She was here this afternoon to see the children. Gertrude is no hand with children. They seemed strangely shy of her, a woman, though they literally fell upon the neck of growling, grizzled old Dibdin. They are still subdued by the suddenness of their tragedy, though real sorrow Gertrude tells me, is, thank Heaven, beyond them. "We’ll have to think up a way of disposing of the dear things," she remarked briskly. And though I am myself completely at a loss what to do with them, I cannot say I relished her way of putting it. "What, for instance, could you suggest?" I inquired dully. "Schools, Ranny dear, schools," she impatiently answered. "There are homelike places run by splendid women—just made for such cases. Why, even the little one—Jimmie, is it?—How old is he; four?—There are places even for kiddies as young as that." A heavy confusion, the reverse of enthusiasm, oppressed me. "You forget, Gertrude," I endeavored as gently as possible to remind her, "Laura confided those children to me with her dying breath—to me—her only relative. Do you think I ought to fling them out at once, God knows where!" "Good Lord, Ranny!" she cried, flushing with a smile of anger peculiar to Gertrude when she is annoyed. "What a sentimentalist you are at bottom—after all!" "A sentimentalist—I?" I felt hurt. "Just put yourself in my place, Gertrude, and see how easy such a decision would be for you." "I do, Ranny; that is just what I am doing," she insisted impatiently. "But don’t you see that if there is any one thing you cannot do, it is to keep them here—or in my apartment?" "Yes," I said, "I see that. But I also see that I can’t pitch them out among total strangers, a week after their mother’s—" I could not trust my foolish voice to finish. "Do you forget," demanded Gertrude with her smile that brands me imbecile, "do you forget, Ranny, that we are to be married in two weeks?" "No, Gertrude—far from it. But that is why we are discussing this problem—because it is perplexing. Besides, schools of the right sort are bound to be pretty expensive things." "Oh," said Gertrude, "of course. But poor Laura’s income ought to be enough—" "My dear Gertrude, that is what I don’t know. Carmichael is to give me an accounting of it to-day or to-morrow. Laura never spoke of her money matters to me. But, as you say, there will probably be enough. Only, it isn’t altogether that—you see, Gertrude—" I floundered. "Yes, I see, Ranny, I see," she hammered at me in the maddening way women have. "You simply can’t get up enough will power to do something. It’s the old story. But you’ll have to, my dear," and she smiled sweetly. "You have all my sympathy and all the coöperation you’ll take. But the one thing we can’t do is stand still. You understand that—don’t you, Ranny?" "Yes. I understand that. But my brain is as fertile of plans as a glass door knob."