12 Elm Street

Potsdam, N.Y. U.S.A.

August 3rd, 1921

Dear Mother,

You will be relieved to hear that Di and I have arrived safely in the small village of Potsdam, New York. It was named for the Potsdam in Germany, but it's about as far removed from the Kaiser and Huns as you could imagine, as Susan will be happy to hear. A great number of the folks here went up to Canada—they aren't very far from the border—and enlisted there before the States entered the war.

I was able to register at the Clarkson Memorial College of Technology (which everyone simply calls "Clarkson") in their engineering program as a junior. I was a bit afraid that they might not accept all my credits from Queen's and Redmond—being Canadian schools, and Queen's a preparatory school at that—but everything went through. Classes begin at the end of August, which gives me plenty of time to get settled and find work. As for Di—well, she is writing to you as well, so I won't waste time and ink by repeating her news.

But I'm sure you really want to hear about Cecily. She is at the Trudeau Institute in Saranac Lake—a little village in the Adirondack Mountains, about sixty miles from Potsdam. It really is a beautiful spot; I could like it if not for Cecily's illness. I went up there to see her the day after we arrived. Paul and Rachel and Miss Lavender are staying in a rented cottage near the Institute. They told me I wouldn't be allowed to see her, but I had to find out for myself. A nurse, looking very reminiscent of the war days, met me severely at the front door and looked very shocked when I asked to see Miss Irving.

"Sir," said she, very impressively. "This is a sanatorium for tuberculosis patients."

"I know," I replied. "Otherwise I should hardly be looking for Miss Irving here." I suppose I was rude, but nurses have always brought out the worst in me. I horrified several V.A.D.s back in—but I digress. Anyway, her superior manner annoyed me, and I was so desperate to see Cecily that I hardly knew what I was saying.

"Tuberculosis," very slowly and carefully, as though I were an infant, "is a highly contagious disease. Patients are kept in complete isolation from outsiders until they show certain signs of improvement."

"Can't I see her for just a moment?" I pleaded. "I promise not to breathe deeply."

I don't think she appreciated that sort of humor very much. I honestly didn't feel like joking, but I couldn't show her how I really felt so I covered it with humor. I've learned how to do that from Patrick, and it's most useful.

The long and the short of it is, I couldn't see her. The nurse promised to tell her I'd been there, and Paul told me that they do allow patients to receive letters, although they can't write back for fear of germs. I'm still debating whether or not to tell Cecily how I feel in a letter. She must have some idea that I care, since I'm here, but I don't know if I should tell her outright now or wait until I can see her face to face. And what if she doesn't care for me in return? Di thinks I should write—well, actually she thinks I break into the Institute one night and tell Cecily that I love her, but if I won't do that she thinks I should write. Paul seems to lean that way as well. Rachel couldn't give her opinion; she's pretty torn up.

Di bought a camera and we're going to take some pictures of the village to send home to you folks. It's remarkably pretty around here; maybe because it's so close to Canada. It certainly doesn't fit into our concept of the States at all. I hope things are going well there and that Jem and Faith are settling in well. It's nice that they can stay at Ingleside; the old home just doesn't seem the same without lots of people—and children! Tell Faith I'm counting on her to make me Uncle Shirley soon.

I'm glad I came, Mother. Even though I can't see Cecily yet, I'm so close by that if anything happens I can be there, and when—when, not if!—she gets better I'll be able to be with her. Love to Father and Susan and all the rest,

Shirley.

"Poor lamb," commented Susan as Anne folded the letter up.

"Why poor, Susan?" asked Faith. The five women—Anne, Susan, Faith, Nan and Rilla—were seated on the verandah, taking a break from daily chores to read the news from Shirley and Di. "Young Mrs. Dr." as Faith was already starting to be called, continued speaking. "He sounds quite cheerful, all things considered."

Susan sniffed. "He may put a good face on things, Faith dear, but he does not fool me, no he does not."

"What does Di have to say, Mother?" asked Nan, impatient to hear news of her twin. With her engagement to Jerry finally official, she didn't like hearing about anyone else's sad love affairs.

Anne obligingly opened up the other letter, penned in dashing, bold handwriting.

Dearest Mother and everyone else who is no doubt gathered around listening to this,

We are here! the trip was a nightmare, but we managed it in one piece. I have never been seasick before, but I thought I was going to die on this trip. You all might never see me again, because I don't think I can possibly bear another journey like that one.

