MARY MARIE

BY

ELEANOR H. PORTER

_With Illustrations by Helen Mason Grose_

1920

TO MY FRIEND

ELIZABETH S. BOWEN

CONTENTS

PREFACE, WHICH EXPLAINS THINGS

I. I AM BORN

II. NURSE SARAH'S STORY

III. THE BREAK IS MADE

IV. WHEN I AM MARIE

V. WHEN I AM MARY

VI. WHEN I AM BOTH TOGETHER

VII. WHEN I AM NEITHER ONE

VIII. WHICH IS THE REAL LOVE STORY

IX. WHICH IS THE TEST

ILLUSTRATIONS

"IF I CONSULTED NO ONE'S WISHES BUT MY OWN, ISHOULD KEEP HER HERE ALWAYS"

"I TOLD HER NOT TO WORRY A BIT ABOUT ME"

"WHY MUST YOU WAIT, DARLING?"

THEN I TOLD HIM MY IDEA. 

From drawings by HELEN MASON GROSE

MARY MARIE

PREFACE

WHICH EXPLAINS THINGS

Father calls me Mary. Mother calls me Marie. Everybody else calls meMary Marie. The rest of my name is Anderson. 

I'm thirteen years old, and I'm a cross-current and a contradiction. That is, Sarah says I'm that. (Sarah is my old nurse. ) She says sheread it once--that the children of unlikes were always a cross-currentand a contradiction. And my father and mother are unlikes, and I'm thechildren. That is, I'm the child. I'm all there is. And now I'm goingto be a bigger cross-current and contradiction than ever, for I'mgoing to live half the time with Mother and the other half withFather. Mother will go to Boston to live, and Father will stay here--adivorce, you know. 

I'm terribly excited over it. None of the other girls have got adivorce in their families, and I always did like to be different. Besides, it ought to be awfully interesting, more so than just livingalong, common, with your father and mother in the same house all thetime--especially if it's been anything like my house with my fatherand mother in it!

That's why I've decided to make a book of it--that is, it really willbe a book, only I shall have to call it a diary, on account of Father, you know. Won't it be funny when I don't have to do things on accountof Father? And I won't, of course, the six months I'm living withMother in Boston. But, oh, my!--the six months I'm living here withhim--whew! But, then, I can stand it. I may even like it--some. Anyhow, it'll be _different_. And that's something. 

Well, about making this into a book. As I started to say, he wouldn'tlet me. I know he wouldn't. He says novels are a silly waste of time, if not absolutely wicked. But, a diary--oh, he loves diaries! He keepsone himself, and he told me it would be an excellent and instructivediscipline for me to do it, too--set down the weather and what I didevery day. 

The weather and what I did every day, indeed! Lovely reading thatwould make, wouldn't it? Like this:

"The sun shines this morning. I got up, ate my breakfast, went toschool, came home, ate my dinner, played one hour over to CarrieHeywood's, practiced on the piano one hour, studied another hour. Talked with Mother upstairs in her room about the sunset and the snowon the trees. Ate my supper. Was talked _to_ by Father down in thelibrary about improving myself and taking care not to be light-mindedand frivolous. (He meant like Mother, only he didn't say it right outloud. You don't have to say some things right out in plain words, youknow. ) Then I went to bed. "

 * * * * *

Just as if I was going to write my novel like that! Not much I am. ButI shall call it a diary. Oh, yes, I shall call it a diary--till I takeit to be printed. Then I shall give it its true name--a novel. AndI'm going to tell the printer that I've left it for him to make thespelling right, and put in all those tiresome little commas andperiods and question marks that everybody seems to make such a fussabout. If I write the story part, I can't be expected to be botheredwith looking up how words are spelt, every five minutes, nor fussingover putting in a whole lot of foolish little dots and dashes. 

As if anybody who was reading the story cared for that part! Thestory's the thing. 

I love stories. I've written lots of them for the girls, too--littleshort ones, I mean; not a long one like this is going to be, ofcourse. And it'll be so exciting to be living a story instead ofreading it--only when you're _living_ a story you can't peek over tothe back to see how it's all coming out. I shan't like that part. Still, it may be all the more exciting, after all, _not_ to knowwhat's coming. 

I like love stories the best. Father's got--oh, lots of books in thelibrary, and I've read stacks of them, even some of the stupid oldhistories and biographies. I had to read them when there wasn'tanything else to read. But there weren't many love stories. Mother'sgot a few, though--lovely ones--and some books of poetry, on thelittle shelf in her room. But I read all those ages ago. 

That's why I'm so thrilled over this new one--the one I'm living, Imean. For of course this will be a love story. There'll be _my_ lovestory in two or three years, when I grow up, and while I'm waitingthere's Father's and Mother's. 

Nurse Sarah says that when you're divorced you're free, just like youwere before you were married, and that sometimes they marry again. That made me think right away: what if Father or Mother, or bothof them, married again? And I should be there to see it, and thecourting, and all! Wouldn't that be some love story? Well, I justguess!

And only think how all the girls would envy me--and they just livingalong their humdrum, everyday existence with fathers and mothersalready married and living together, and nothing exciting to lookforward to. For really, you know, when you come right down to it, there _aren't_ many girls that have got the chance I've got. 

And so that's why I've decided to write it into a book. Oh, yes, Iknow I'm young--only thirteen. But I _feel_ really awfully old; andyou know a woman is as old as she feels. Besides, Nurse Sarah says Iam old for my age, and that it's no wonder, the kind of a life I'velived. 

And maybe that is so. For of course it _has_ been different, livingwith a father and mother that are getting ready to be divorced fromwhat it would have been living with the loving, happy-ever-after kind. Nurse Sarah says it's a shame and a pity, and that it's the childrenthat always suffer. But I'm not suffering--not a mite. I'm justenjoying it. It's so exciting. 

Of course if I was going to lose either one, it would be different. But I'm not, for I am to live with Mother six months, then withFather. 

So I still have them both. And, really, when you come right down toit, I'd _rather_ take them separate that way. Why, separate they'rejust perfectly all right, like that--that--what-do-you-call-itpowder?--sedlitzer, or something like that. Anyhow, it's that whitepowder that you mix in two glasses, and that looks just like watertill you put them together. And then, oh, my! such a fuss and fizz andsplutter! Well, it's that way with Father and Mother. It'll be lotseasier to take them separate, I know. For now I can be Mary sixmonths, then Marie six months, and not try to be them both all atonce, with maybe only five minutes between them. 

And I think I shall love both Father and Mother better separate, too. Of course I love Mother, and I know I'd just adore Father if he'd letme--he's so tall and fine and splendid, when he's out among folks. All the girls are simply crazy over him. And I am, too. Only, athome--well, it's so hard to be Mary always. And you see, he named meMary--

But I mustn't tell that here. That's part of the story, and thisis only the Preface. I'm going to begin it to-morrow--the realstory--Chapter One. 

But, there--I mustn't call it a "chapter" out loud. Diaries don't havechapters, and this is a diary. I mustn't forget that it's a diary. But I can write it down as a chapter, for it's _going to be_ a novel, after it's got done being a diary. 

CHAPTER I

I AM BORN

The sun was slowly setting in the west, casting golden beams of lightinto the somber old room. 

That's the way it ought to begin, I know, and I'd like to do it, butI can't. I'm beginning with my being born, of course, and Nurse Sarahsays the sun wasn't shining at all. It was night and the stars wereout. She remembers particularly about the stars, for Father was in theobservatory, and couldn't be disturbed. (We never disturb Father whenhe's there, you know. ) And so he didn't even know he had a daughteruntil the next morning when he came out to breakfast. And he was lateto that, for he stopped to write down something he had found out aboutone of the consternations in the night. 

He's always finding out _something_ about those old stars just when wewant him to pay attention to something else. And, oh, I forgot to saythat I know it is "constellation, " and not "consternation. " But I usedto call them that when I was a little girl, and Mother said it was agood name for them, anyway, for they were a consternation to _her_ allright. Oh, she said right off afterward that she didn't mean that, and that I must forget she said it. Mother's always saying that aboutthings she says. 

Well, as I was saying, Father didn't know until after breakfast thathe had a little daughter. (We never tell him disturbing, excitingthings just _before_ meals. ) And then Nurse told him. 

I asked what he said, and Nurse laughed and gave her funny littleshrug to her shoulders. 

"Yes, what did he say, indeed?" she retorted. "He frowned, looked kindof dazed, then muttered: 'Well, well, upon my soul! Yes, to be sure!'"

Then he came in to see me. 

I don't know, of course, what he thought of me, but I guess he didn'tthink much of me, from what Nurse said. Of course I was very, verysmall, and I never yet saw a little bit of a baby that was pretty, orlooked as if it was much account. So maybe you couldn't really blamehim. 

Nurse said he looked at me, muttered, "Well, well, upon my soul!"again, and seemed really quite interested till they started to put mein his arms. Then he threw up both hands, backed off, and cried, "Oh, no, no!" He turned to Mother and hoped she was feeling pretty well, then he got out of the room just as quick as he could. And Nurse saidthat was the end of it, so far as paying any more attention to me wasconcerned for quite a while. 

He was much more interested in his new star than he was in his newdaughter. We were both born the same night, you see, and that star waslots more consequence than I was. But, then, that's Father all over. And that's one of the things, I think, that bothers Mother. I heardher say once to Father that she didn't see why, when there were somany, many stars, a paltry one or two more need to be made such a fussabout. And _I_ don't, either. 

