dear Dr. Faber: Somehow I don’t seem to care so much just now about being the biggest person in the house. Something awful has happened: Zillah Forsyth is dead. Really dead, I mean. And she died in great heroism. You remember Zillah Forsyth, don’t you? She was one of my room-mates, not the gooder one, you know, not the swell; that was Helene Churchill. But Zillah? Oh, you know, Zillah was the one you sent out on that fractured-elbow case. It was a Yale student, you remember? And there was some trouble about kissing, and she got sent home? And now everybody’s crying because Zillah _can’t_ kiss anybody any more. Isn’t everything the limit? Well, it wasn’t a fractured Yale student she got sent out on this time. If it had been, she might have been living yet. What they sent her out on this time was a senile dementia, an old lady more than eighty years old. And they were in a sanatorium or something like that, and there was a fire in the night. And the old lady just up and positively refused to escape, and Zillah had to push her and shove her and yank her and carry her out of the window, along the gutters, round the chimneys. And the old lady bit Zillah right through the hand, but Zillah wouldn’t let go. And the old lady tried to drown Zillah under a bursted water tank, but Zillah wouldn’t let go. And everybody hollered to Zillah to cut loose and save herself, but Zillah wouldn’t let go. And a wall fell, and everything, and, oh, it was awful, but Zillah never let go. And the old lady that wasn’t any good to any one, not even herself, got saved, of course. But Zillah? Oh, Zillah got hurt bad, sir. We saw her at the hospital, Helene and I. She sent for us about something. Oh, it was awful! Not a thing about her that you’d know except just her great solemn eyes mooning out at you through a gob of white