HYDE PARK, Sunday—I finished reading "The Citadel" the night before last, and I wonder what really was Andrew Manson's citadel. The ideal of what his work should be, which for a time he so completely lost, or the woman who preserved his ideal through the period of his defection? It seems as though her love and the loyalty she preserved toward the finer things in life finally won through for him.

I hated to have her die just as happiness returned for her, but if she was "the citadel," the author may have felt that her work in life was over, once the man she loved was firmly set upon the path that his true nature destined him to follow.

As far as the profession goes, the book proves nothing except that doctors are human and unless their work of healing can keep them rather above the average human being, their profession will degenerate into a business. The surprising thing for me has always been that, in this profession, so many men, and women too, manage to keep their ideals and give a good deal more integrity and self-sacrifice to their work than is found in almost any other profession.

We've moved Mrs. Scheider to a quieter and more comfortable room on the top floor of the hospital. It is rather amusing to think of it as quiet, because it happens to be on the obstetrical floor and one would naturally expect to hear the wail of babies, but they are much better brought up these days. They don't seem to wail any more. I receive real enjoyment going up and down the corridor and having an occasional glimpse of a young mother with her baby.

Yesterday, I stopped to look at a bright little red-faced black-haired boy, who showed every sign of being both healthy and full of character when he grew up. Late in the afternoon or evening, I often see a a young man hurrying in with a little bunch of flowers in his hand, and I think this is one of the sights I like the best. He works all day and then hurries to see the two people he loves. The glow on his face shows this new responsibility has added joy and a touch of solemnity to the usual carefreeness of youth.

This morning I met my daughter and her husband in Albany and, after breakfast with an old friend, we drove down to Hyde Park. I don't know of anything I like better than meeting people whom I love, but oh, how I hate to see them off! Perhaps absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I always wish there was some magic and one could wave, which would transport one whenever one wished to sit and talk with the people one thinks about.