But Father just groaned, and shook his head, and threw up his hands, and looked _so_ tired. And that's all he said. That's all he says lotsof times. But it's enough. It's enough to make you feel so smalland mean and insignificant as if you were just a little green wormcrawling on the ground. Did you ever feel like a green worm crawlingon the ground? It's not a pleasant feeling at all. 

Well, now, about the name. Of course they had to begin to talk aboutnaming me pretty soon; and Nurse said they did talk a lot. But theycouldn't settle it. Nurse said that that was about the first thingthat showed how teetotally utterly they were going to disagree aboutthings. 

Mother wanted to call me Viola, after her mother, and Father wanted tocall me Abigail Jane after his mother; and they wouldn't either onegive in to the other. Mother was sick and nervous, and cried a lotthose days, and she used to sob out that if they thought they weregoing to name her darling little baby that awful Abigail Jane, theywere very much mistaken; that she would never give her consent toit--never. Then Father would say in his cold, stern way: "Verywell, then, you needn't. But neither shall I give my consent tomy daughter's being named that absurd Viola. The child is a humanbeing--not a fiddle in an orchestra!"

And that's the way it went, Nurse said, until everybody was just aboutcrazy. Then somebody suggested "Mary. " And Father said, very well, they might call me Mary; and Mother said certainly, she would consentto Mary, only she should pronounce it Marie. And so it was settled. Father called me Mary, and Mother called me Marie. And right awayeverybody else began to call me Mary Marie. And that's the way it'sbeen ever since. 

Of course, when you stop to think of it, it's sort of queer and funny, though naturally I didn't think of it, growing up with it as I did, and always having it, until suddenly one day it occurred to me thatnone of the other girls had two names, one for their father, and onefor their mother to call them by. I began to notice other things then, too. Their fathers and mothers didn't live in rooms at opposite endsof the house. Their fathers and mothers seemed to like each other, andto talk together, and to have little jokes and laughs together, andtwinkle with their eyes. That is, most of them did. 

And if one wanted to go to walk, or to a party, or to play some game, the other didn't always look tired and bored, and say, "Oh, very well, if you like. " And then both not do it, whatever it was. That is, Inever saw the other girls' fathers and mothers do that way; and I'veseen quite a lot of them, too, for I've been at the other girls'houses a lot for a long time. You see, I don't stay at home much, onlywhen I have to. We don't have a round table with a red cloth and alamp on it, and children 'round it playing games and doing things, andfathers and mothers reading and mending. And it's lots jollier wherethey do have them. 

Nurse says my father and mother ought never to have been married. That's what I heard her tell our Bridget one day. So the first chanceI got I asked her why, and what she meant. 

"Oh, la! Did you hear that?" she demanded, with the quick look overher shoulder that she always gives when she's talking about Father andMother. "Well, little pitchers do have big ears, sure enough!"

"Little pitchers, " indeed! As if I didn't know what that meant! I'm nochild to be kept in the dark concerning things I ought to know. And Itold her so, sweetly and pleasantly, but with firmness and dignity. Imade her tell me what she meant, and I made her tell me a lot of otherthings about them, too. You see, I'd just decided to write the book, so I wanted to know everything she could tell me. I didn't tell herabout the book, of course. I know too much to tell secrets to NurseSarah! But I showed my excitement and interest plainly; and when shesaw how glad I was to hear everything she could tell, she talked alot, and really seemed to enjoy it, too. 

You see, she was here when Mother first came as a bride, so she knowseverything. She was Father's nurse when he was a little boy; then shestayed to take care of Father's mother, Grandma Anderson, who was aninvalid for a great many years and who didn't die till just afterI was born. Then she took care of me. So she's always been in thefamily, ever since she was a young girl. She's awfully old now--'mostsixty. 

First I found out how they happened to marry--Father and Mother, I'mtalking about now--only Nurse says she can't see yet how they didhappen to marry, just the same, they're so teetotally different. 

But this is the story. 

Father went to Boston to attend a big meeting of astronomers from allover the world, and they had banquets and receptions where beautifulladies went in their pretty evening dresses, and my mother was oneof them. (Her father was one of the astronomers, Nurse said. ) Themeetings lasted four days, and Nurse said she guessed my father sawa lot of my mother during that time. Anyhow, he was invited to theirhome, and he stayed another four days after the meetings were over. The next thing they knew here at the house, Grandma Anderson had atelegram that he was going to be married to Miss Madge Desmond, andwould they please send him some things he wanted, and he was going ona wedding trip and would bring his bride home in about a month. 

It was just as sudden as that. And surprising!--Nurse says athunderclap out of a clear blue sky couldn't have astonished themmore. Father was almost thirty years old at that time, and he'dnever cared a thing for girls, nor paid them the least little bit ofattention. So they supposed, of course, that he was a hopeless oldbachelor and wouldn't ever marry. He was bound up in his stars, eventhen, and was already beginning to be famous, because of a comet he'ddiscovered. He was a professor in our college here, where his fatherhad been president. His father had just died a few months before, andNurse said maybe that was one reason why Father got caught in thematrimonial net like that. (Those are _her_ words, not mine. Theidea of calling my mother a net! But Nurse never did half appreciateMother. ) But Father just worshipped his father, and they were alwaystogether--Grandma being sick so much; and so when he died my fatherwas nearly beside himself, and that's one reason they were so anxioushe should go to that meeting in Boston. They thought it might take hismind off himself, Nurse said. But they never thought of its puttinghis mind on a wife!

So far as his doing it right up quick like that was concerned, Nursesaid that wasn't so surprising. For all the way up, if Father wantedanything he insisted on having it, and having it right away then. Henever wanted to wait a minute. So when he found a girl he wanted, hewanted her right then, without waiting a minute. He'd never happenedto notice a girl he wanted before, you see. But he'd found one now, all right; and Nurse said there was nothing to do but to make the bestof it, and get ready for her. 

There wasn't anybody to go to the wedding. Grandma Anderson was sick, so of course she couldn't go, and Grandpa was dead, so of course hecouldn't go, and there weren't any brothers or sisters, only Aunt Janein St. Paul, and she was so mad she wouldn't come on. So there was nochance of seeing the bride till Father brought her home. 

Nurse said they wondered and wondered what kind of a woman it could bethat had captured him. (I told her I wished she _wouldn't_ speak ofmy mother as if she was some kind of a hunter out after game; butshe only chuckled and said that's about what it amounted to in somecases. ) The very idea!

The whole town was excited over the affair, and Nurse Sarah heard alot of their talk. Some thought she was an astronomer like him. Somethought she was very rich, and maybe famous. Everybody declared shemust know a lot, anyway, and be wonderfully wise and intellectual; andthey said she was probably tall and wore glasses, and would be thirtyyears old, at least. But nobody guessed anywhere near what she reallywas. 

Nurse Sarah said she should never forget the night she came, and howshe looked, and how utterly flabbergasted everybody was to see her--alittle slim eighteen-year-old girl with yellow curly hair and themerriest laughing eyes they had ever seen. (Don't I know? Don't Ijust love Mother's eyes when they sparkle and twinkle when we're offtogether sometimes in the woods?) And Nurse said Mother was so excitedthe day she came, and went laughing and dancing all over the house, exclaiming over everything. (I can't imagine that so well. Mothermoves so quietly now, everywhere, and is so tired, 'most all thetime. ) But she wasn't tired then, Nurse says--not a mite. 

"But how did Father act?" I demanded. "Wasn't he displeased andscandalized and shocked, and everything?"

Nurse shrugged her shoulders and raised her eyebrows--the way she doeswhen she feels particularly superior. Then she said:

"Do? What does any old fool--beggin' your pardon an' no offense meant, Miss Mary Marie--but what does any man do what's got bejuggled with apretty face, an' his senses completely took away from him by a chit ofa girl? Well, that's what he did. He acted as if he was bewitched. Hefollowed her around the house like a dog--when he wasn't leadin' herto something new; an' he never took his eyes off her face except tolook at us, as much as to say: 'Now ain't she the adorable creature?'"

"My father did that?" I gasped. And, really, you know, I just couldn'tbelieve my ears. And you wouldn't, either, if you knew Father. "Why, _I_ never saw him act like that!"

"No, I guess you didn't, " laughed Nurse Sarah with a shrug. "Andneither did anybody else--for long. "

"But how long did it last?" I asked. 

"Oh, a month, or maybe six weeks, " shrugged Nurse Sarah. "Then it cameSeptember and college began, and your father had to go back to histeaching. Things began to change then. "

"Right then, so you could see them?" I wanted to know. 

Nurse Sarah shrugged her shoulders again. 

"Oh, la! child, what a little question-box you are, an' no mistake, "she sighed. But she didn't look mad--not like the way she does whenI ask why she can take her teeth out and most of her hair off and Ican't; and things like that. (As if I didn't know! What does she takeme for--a child?) She didn't even look displeased--Nurse Sarah _loves_to talk. (As if I didn't know that, too!) She just threw that quicklook of hers over her shoulder and settled back contentedly in herchair. I knew then I should get the whole story. And I did. And I'mgoing to tell it here in her own words, just as well as I can rememberit--bad grammar and all. So please remember that I am not making allthose mistakes. It's Nurse Sarah. 

I guess, though, that I'd better put it into a new chapter. Thisone is yards long already. How _do_ they tell when to begin andend chapters? I'm thinking it's going to be some job, writing thisbook--diary, I mean. But I shall love it, I know. And this is a _real_story--not like those made-up things I've always written for the girlsat school. 

