Dear Mother—I would be ashamed of myself for delaying so long, but for the fact that the only way I can do my work right & make progress enough to keep me encouraged, is to begin the day with it; the result is that I end the day with it & have to be dragged to dinner by the hair. So day after day slips away & the letters accumulate—O, how they pile up!—and at last I give up & call myself vanquished.

Last night when I was wailing, Livy said, “Well, write Mother Fairbanks a card—that will ease your conscience till your book is done.” So I am doing that, this morning. She won’t let me write any at night, because, among other reasons, I get into the doctor’s hands with the least overwork.

You have had a troublous time of it, & I wish I had a telephone—I could talk to you, if I can’t write. But you & Mr. Fairbanks seem to be over the reef & in smooth water at last, & that is something to be thankful for. Confound speculation, anyway! It nips us all, sooner or later; but it won’t nip me any more—nor Mr. F. I judge. However, perhaps neither of us better holler yet. I am most sincerely glad you have all come out safe & comfor­table—plenty of people haven’t. I will go to work, now, offering you & all of you my love & begging your forgiveness.