Potsdam is a quaint little village. It reminds me of the Glen in many ways—it is very small, and very old fashioned. However, the two colleges to bring it a unique feel. The next town over also has a university, so there is a very scholarly and youthful feel to the whole area that the Glen lacks. The people are very friendly: much more like Canadians than Yankees. They're only about sixty miles from Ottawa—the two countries are separated only by the St. Lawrence river. It's made both of us feel right at home.

I went to a town meeting shortly after arriving here and was able to bring my proposal for an orphan asylum before the board. I think they were a bit taken aback at such an idea from a young woman, but they were very polite, just the same. They thanked me kindly for my interest, but explained that the Catholic churches had already established enough orphanages for their small area. They suggested I go to a city and try.

Naturally, I was disappointed, but I am undaunted! Upon reflection, operating my own asylum might have been an optimistic goal to start out with, anyway. So, I hied me over to the Sisters who run the asylum here and told them my predicament. End result: I am now working for them. They normally don't hire outsiders, especially Protestants, but for a good cause they decided they could make an exception. Reassure Susan and Miss Cornelia that I have not turned Catholic, even if I am learning heaps from them.

I can already see that my biggest difficulty will come from becoming too attached to the children. Sister Mary Elizabeth, my supervisor, has warned me, but it's so hard not to love them. This is definitely a good place to start. I can tell I will come away much better equipped to run my own establishment than if I had just plunged in headfirst.

Shirley will have told you all about Cecily. He's bearing up bravely, but I don't know what he'll do once he's working and in school. It's a good thing I came with him, if just to make sure he takes care of himself.

Hugs and kisses, I love you all,

Your own Di.

Nan sighed. "It seems so strange and…romantic to have them over there, forging a life for themselves, braving the challenges of a new land, treading boldly forward on their chosen path."

Faith laughed, rumpling up her curls with a graceful hand. "They're hardly in the jungles of deepest darkest Peru, Nan."

"Still," observed Anne quietly. "It is odd to have my children making lives for themselves away from P.E.I.—and away from Canada."

"They will come back, Mrs. Doctor dear," said Susan positively, rolling up her knitting and moving back toward the kitchen. "Those blessed children will return someday to the Island, and that you may tie to."

Shirley stared at the blank paper in front of him. He and Di had settled nicely into their tiny apartment on Elm St. It had just four rooms: a kitchen barely big enough for a stove and table, a living room into which they had just squeezed three chairs, and two bedrooms. Despite its size, the little place was quite cozy, and their landlady was very charming. None of this helped Shirley now, though, as he struggled with a way to pour out his feelings for Cecily onto paper. His feelings ran so deep, he didn't think he'd ever be able to bring them out, but he had to tell her. She deserved to know why it was he was here. Finally, picturing her dark blue eyes before him, he lowered his pen to the paper and began to write.

My very dear Cecily,

I am not a fancy fellow. You know that as well as anyone. I rarely like to share my thoughts and feelings with anybody, and when I do, it's always blunt and direct. So this letter will be the same, though it might not be as pleasing as if I could write in flowery language.

I love you, my dear. Love you! I think I have ever since I've known you, although I didn't even realize it until Christmas. I wanted to tell you then, but I decided—perhaps wrongly—that it was too soon. I told myself that I would get through one year at least at Redmond before confessing my feelings to you. I did tell your father though, and he gave me his blessing. When I heard about your illness, I thought—I felt—well, there are no words to describe the agony. I didn't even stop to think; I knew I had to be with you. I can't see you yet, but I am near, and this gives me more comfort than anything else could at this point.

Cecily, I don't want this to trouble you. I will continue to send you letters, but only friendly ones, telling you about college and my job. Once you are starting to get better, I'll come take you for drives, or we'll just walk along Lake Flower, and discuss why they named the village Saranac Lake and the lake itself Lake Flower. I won't worry you with my feelings, but I had to tell you now. Maybe I'm weak, but I can't bear not to have you know. Forgive me if I'm out of line.

You must get better, dear. The world needs people like you. And even if you never love me, I don't think I can live in this world if you are not in it as well. Do whatever the doctors and nurses tell you, do whatever it takes, but you must recover. I pray for you continually. I love you, forever and always,

Shirley.