CHAPTER II

NURSE SARAH'S STORY

And this is Nurse Sarah's story. 

As I said, I'm going to tell it straight through as near as I can inher own words. And I can remember most of it, I think, for I paid veryclose attention. 

 * * * * *

"Well, yes, Miss Mary Marie, things did begin to change right therean' then, an' so you could notice it. _We_ saw it, though maybe yourpa an' ma didn't, at the first. 

"You see, the first month after she came, it was vacation time, an' hecould give her all the time she wanted. An' she wanted it all. An' shetook it. An' he was just as glad to give it as she was to take it. An'so from mornin' till night they was together, traipsin' all over thehouse an' garden, an' trampin' off through the woods an' up on themountain every other day with their lunch. 

"You see she was city-bred, an' not used to woods an' flowers growin'wild; an' she went crazy over them. He showed her the stars, too, through his telescope; but she hadn't a mite of use for them, an'let him see it good an' plain. She told him--I heard her with my ownears--that his eyes, when they laughed, was all the stars she wanted;an' that she'd had stars all her life for breakfast an' luncheonan' dinner, anyway, an' all the time between; an' she'd rather havesomethin' else, now--somethin' alive, that she could love an' livewith an' touch an' play with, like she could the flowers an' rocks an'grass an' trees. 

"Angry? Your pa? Not much he was! He just laughed an' caught her'round the waist an' kissed her, an' said she herself was thebrightest star of all. Then they ran off hand in hand, like two kids. An' they _was_ two kids, too. All through those first few weeks yourpa was just a great big baby with a new plaything. Then when collegebegan he turned all at once into a full-grown man. An' just naturallyyour ma didn't know what to make of it. 

"He couldn't explore the attic an' rig up in the old clothes there anymore, nor romp through the garden, nor go lunchin' in the woods, nornone of the things _she_ wanted him to do. He didn't have time. An'what made things worse, one of them comet-tails was comin' up in thesky, an' your pa didn't take no rest for watchin' for it, an' thenstudyin' of it when it got here. 

"An' your ma--poor little thing! I couldn't think of anything but adoll that was thrown in the corner because somebody'd got tired ofher. She _was_ lonesome, an' no mistake. Anybody'd be sorry for her, to see her mopin' 'round the house, nothin' to do. Oh, she read, an'sewed with them bright-colored silks an' worsteds; but 'course therewasn't no real work for her to do. There was good help in the kitchen, an' I took what care of your grandma was needed; an' she always gaveher orders through me, so I practically run the house, an' therewasn't anything _there_ for her to do. 

"An' so your ma just had to mope it out alone. Oh, I don't mean yourpa was unkind. He was always nice an' polite, when he was in thehouse, an' I'm sure he meant to treat her all right. He said yes, yes, to be sure, of course she was lonesome, an' he was sorry. 'T was toobad he was so busy. An' he kissed her an' patted her. But he alwaysbegan right away to talk of the comet; an' ten to one he didn'tdisappear into the observatory within the next five minutes. Then yourma would look so grieved an' sorry an' go off an' cry, an' maybe notcome down to dinner, at all. 

"Well, then, one day things got so bad your grandma took a hand. Shewas up an' around the house, though she kept mostly to her own rooms. But of course she saw how things was goin'. Besides, I told her--some. 'T was no more than my duty, as I looked at it. She just worshippedyour pa, an' naturally she'd want things right for him. So one day shetold me to tell her son's wife to come to her in her room. 

"An' I did, an' she came. Poor little thing! I couldn't help bein'sorry for her. She didn't know a thing of what was wanted of her, an'she was so glad an' happy to come. You see, she _was_ lonesome, Isuppose. 

"'Me? Want me?--Mother Anderson?' she cried. 'Oh, I'm so glad!' Thenshe made it worse by runnin' up the stairs an' bouncin' into the roomlike a rubber ball, an' cryin': 'Now, what shall I do, read to you, orsing to you, or shall we play games? I'd _love_ to do any of them!'Just like that, she said it. I heard her. Then I went out, of course, an' left them. But I heard 'most everything that was said, just thesame, for I was right in the next room dustin', and the door wasn'tquite shut. 

"First your grandmother said real polite--she was always polite--butin a cold little voice that made even me shiver in the other room, that she did not desire to be read to or sung to, and that she did notwish to play games. She had called her daughter-in-law in to have aserious talk with her. Then she told her, still very polite, that shewas noisy an' childish, an' undignified, an' that it was not onlysilly, but very wrong for her to expect to have her husband's entireattention; that he had his own work, an' it was a very important one. He was going to be president of the college some day, like hisfather before him; an' it was her place to help him in every way shecould--help him to be popular an' well-liked by all the college peoplean' students; an' he couldn't be that if she insisted all the time onkeepin' him to herself, or lookin' sour an' cross if she couldn't havehim. 

"Of course that ain't all she said; but I remember this partparticular on account of what happened afterward. You see--yourma--she felt awful bad. She cried a little, an' sighed a lot, an' saidshe'd try, she really would try to help her husband in every way shecould; an' she wouldn't ask him another once, not once, to stay withher. An' she wouldn't look sour an' cross, either. She'd promise shewouldn't. An' she'd try, she'd try, oh, so hard, to be proper an'dignified. 

"She got up then an' went out of the room so quiet an' still youwouldn't know she was movin'. But I heard her up in her room cryin'half an hour later, when I stopped a minute at her door to see if shewas there. An' she was. 

"But she wasn't cryin' by night. Not much she was! She'd washed herface an' dressed herself up as pretty as could be, an' she never somuch as looked as if she wanted her husband to stay with her, whenhe said right after supper that he guessed he'd go out to theobservatory. An' 't was that way right along after that. I know, 'cause I watched. You see, I knew what she'd _said_ she'd do. Well, she did it. 

"Then, pretty quick after that, she began to get acquainted in thetown. Folks called, an' there was parties an' receptions where shemet folks, an' they began to come here to the house, 'specially themstudents, an' two or three of them young, unmarried professors. An'she began to go out a lot with them--skatin' an' sleigh-ridin' an'snowshoein'. 

"Like it? Of course she liked it! Who wouldn't? Why, child, you neversaw such a fuss as they made over your ma in them days. She was allthe rage; an' of course she liked it. What woman wouldn't, that wasgay an' lively an' young, an' had been so lonesome like your ma had?But some other folks didn't like it. An' your pa was one of them. Thistime 't was him that made the trouble. I know, 'cause I heard what hesaid one day to her in the library. 

"Yes, I guess I was in the next room that day, too--er--dustin', probably. Anyway, I heard him tell your ma good an' plain what hethought of her gallivantin' 'round from mornin' till night with themyoung students an' professors, an' havin' them here, too, such a lot, till the house was fairly overrun with them. He said he was shockedan' scandalized, an' didn't she have any regard for _his_ honor an'decency, if she didn't for herself! An', oh, a whole lot more. 

"Cry? No, your ma didn't cry this time. I met her in the hall rightafter they got through talkin', an' she was white as a sheet, an' hereyes was like two blazin' stars. So I know how she must have lookedwhile she was in the library. An' I must say she give it to him goodan' plain, straight from the shoulder. She told him _she_ was shockedan' scandalized that he could talk to his wife like that; an' didn'the have any more regard for _her_ honor and decency than to accuse herof runnin' after any man living--much less a dozen of them! An' thenshe told him a lot of what his mother had said to her, an' she saidshe had been merely tryin' to carry out those instructions. She wastryin' to make her husband and her husband's wife an' her husband'shome popular with the college folks, so she could help him to bepresident, if he wanted to be. But he answered back, cold an' chilly, that he thanked her, of course, but he didn't care for any more ofthat kind of assistance; an' if she would give a little more timeto her home an' her housekeepin', as she ought to, he would beconsiderably better pleased. An' she said, very well, she would seethat he had no further cause to complain. An' the next minute I mether in the hall, as I just said, her head high an' her eyes blazin'. 

"An' things did change then, a lot, I'll own. Right away she began torefuse to go out with the students an' young professors, an' she sentdown word she wasn't to home when they called. And pretty quick, ofcourse, they stopped comin'. 

"Housekeepin'? Attend to that? Well, y-yes, she did try to at first, a little; but of course your grandma had always given theorders--through me, I mean; an' there really wasn't anything your macould do. An' I told her so, plain. Her ways were new an' differentan' queer, an' we liked ours better, anyway. So she didn't botherus much that way very long. Besides, she wasn't feelin' very well, anyway, an' for the next few months she stayed in her room a lot, an'we didn't see much of her. Then by an' by _you_ came, an'--well, Iguess that's all--too much, you little chatterbox!"

CHAPTER III

THE BREAK IS MADE

And that's the way Nurse Sarah finished her story, only she shruggedher shoulders again, and looked back, first one way, then another. Asfor her calling me "chatterbox"--she always calls me that when _she's_been doing all the talking. 

As near as I can remember, I have told Nurse Sarah's story exactly asshe told it to me, in her own words. But of course I know I didn'tget it right all the time, and I know I've left out quite a lot. But, anyway, it's told a whole lot more than _I_ could have told why theygot married in the first place, and it brings my story right up to thepoint where I was born; and I've already told about naming me, andwhat a time they had over that. 

Of course what's happened since, up to now, I don't know _all_ about, for I was only a child for the first few years. Now I'm almost a younglady, "standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet. "(I read that last night. I think it's perfectly beautiful. So kind ofsad and sweet. It makes me want to cry every time I think of it. ) Buteven if I don't know all of what's happened since I was born, I knowa good deal, for I've seen quite a lot, and I've made Nurse tell me alot more. 

I know that ever since I can remember I've had to keep as still as amouse the minute Father comes into the house; and I know that I nevercould imagine the kind of a mother that Nurse tells about, if itwasn't that sometimes when Father has gone off on a trip, Mother andI have romped all over the house, and had the most beautiful time. I know that Father says that Mother is always trying to make me a"Marie, " and nothing else; and that Mother says she knows Father'llnever be happy until he's made me into a stupid little "Mary, " withnever an atom of life of my own. And, do you know? it does seemsometimes, as if Mary and Marie were fighting inside of me, and Iwonder which is going to beat. Funny, isn't it?

Father is president of the college now, and I don't know how manystars and comets and things he's discovered since the night the starand I were born together. But I know he's very famous, and that he'swritten up in the papers and magazines, and is in the big fat red"Who's Who" in the library, and has lots of noted men come to see him. 

Nurse says that Grandma Anderson died very soon after I was born, butthat it didn't make any particular difference in the housekeeping; forthings went right on just as they had done, with her giving the ordersas before; that she'd given them all alone anyway, mostly, the lastyear Grandma Anderson lived, and she knew just how Father likedthings. She said Mother tried once or twice to take the reins herself, and once Nurse let her, just to see what would happen. But things gotin an awful muddle right away, so that even Father noticed it and saidthings. After that Mother never tried again, I guess. Anyhow, she'snever tried it since I can remember. She's always stayed most of thetime up in her rooms in the east wing, except during meals, or whenshe went out with me, or went to the things she and Father had to goto together. For they did go to lots of things, Nurse says. 

It seems that for a long time they didn't want folks to know there wasgoing to be a divorce. So before folks they tried to be just as usual. But Nurse Sarah said _she_ knew there was going to be one long ago. The first I ever heard of it was Nurse telling Nora, the girl we hadin the kitchen then; and the minute I got a chance I asked Nurse whatit was--a divorce. 

My, I can remember now how scared she looked, and how she clapped herhand over my mouth. She wouldn't tell me--not a word. And that'sthe first time I ever saw her give that quick little look over eachshoulder. She's done it lots of times since. 

As I said, she wouldn't tell me, so I had to ask some one else. Iwasn't going to let it go by and not find out--not when Nurse Sarahlooked so scared, and when it was something my father and mother weregoing to have some day. 

I didn't like to ask Mother. Some way, I had a feeling, from the wayNurse Sarah looked, that it was something Mother wasn't going to like. And I thought if maybe she didn't know yet she was going to have it, that certainly _I_ didn't want to be the one to tell her. So I didn'task Mother what a divorce was. 

I didn't even think of asking Father, of course. I never ask Fatherquestions. Nurse says I did ask him once why he didn't love me likeother papas loved their little girls. But I was very little then, andI don't remember it at all. But Nurse said Father didn't like it verywell, and maybe I _did_ remember that part, without really knowing it. Anyhow, I never think of asking Father questions. 

I asked the doctor first. I thought maybe 't was some kind of adisease, and if he knew it was coming, he could give them some sortof a medicine to keep it away--like being vaccinated so's not to havesmallpox, you know. And I told him so. 

He gave a funny little laugh, that somehow didn't sound like a laughat all. Then he grew very, very sober, and said:

"I'm sorry, little girl, but I'm afraid I haven't got any medicinethat will prevent--a divorce. If I did have, there'd be no eating ordrinking or sleeping for me, I'm thinking--I'd be so busy answering mycalls. "

"Then it _is_ a disease!" I cried. And I can remember just howfrightened I felt. "But isn't there any doctor anywhere that _can_stop it?"

He shook his head and gave that queer little laugh again. 

"I'm afraid not, " he sighed. "As for it's being a disease--there arepeople that call it a disease, and there are others who call it acure; and there are still others who say it's a remedy worse than thedisease it tries to cure. But, there, you baby! What am I saying?Come, come, my dear, just forget it. It's nothing you should botheryour little head over now. Wait till you're older. "

Till I'm older, indeed! How I hate to have folks talk to me like that!And they do--they do it all the time. As if I was a child now, whenI'm almost standing there where the brook and river meet!

But that was just the kind of talk I got, everywhere, nearly everytime I asked any one what a divorce was. Some laughed, and somesighed. Some looked real worried 'cause I'd asked it, and one got mad. (That was the dressmaker. I found out afterward that she'd _had_ adivorce already, so probably she thought I asked the question onpurpose to plague her. ) But nobody would answer me--really answer mesensibly, so I'd know what it meant; and 'most everybody said, "Runaway, child, " or "You shouldn't talk of such things, " or, "Wait, mydear, till you're older"; and all that. 

Oh, how I hate such talk when I really want to know something! Howdo they expect us to get our education if they won't answer ourquestions?

I don't know which made me angriest--I mean angrier. (I'm speaking oftwo things, so I must, I suppose. I hate grammar!) To have them talklike that--not answer me, you know--or have them do as Mr. Jones, thestorekeeper, did, and the men there with him. 

It was one day when I was in there buying some white thread for NurseSarah, and it was a little while after I had asked the doctor if adivorce was a disease. Somebody had said something that made me thinkyou could buy divorces, and I suddenly determined to ask Mr. Jones ifhe had them for sale. (Of course all this sounds very silly to me now, for I know that a divorce is very simple and very common. It's justlike a marriage certificate, only it _un_marries you instead ofmarrying you; but I didn't know it then. And if I'm going to tell thisstory I've got to tell it just as it happened, of course. )

Well, I asked Mr. Jones if you could buy divorces, and if he had themfor sale; and you ought to have heard those men laugh. There were sixof them sitting around the stove behind me. 

"Oh, yes, my little maid" (above all things I abhor to be called alittle maid!) one of them cried. "You can buy them if you've got moneyenough; but I don't reckon our friend Jones here has got them forsale. "

Then they all laughed again, and winked at each other. (That's anotherdisgusting thing--_winks_ when you ask a perfectly civil question! Butwhat can you do? Stand it, that's all. There's such a lot of thingswe poor women have to stand!) Then they quieted down and lookedvery sober--the kind of sober you know is faced with laughs in theback--and began to tell me what a divorce really was. I can't rememberthem all, but I can some of them. Of course I understand now thatthese men were trying to be smart, and were talking for each other, not for me. And I knew it then--a little. We know a lot more thingssometimes than folks think we do. Well, as near as I can remember itwas like this:

"A divorce is a knife that cuts a knot that hadn't ought to ever beentied, " said one. 

"A divorce is a jump in the dark, " said another. 

"No, it ain't. It's a jump from the frying-pan into the fire, " pipedup Mr. Jones. 

"A divorce is the comedy of the rich and the tragedy of the poor, "said a little man who wore glasses. 

"Divorce is a nice smushy poultice that may help but won't heal, " cutin a new voice. 

"Divorce is a guidepost marked, 'Hell to Heaven, ' but lots of folksmiss the way, just the same, I notice, " spoke up somebody with achuckle. 

"Divorce is a coward's retreat from the battle of life. " CaptainHarris said this. He spoke slow and decided. Captain Harris is old andrich and not married. He's the hotel's star boarder, and what he says, goes, 'most always. But it didn't this time. I can remember just howold Mr. Carlton snapped out the next. 

"Speak from your own experience, Tom Harris, an' I'm thinkin' youain't fit ter judge. I tell you divorce is what three fourths of thehusbands an' wives in the world wish was waitin' for 'em at home thisvery night. But it ain't there. " I knew, of course, he was thinking ofhis wife. She's some cross, I guess, and has two warts on her nose. 

There was more, quite a lot more, said. But I've forgotten the rest. Besides, they weren't talking to me then, anyway. So I picked up mythread and slipped out of the store, glad to escape. But, as I saidbefore, I didn't find many like them. 

Of course I know now--what divorce is, I mean. And it's all settled. They granted us some kind of a decree or degree, and we're going toBoston next Monday. 

It's been awful, though--this last year. First we had to go to thathorrid place out West, and stay ages and ages. And I hated it. Motherdid, too. I know she did. I went to school, and there were quite a lotof girls my age, and some boys; but I didn't care much for them. Icouldn't even have the fun of surprising them with the divorce we weregoing to have. I found _they_ were going to have one, too--every lastone of them. And when everybody has a thing, you know there's noparticular fun in having it yourself. Besides, they were very unkindand disagreeable, and bragged a lot about their divorces. They saidmine was tame, and had no sort of snap to it, when they found Motherdidn't have a lover waiting in the next town, or Father hadn't run offwith his stenographer, or nobody had shot anybody, or anything. 

That made me mad, and I let them see it, good and plain. I told themour divorce was perfectly all right and genteel and respectable; thatNurse Sarah said it was. Ours was going to be incompatibility, forone thing, which meant that you got on each other's nerves, and justnaturally didn't care for each other any more. But they only laughed, and said even more disagreeable things, so that I didn't want to goto school any longer, and I told Mother so, and the reason, too, ofcourse. 

But, dear me, I wished right off that I hadn't. I supposed she wasgoing to be superb and haughty and disdainful, and say things thatwould put those girls where they belonged. But, my stars! How could Iknow that she was going to burst into such a storm of sobs and claspme to her bosom, and get my face all wet and cry out: "Oh, my baby, mybaby--to think I have subjected you to this, my baby, my baby!"

And I couldn't say a thing to comfort her, or make her stop, even whenI told her over and over again that I wasn't a baby. I was almost ayoung lady; and I wasn't being subjected to anything bad. I _liked_it--only I didn't like to have those girls brag so, when our divorcewas away ahead of theirs, anyway. 

But she only cried more and more, and held me tighter and tighter, rocking back and forth in her chair. She took me out of school, though, and had a lady come to teach me all by myself, so I didn'thave to hear those girls brag any more, anyway. That was better. Butshe wasn't any happier herself. I could see that. 

There were lots of other ladies there--beautiful ladies--only shedidn't seem to like them any better than I did the girls. I wonderedif maybe _they_ bragged, too, and I asked her; but she only began tocry again, and moan, "What have I done, what have I done?"--and I hadto try all over again to comfort her. But I couldn't. 

She got so she just stayed in her room lots and lots. I tried to makeher put on her pretty clothes, and do as the other ladies did, and goout and walk and sit on the big piazzas, and dance, and eat at thepretty little tables. She did, some, when we first came, and tookme, and I just loved it. They were such beautiful ladies, with theirbright eyes, and their red cheeks and jolly ways; and their dresseswere so perfectly lovely, all silks and satins and sparkly spangles, and diamonds and rubies and emeralds, and silk stockings, and littlebits of gold and silver slippers. 

And once I saw two of them smoking. They had the cutest littlecigarettes (Mother said they were) in gold holders, and I knew thenthat I was seeing life--real life; not the stupid kind you get back ina country town like Andersonville. And I said so to Mother; and I wasgoing to ask her if Boston was like that. But I didn't get the chance. She jumped up so quick I thought something had hurt her, and cried, "Good Heavens, Baby!" (How I hate to be called "Baby"!) Then she justthrew some money on to the table to pay the bill and hurried me away. 

It was after that that she began to stay in her room so much, and nottake me anywhere except for walks at the other end of the town whereit was all quiet and stupid, and no music or lights, or anything. Andthough I teased and teased to go back to the pretty, jolly places, shewouldn't ever take me; not once. 

Then by and by, one day, we met a little black-haired woman with whitecheeks and very big sad eyes. There weren't any spangly dresses andgold slippers about _her_, I can tell you! She was crying on a benchin the park, and Mother told me to stay back and watch the swans whileshe went up and spoke to her. (Why do old folks always make us watchswans or read books or look into store windows or run and play allthe time? Don't they suppose we understand perfectly well what itmeans--that they're going to say something they don't want us tohear?) Well, Mother and the lady on the bench talked and talked everso long, and then Mother called me up, and the lady cried a littleover me, and said, "Now, perhaps, if I'd had a little girl likethat--!" Then she stopped and cried some more. 

We saw this lady real often after that. She was nice and pretty andsweet, and I liked her; but she was always awfully sad, and I don'tbelieve it was half so good for Mother to be with her as it would havebeen for her to be with those jolly, laughing ladies that were alwayshaving such good times. But I couldn't make Mother see it that way atall. There are times when it seems as if Mother just _couldn't_ seethings the way I do. Honestly, it seems sometimes almost as if _she_was the cross-current and contradiction instead of me. It does. 

Well, as I said before, I didn't like it very well out there, and Idon't believe Mother did, either. But it's all over now, and we'reback home packing up to go to Boston. 

Everything seems awfully queer. Maybe because Father isn't here, for one thing. He wrote very polite and asked us to come to get ourthings, and he said he was going to New York on business for severaldays, so Mother need not fear he should annoy her with his presence. Then, another thing, Mother's queer. This morning she was singing awayat the top of her voice and running all over the house picking upthings she wanted; and seemed so happy. But this afternoon I found herdown on the floor in the library crying as if her heart would breakwith her head in Father's big chair before the fireplace. But shejumped up the minute I came in and said, no, no, she didn't wantanything. She was just tired; that's all. And when I asked her if shewas sorry, after all, that she was going to Boston to live, she said, no, no, no, indeed, she guessed she wasn't. She was just as glad asglad could be that she was going, only she wished Monday would hurryup and come so we could be gone. 

And that's all. It's Saturday now, and we go just day after to-morrow. Our trunks are 'most packed, and Mother says she wishes she'd plannedto go to-day. I've said good-bye to all the girls, and promised towrite loads of letters about Boston and everything. They are almost asexcited as I am; and I've promised, "cross my heart and hope to die, "that I won't love those Boston girls better than I do them--speciallyCarrie Heywood, of course, my dearest friend. 

Nurse Sarah is hovering around everywhere, asking to help, andpretending she's sorry we're going. But she isn't sorry. She's glad. I know she is. She never did appreciate Mother, and she thinks she'llhave everything her own way now. But she won't. _I_ could tell her athing or two if I wanted to. But I shan't. 

Father's sister, Aunt Jane Anderson, from St. Paul, is coming to keephouse for him, partly on account of Father, and partly on account ofme. "If that child is going to be with her father six months of thetime, she's got to have some woman there beside a meddling old nurseand a nosey servant girl!" They didn't know I heard that. But I did. And now Aunt Jane is coming. My! how mad Nurse Sarah would be if sheknew. But she doesn't. 

I guess I'll end this chapter here and begin a fresh one down inBoston. Oh, I do so wonder what it'll be like--Boston, Mother's home, Grandpa Desmond, and all the rest. I'm so excited I can hardly wait. You see, Mother never took me home with her but once, and then I was avery small child. I don't know why, but I guess Father didn't want meto go. It's safe to say he didn't, anyway. He never wants me to doanything, hardly. That's why I suspect him of not wanting me to godown to Grandpa Desmond's. And Mother didn't go only once, in ages. 

Now this will be the end. And when I begin again it will be in Boston. Only think of it--really, truly Boston!

CHAPTER IV

WHEN I AM MARIE

BOSTON. 

Yes, I'm here. I've been here a week. But this is the first minuteI've had a chance to write a word. I've been so busy just being here. And so has Mother. There's been such a lot going on since we came. ButI'll try now to begin at the beginning and tell what happened. 

Well, first we got into Boston at four o'clock Monday afternoon, andthere was Grandpa Desmond to meet us. He's lovely--tall and dignified, with grayish hair and merry eyes like Mother's, only his are behindglasses. At the station he just kissed Mother and me and said he wasglad to see us, and led us to the place where Peter was waiting withthe car. (Peter drives Grandpa's automobile, and _he's_ lovely, too. )

Mother and Grandpa talked very fast and very lively all the way home, and Mother laughed quite a lot. But in the hall she cried a little, and Grandpa patted her shoulder, and said, "There, there!" and toldher how glad he was to get his little girl back, and that they weregoing to be very happy now and forget the past. And Mother said, yes, yes, indeed, she knew she was; and she was _so_ glad to be there, and that everything _was_ going to be just the same, wasn't it?Only--then, all of a sudden she looked over at me and began to cryagain--only, of course, things couldn't be "just the same, " shechoked, hurrying over to me and putting both arms around me, andcrying harder than ever. 

Then Grandpa came and hugged us both, and patted us, and said, "There, there!" and pulled off his glasses and wiped them very fast and veryhard. 

But it wasn't only a minute or two before Mother was laughing again, and saying, "Nonsense!" and "The idea!" and that this was a pretty wayto introduce her little Marie to her new home! Then she hurried me tothe dearest little room I ever saw, right out of hers, and took off mythings. Then we went all over the house. And it's just as lovely ascan be--not at all like Father's in Andersonville. 

Oh, Father's is fine and big and handsome, and all that, of course;but not like this. His is just a nice place to eat and sleep in, andgo to when it rains. But this--this you just want to live in all thetime. Here there are curtains 'way up and sunshine, and flowers inpots, and magazines, and cozy nooks with cushions everywhere; andbooks that you've just been reading laid down. (_All_ Father's booksare in bookcases, _always_, except while one's in your hands beingread. )

Grandpa's other daughter, Mother's sister, Hattie, lives here andkeeps house for Grandpa. She has a little boy named Lester, six yearsold; and her husband is dead. They were away for what they called aweek-end when we came, but they got here a little after we did Mondayafternoon; and they're lovely, too. 

The house is a straight-up-and-down one with a back and front, but nosides except the one snug up to you on the right and left. And thereisn't any yard except a little bit of a square brick one at the backwhere they have clothes and ash barrels, and a little grass spot infront at one side of the steps, not big enough for our old cat totake a nap in, hardly. But it's perfectly lovely inside; and it'sthe insides of houses that really count just as it is the insidesof people--their hearts, I mean; whether they're good and kind, orhateful and disagreeable. 

We have dinner at night here, and I've been to the theater twicealready in the afternoon. I've got to go to school next week, Mothersays, but so far I've just been having a good time. And so's Mother. Honestly, it has just seemed as if Mother couldn't crowd the days fullenough. She hasn't been still a minute. 

Lots of her old friends have been to see her; and when there hasn'tbeen anybody else around she's taken Peter and had him drive us allover Boston to see things;--all kinds of things; Bunker Hill andmuseums, and moving pictures, and one play. 

But we didn't stay at the play. It started out all right, but prettysoon a man and a woman on the stage began to quarrel. They weremarried (not really, but in the play, I mean), and I guess it was somemore of that incompatibility stuff. Anyhow, as they began to talkmore and more, Mother began to fidget, and pretty soon I saw she wasgathering up our things; and the minute the curtain went down afterthe first act, she says:

"Come, dear, we're going home. It--it isn't very warm here. "

As if I didn't know what she was really leaving for! Do old folkshonestly think they are fooling us all the time, I wonder? But even ifI hadn't known then, I'd have known it later, for that evening I heardMother and Aunt Hattie talking in the library. 

No, I didn't listen. I _heard_. And that's a very different matter. You listen when you mean to, and that's sneaking. You hear when youcan't help yourself, and that you can't be blamed for. Sometimes it'syour good luck, and sometimes it's your bad luck--just according towhat you hear!

Well, I was in the window-seat in the library reading when Mother andAunt Hattie came in; and Mother was saying:

"Of course I came out! Do you suppose I'd have had that child see thatplay, after I realized what it was? As if she hasn't had enough ofsuch wretched stuff already in her short life! Oh, Hattie, Hattie, Iwant that child to laugh, to sing, to fairly tingle with the joy ofliving every minute that she is with me. I know so well what she _has_had, and what she will have--in that--tomb. You know in six months shegoes back--"

Mother saw me then, I know; for she stopped right off short, and aftera moment began to talk of something else, very fast. And pretty quickthey went out into the hall again. 

Dear little Mother! Bless her old heart! Isn't she the ducky dear towant me to have all the good times possible now so as to make up forthe six months I've got to be with Father? You see, she knows what itis to live with Father even better than I do. 

Well, I guess she doesn't dread it for me any more than I do formyself. Still, I'll have the girls there, and I'm dying to see themagain--and I won't have to stay home much, only nights and meals, ofcourse, and Father's always pretty busy with his stars and comets andthings. Besides, it's only for six months, then I can come back toBoston. I can keep thinking of that. 

But I know now why I've been having such a perfectly beautiful timeall this week, and why Mother has been filling every minute so full offun and good times. Why, even when we're at home here, she's alwayshunting up little Lester and getting him to have a romp with us. 

But of course next week I've got to go to school, and it can't bequite so jolly then. Well, I guess that's all for this time. 

 * * * * *

_About a month later_. 

I didn't make a chapter of that last. It wasn't long enough. And, really, I don't know as I've got much to add to it now. There'snothing much happened. 

I go to school now, and don't have so much time for fun. School ispretty good, and there are two or three girls 'most as nice as theones at Andersonville. But not quite. Out of school Mother keepsthings just as lively as ever, and we have beautiful times. Mother ishaving a lovely time with her own friends, too. Seems as if there isalways some one here when I get home, and lots of times there are teasand parties, and people to dinner. 

There are gentlemen, too. I suppose one of them will be Mother's loverby and by; but of course I don't know which one yet. I'm awfullyinterested in them, though. And of course it's perfectly natural thatI should be. Wouldn't _you_ be interested in the man that was going tobe your new father? Well, I just guess you would! Anybody would. Why, most folks have only one father, you know, and they have to take thatone just as he is; and it's all a matter of chance whether they getone that's cross or pleasant; or homely or fine and grand-looking; orthe common kind you can hug and kiss and hang round his neck, or thestand-off-don't-touch-me-I-mustn't-be-disturbed kind like mine. I meanthe one I _did_ have. But, there! that doesn't sound right, either;for of course he's still my father just the same, only--well, he isn'tMother's husband any more, so I suppose he's only my father by orderof the court, same as I'm his daughter. 

Well, anyhow, he's the father I've grown up with, and of course I'mused to him now. And it's an altogether different matter to think ofhaving a brand-new father thrust upon you, all ready-made, as youmight say, and of course I _am_ interested. There's such a whole lotdepends on the father. Why, only think how different things would havebeen at home if _my_ father had been different! There were such a lotof things I had to be careful not to do--and just as many I had to becareful _to_ do--on account of Father. 

And so now, when I see all these nice young gentlemen (only theyaren't all young; some of them are quite old) coming to the house andtalking to Mother, and hanging over the back of her chair, and handingher tea and little cakes, I can't help wondering which, if any, isgoing to be her lover and my new father. And I am also wondering whatI'll have to do on account of him when I get him, if I get him. 

There are quite a lot of them, and they're all different. They'd makevery different kinds of fathers, I'm sure, and I'm afraid I wouldn'tlike some of them. But, after all, it's Mother that ought to settlewhich to have--not me. _She's_ the one to be pleased. 'T would be sucha pity to have to change again. Though she could, of course, same asshe did Father, I suppose. 

As I said, they're all different. There are only two that are anywherenear alike, and they aren't quite the same, for one's a lawyer and theother's in a bank. But they both carry canes and wear tall silk hats, and part their hair in the middle, and look at you through the kind ofbig round eyeglasses with dark rims that would make you look awfullyhomely if they didn't make you look so stylish. But I don't thinkMother cares very much for either the lawyer or the bank man, and I'mglad. I wouldn't like to live with those glasses every day, even ifthey are stylish. I'd much rather have Father's kind. 

Then there's the man that paints pictures. He's tall and slim, andwears queer ties and long hair. He's always standing back and lookingat things with his head on one side, and exclaiming "Oh!" and "Ah!"with a long breath. He says Mother's coloring is wonderful. I heardhim. And I didn't like it very well, either. Why, it sounded as ifshe put it on herself out of a box on her bureau, same as some otherladies do! Still, he's not so bad, maybe; though I'm not sure but whathis paints and pictures would be just as tiresome to live with asFather's stars, when it came right down to wanting a husband to livewith you and talk to you every day in the year. You know you have tothink of such things when it comes to choosing a new father--I meana new husband. (I keep forgetting that it's Mother and not me that'sdoing the choosing. )

Well, to resume and go on. There's the violinist. I mustn't forgethim. But, then, nobody could forget him. He's lovely: so handsome anddistinguished-looking with his perfectly beautiful dark eyes and whiteteeth. And he plays--well, I'm simply crazy over his playing. I onlywish Carrie Heywood could hear him. She thinks her brother can play. He's a traveling violinist with a show; and he came home once toAndersonville. And I heard him. But he's not the real thing at all. Not a bit. Why, he might be anybody, our grocer, or the butcher, upthere playing that violin. His eyes are little and blue, and his hairis red and very short. I wish she could hear _our_ violinist play!

And there's another man that comes to the parties and teas;--oh, ofcourse there are others, lots of them, married men with wives, andunmarried men with and without sisters. But I mean another manspecially. His name is Harlow. He's a little man with a brown pointedbeard and big soft brown eyes. He's really awfully good-looking, too. I don't know what he does do; but he's married. I know that. He neverbrings his wife, though; but Mother's always asking for her, clear anddistinct, and she always smiles, and her voice kind of tinkles likelittle silver bells. But just the same he never brings her. 

He never takes her anywhere. I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother so at thevery first, when he came. She said they weren't a bit happy together, and that there'd probably be a divorce before long. But Mother askedfor her just the same the very next time. And she's done it eversince. 

I think I know now why she does. I found out, and I was simplythrilled. It was so exciting! You see, they were lovers oncethemselves--Mother and this Mr. Harlow. Then something happened andthey quarreled. That was just before Father came. 

Of course Mother didn't tell me this, nor Aunt Hattie. It was twoladies. I heard them talking at a tea one day. I was right behindthem, and I couldn't get away, so I just couldn't help hearing whatthey said. 

They were looking across the room at Mother. Mr. Harlow was talking toher. He was leaning forward in his chair and talking so earnestly toMother; and he looked just as if he thought there wasn't another soulin the room but just they two. But Mother--Mother was just listeningto be polite to company. Anybody could see that. And the very firstchance she got she turned and began to talk to a lady who was standingnear. And she never so much as looked toward Mr. Harlow again. 

The ladies in front of me laughed then, and one of them said, with alittle nod of her head, "I guess Madge Desmond Anderson can look outfor herself all right. "

Then they got up and went away without seeing me. And all of a suddenI felt almost sorry, for I wanted them to see me. I wanted them to seethat I knew my mother could take care of herself, too, and that I wasproud of it. If they had turned I'd have said so. But they didn'tturn. 

I shouldn't like Mr. Harlow for a father. I know I shouldn't. Butthen, there's no danger, of course, even if he and Mother were loversonce. He's got a wife now, and even if he got a divorce, I don'tbelieve Mother would choose him. 

But of course there's no telling which one she will take. As I saidbefore, I don't know. It's too soon, anyway, to tell. I suspect itisn't any more proper to hurry up about getting married again whenyou've been _un_married by a divorce than it is when you've beenunmarried by your husband's dying. I asked Peter one day how soonfolks did get married after a divorce, but he didn't seem to know. Anyway, all he said was to stammer: "Er--yes, Miss--no, Miss. I mean, I don't know, Miss. "

Peter is awfully funny. But he's nice. I like him, only I can't findout much by him. He's very good-looking, though he's quite old. He'salmost thirty. He told me. I asked him. He takes me back and forth toschool every day, so I see quite a lot of him. And, really, he'sabout the only one I _can_ ask questions of here, anyway. There isn'tanybody like Nurse Sarah used to be. Olga, the cook, talks so funny Ican't understand a word she says, hardly. Besides, the only two timesI've been down to the kitchen Aunt Hattie sent for me; and she toldme the last time not to go any more. She didn't say why. Aunt Hattienever says _why_ not to do things. She just says, "Don't. " Sometimesit seems to me as if my whole life had been made up of "don'ts. "If they'd only tell us part of the time things to "_do_, " maybe wewouldn't have so much time to do the "_don'ts_. " (That sounds funny, but I guess folks'll know what I mean. )

Well, what was I saying? Oh, I know--about asking questions. As Isaid, there isn't anybody like Nurse Sarah here. I can't understandOlga, and Theresa, the other maid, is just about as bad. Aunt Hattie'slovely, but I can't ask questions of her. She isn't the kind. Besides, Lester's always there, too; and you can't discuss family affairsbefore children. Of course there's Mother and Grandpa Desmond. Butquestions like when it's proper for Mother to have lovers I can't askof _them_, of course. So there's no one but Peter left to ask. Peter'sall right and very nice, but he doesn't seem to know _anything_ that Iwant to know. So he doesn't amount to so very much, after all. 

I'm not sure, anyway, that Mother'll want to get married again. Fromlittle things she says I rather guess she doesn't think much ofmarriage, anyway. One day I heard her say to Aunt Hattie that it wasa very pretty theory that marriages were made in heaven, but that thereal facts of the case were that they were made on earth. And anotherday I heard her say that one trouble with marriage was that thehusband and wife didn't know how to play together and to resttogether. And lots of times I've heard her say little things to AuntHattie that showed how unhappy _her_ marriage had been. 

But last night a funny thing happened. We were all in the libraryreading after dinner, and Grandpa looked up from his paper and saidsomething about a woman that was sentenced to be hanged and how awhole lot of men were writing letters protesting against having awoman hanged; but there were only one or two letters from women. AndGrandpa said that only went to prove how much more lacking in a senseof fitness of things women were than men. And he was just going to saymore when Aunt Hattie bristled up and tossed her chin, and said, realindignantly:

"A sense of fitness of things, indeed! Oh, yes, that's all very wellto say. There are plenty of men, no doubt, who are shocked beyondanything at the idea of hanging a woman; but those same men will thinknothing of going straight home and making life for some other woman soabsolutely miserable that she'd think hanging would be a lucky escapefrom something worse. "

"Harriet!" exclaimed Grandpa in a shocked voice. 

"Well, I mean it!" declared Aunt Hattie emphatically. "Look at poorMadge here, and that wretch of a husband of hers!"

And just here is where the funny thing happened. Mother bristledup--_Mother_--and even more than Aunt Hattie had. She turned red andthen white, and her eyes blazed. 

"That will do, Hattie, please, in my presence, " she said, very cold, like ice. "Dr. Anderson is not a wretch at all. He is an honorable, scholarly gentleman. Without doubt he meant to be kind andconsiderate. He simply did not understand me. We weren't suited toeach other. That's all. "

And she got up and swept out of the room. 

Now wasn't that funny? But I just loved it, all the same. I alwayslove Mother when she's superb and haughty and disdainful. 

Well, after she had gone Aunt Hattie looked at Grandpa and Grandpalooked at Aunt Hattie. Grandpa shrugged his shoulders, and gave hishands a funny little flourish; and Aunt Hattie lifted her eyebrows andsaid:

"Well, what do you know about that?" (Aunt Hattie forgot I was in theroom, I know, or she'd never in the world have used slang like that!)"And after all the things she's said about how unhappy she was!"finished Aunt Hattie. 

Grandpa didn't say anything, but just gave his funny little shrugagain. 

And it was kind of queer, when you come to think of it--about Mother, I mean, wasn't it?

 * * * * *

_One month later_. 

Well, I've been here another whole month, and it's growing nicer allthe time. I just love it here. I love the sunshine everywhere, and thecurtains up to let it in. And the flowers in the rooms, and the littlefern-dish on the dining-room table, the books and magazines just lyingaround ready to be picked up; Baby Lester laughing and singing allover the house, and lovely ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-roomhaving music and tea and little cakes when I come home from schoolin the afternoon. And I love it not to have to look up and watch andlisten for fear Father's coming in and I'll be making a noise. Andbest of all I love Mother with her dancing eyes and her laugh, and herjust being happy, with no going in and finding her crying or lookinglong and fixedly at nothing, and then turning to me with a great bigsigh, and a "Well, dear?" that just makes you want to go and crybecause it's so hurt and heart-broken. Oh, I do just love it all!

And Mother _is_ happy. I'm sure she is. Somebody is doing somethingfor her every moment--seems so. They are so glad to get her backagain. I know they are. I heard two ladies talking one day, and theysaid they were. They called her "Poor Madge, " and "Dear Madge, " andthey said it was a shame that she should have had such a wretchedexperience, and that they for one should try to do everything theycould to make her forget. 

And that's what they all seem to be trying to do--to make her forget. There isn't a day goes by but that somebody sends flowers or booksor candy, or invites her somewhere, or takes her to ride or to thetheater, or comes to see her, so that Mother is in just one whirl ofgood times from morning till night. Why, she'd just have to forget. She doesn't have any time to remember. I think she _is_ forgetting, too. Oh, of course she gets tired, and sometimes rainy days ortwilights I find her on the sofa in her room not reading or anything, and her face looks 'most as it used to sometimes after they'd beenhaving one of their incompatibility times. But I don't find her thatway very often, and it doesn't last long. So I really think she isforgetting. 

About the prospective suitors--I found that "prospective suitor" in astory a week ago, and I just love it. It means you probably will wantto marry her, you know. I use it all the time now--in my mind--whenI'm thinking about those gentlemen that come here (the unmarriedones). I forgot and used it out loud one day to Aunt Hattie; but Ishan't again. She said, "Mercy!" and threw up her hands and lookedover to Grandpa the way she does when I've said something she thinksis perfectly awful. 

But I was firm and dignified--but very polite and pleasant--and I saidthat I didn't see why she should act like that, for of course theywere prospective suitors, the unmarried ones, anyway, and even some ofthe married ones, maybe, like Mr. Harlow, for of course they could getdivorces, and--

"Ma_rie_!" interrupted Aunt Hattie then, before I could say anotherword, or go on to explain that of course Mother couldn't be expectedto stay unmarried _always_, though I was very sure she wouldn'tget married again until she'd waited long enough, and until it wasperfectly proper and genteel for her to take unto herself anotherhusband. 

But Aunt Hattie wouldn't even listen. And she threw up her hands andsaid "Ma_rie_!" again with the emphasis on the last part of the namethe way I simply loathe. And she told me never, never to let herhear me make such a speech as that again. And I said I would be verycareful not to. And you may be sure I shall. I don't want to gothrough a scene like that again!

She told Mother about it, though, I think. Anyhow, they were talkingvery busily together when they came into the library after dinner thatnight, and Mother looked sort of flushed and plagued, and I heard hersay, "Perhaps the child does read too many novels, Hattie. "

And Aunt Hattie answered, "Of course she does!" Then she saidsomething else which I didn't catch, only the words "silly" and"romantic, " and "pre-co-shus. " (I don't know what that last means, butI put it down the way it sounded, and I'm going to look it up. )

Then they turned and saw me, and they didn't say anything more. Butthe next morning the perfectly lovely story I was reading, thatTheresa let me take, called "The Hidden Secret, " I couldn't findanywhere. And when I asked Mother if she'd seen it, she said she'dgiven it back to Theresa, and that I mustn't ask for it again. That Iwasn't old enough yet to read such stories. 

There it is again! I'm not old enough. When _will_ I be allowed totake my proper place in life? Echo answers when. 

Well, to resume and go on. 

What was I talking about? Oh, I know--the prospective suitors. (AuntHattie can't hear me when I just _write_ it, anyway. ) Well, they allcome just as they used to, only there are more of them now--two fatmen, one slim one, and a man with a halo of hair round a bald spot. Oh, I don't mean that any of them are really suitors yet. They justcome to call and to tea, and send her flowers and candy. And Motherisn't a mite nicer to one than she is to any of the others. Anybodycan see that. And she shows very plainly she's no notion of pickinganybody out yet. But of course I can't help being interested andwatching. 

It won't be Mr. Harlow, anyway. I'm pretty sure of that, even if hehas started in to get his divorce. (And he has. I heard Aunt Hattietell Mother so last week. ) But Mother doesn't like him. I'm sure shedoesn't. He makes her awfully nervous. Oh, she laughs and talks withhim--seems as if she laughs even more with him than she does withanybody else. But she's always looking around for somebody else totalk to; and I've seen her get up and move off just as he was comingacross the room toward her, and I'm just sure she saw him. There'sanother reason, too, why I think Mother isn't going to choose him forher lover. I heard something she said to him one day. 

She was sitting before the fire in the library, and he came in. Therewere other people there, quite a lot of them; but Mother was all aloneby the fireplace, her eyes looking fixed and dreamy into the fire. Iwas in the window-seat around the corner of the chimney reading; andI could see Mother in the mirror just as plain as could be. She couldhave seen me, too, of course, if she'd looked up. But she didn't. 

I never even thought of hearing anything I hadn't ought, and I wasjust going to get down to go and speak to Mother myself, when Mr. Harlow crossed the room and sat down on the sofa beside her. 

"Dreaming, Madge?" he said, low and soft, his soulful eyes justdevouring her lovely face. (I read that, too, in a book last week. Ijust loved it!)

Mother started and flushed up. 

"Oh, Mr. Harlow!" she cried. (Mother always calls him "Mr. " That'sanother thing. He always calls her "Madge, " you know. ) "How do youdo?" Then she gave her quick little look around to see if there wasn'tsomebody else near for her to talk to. But there wasn't. 

"But you _do_ dream, of the old days, sometimes, Madge, don't you?" hebegan again, soft and low, leaning a little nearer. 

"Of when I was a child and played dolls before this very fireplace?Well, yes, perhaps I do, " laughed Mother. And I could see she drewaway a little. "There was one doll with a broken head that--"

"_I_ was speaking of broken hearts, " interrupted Mr. Harlow, verymeaningfully. 

"Broken hearts! Nonsense! As if there were such things in the world!"cried Mother, with a little toss to her head, looking around againwith a quick little glance for some one else to talk to. 

But still there wasn't anybody there. 

They were all over to the other side of the room talking, and payingno attention to Mother and Mr. Harlow, only the violinist. He lookedand looked, and acted nervous with his watch-chain. But he didn't comeover. I felt, some way, that I ought to go away and not hear anymore; but I couldn't without showing them that I had been there. SoI thought it was better to stay just where I was. They could see me, anyway, if they'd just look in the mirror. So I didn't feel that I wassneaking. And I stayed. 

Then Mr. Harlow spoke again. His eyes grew even more soulful anddevouring. I could see them in the mirror. 

"Madge, it seems so strange that we should both have had to trailthrough the tragedy of broken hearts and lives before we came to ourreal happiness. For we _shall_ be happy, Madge. You know I'm to befree, too, soon, dear, and then we--"

But he didn't finish. Mother put up her hand and stopped him. Her facewasn't flushed any more. It was very white. 

"Carl, " she began in a still, quiet voice, and I was so thrilled. Iknew something was going to happen--this time she'd called him by hisfirst name. "I'm sorry, " she went on. "I've tried to show you. I'vetried very hard to show you--without speaking. But if you make me sayit I shall have to say it. Whether you are free or not matters not tome. It can make no difference in our relationship. Now, will you comewith me to the other side of the room, or must I be so rude as to goand leave you?"

She got up then, and he got up, too. He said something--I couldn'thear what it was; but it was sad and reproachful--I'm sure of that bythe look in his eyes. Then they both walked across the room to theothers. 

I was sorry for him. I do not want him for a father, but I couldn'thelp being sorry for him, he looked so sad and mournful and handsome;and he's got perfectly beautiful eyes. (Oh, I do hope mine will havenice eyes, when I find him!)

As I said before, I don't believe Mother'll choose Mr. Harlow, anyway, even when the time comes. As for any of the others--I can't tell. Shetreats them all just exactly alike, as far as I can see. Polite andpleasant, but not at all lover-like. I was talking to Peter one dayabout it, and I asked him. But he didn't seem to know, either, whichone she will be likely to take, if any. 

Peter's about the only one I can ask. Of course I couldn't askMother, or Aunt Hattie, after what _she_ said about my calling themprospective suitors. And Grandfather--well, I should never thinkof asking Grandpa a question like that. But Peter--Peter's a realcomfort. I'm sure I don't know what I should do for somebody to talkto and ask questions about things down here, if it wasn't for him. AsI think I've said already, he takes me to school and back again everyday; so of course I see him quite a lot. 

Speaking of school, it's all right, and of course I like it, thoughnot quite so well as I did. There are some of the girls--well, theyact queer. I don't know what is the matter with them. They stoptalking--some of them--when I come up, and they make me feel, sometimes, as if I didn't _belong_. Maybe it's because I came from alittle country town like Andersonville. But they've known that allalong, from the very first. And they didn't act at all like that atthe beginning. Maybe it's just their way down here. If I think of itI'll ask Peter to-morrow. 

Well, I guess that's all I can think of this time. 

 * * * * *

'_Most four months later_. 

It's been ages since I've written here, I know. But there's nothingspecial happened. Everything has been going along just about as it didat the first. Oh, there is one thing different--Peter's gone. He wenttwo months ago. We've got an awfully old chauffeur now. One with grayhair and glasses, and homely, too. His name is Charles. The very firstday he came, Aunt Hattie told me never to talk to Charles, or botherhim with questions; that it was better he should keep his mindentirely on his driving. 

She needn't have worried. I should never dream of asking him thethings I did Peter. He's too stupid. Now Peter and I got to be realgood friends--until all of a sudden Grandpa told him he might go. Idon't know why. 

I don't see as I'm any nearer finding out who Mother's lover will bethan I was four months ago. I suppose it's still too soon. Petersaid one day he thought widows ought to wait at least a year, and heguessed grass-widows were just the same. My, how mad I was at him forusing that name about my mother! Oh, I knew what he meant. I'd heardit at school. (I know now what it was that made those girls act soqueer and horrid. ) There was a girl--I never liked her, and I suspectshe didn't like me, either. Well, she found out Mother had a divorce. (You see, _I_ hadn't told it. I remembered how those girls out Westbragged. ) And she told a lot of the others. But it didn't work at allas it had in the West. None of the girls in this school here had adivorce in their families; and, if you'll believe it, they acted--someof them--as if it was a _disgrace_, even after I told them good andplain that ours was a perfectly respectable and genteel divorce. Nothing I could say made a mite of difference, with some of thegirls, and then is when I first heard that perfectly horrid word, "grass-widow. " So I knew what Peter meant, though I was furious at himfor using it. And I let him see it good and plain. 

Of course I changed schools. I knew Mother'd want me to, when sheknew, and so I told her right away. I thought she'd be superb andhaughty and disdainful sure this time. But she wasn't. First she grewso white I thought she was going to faint away. Then she began to cry, and kiss and hug me. And that night I heard her talking to Aunt Hattieand saying, "To think that that poor innocent child has to suffer, too!" and some more which I couldn't hear, because her voice was allchoked up and shaky. 

Mother is crying now again quite a lot. You see, her six months are'most up, and I've got to go back to Father. And I'm afraid Mother isawfully unhappy about it. She had a letter last week from Aunt Jane, Father's sister. I heard her read it out loud to Aunt Hattie andGrandpa in the library. It was very stiff and cold and dignified, andran something like this:

 DEAR MADAM: Dr. Anderson desires me to say that he trusts you are bearing in mind the fact that, according to the decision of the court, his daughter Mary is to come to him on the first day of May. If you will kindly inform him as to the hour of her expected arrival, he will see that she is properly met at the station. 

Then she signed her name, Abigail Jane Anderson. (She was named forher mother, Grandma Anderson, same as Father wanted them to nameme. Mercy! I'm glad they didn't. "Mary" is bad enough, but "AbigailJane"--!)

Well, Mother read the letter aloud, then she began to talk aboutit--how she felt, and how awful it was to think of giving me up sixwhole months, and sending her bright little sunny-hearted Marie intothat tomb-like place with only an Abigail Jane to flee to for refuge. And she said that she almost wished Nurse Sarah was back again--thatshe, at least, was human. 

"'And see that she's properly met, ' indeed!" went on Mother, with anindignant little choke in her voice. "Oh, yes, I know! Now if it werea star or a comet that he expected, he'd go himself and sit for hoursand hours watching for it. But when his daughter comes, he'll sendJohn with the horses, like enough, and possibly that precious AbigailJane of his. Or, maybe that is too much to expect. Oh, Hattie, I can'tlet her go--I can't, I can't!"

I was in the window-seat around the corner of the chimney, reading;and I don't know as she knew I was there. But I was, and I heard. AndI've heard other things, too, all this week. 

I'm to go next Monday, and as it comes nearer the time Mother'sgetting worse and worse. She's so unhappy over it. And of course thatmakes me unhappy, too. But I try not to show it. Only yesterday, whenshe was crying and hugging me, and telling me how awful it was thather little girl should have to suffer, too, I told her not to worrya bit about me; that I wasn't suffering at all. I _liked_ it. It wasever so much more exciting to have two homes instead of one. But sheonly cried all the more, and sobbed, "Oh, my baby, my baby!"--sonothing I could say seemed to do one mite of good. 

But I meant it, and I told the truth. I _am_ excited. And I can't helpwondering how it's all going to be at Father's. Oh, of course, I knowit won't be so much fun, and I'll have to be "Mary, " and all that;but it'll be something _different_, and I always did like differentthings. Besides, there's Father's love story to watch. Maybe _he's_found somebody. Maybe he didn't wait a year. Anyhow, if he did findsomebody I'm sure he wouldn't be so willing to wait as Mother would. You know Nurse Sarah said Father never wanted to wait for anything. That's why he married Mother so quick, in the first place. But ifthere is somebody, of course I'll find out when I'm there. So that'llbe interesting. And, anyway, there'll be the girls. I shall have_them_. 

[Illustration: "I TOLD HER NOT TO WORRY A BIT ABOUT ME"]

I'll close now, and make this the end of the chapter. It'll beAndersonville next time. 

CHAPTER V

WHEN I AM MARY

ANDERSONVILLE. 

Well, here I am. I've been here two days now, and I guess I'd betterwrite down what's happened so far, before I forget it. 

First, about my leaving Boston. Poor, dear Mother did take ondreadfully, and I thought she just wouldn't let me go. She went withme to the junction where I had to change, and put me on the parlor carfor Andersonville, and asked the conductor to look out for me. (Asif I needed that--a young lady like me! I'm fourteen now. I had abirthday last week. )

But I thought at the last that she just wouldn't let me go, she clungto me so, and begged me to forgive her for all she'd brought upon me;and said it was a cruel, cruel shame, when there were children, andpeople ought to stop and think and remember, and be willing to standanything. And then, in the next breath, she'd beg me not to forgether, and not to love Father better than I did her. (As if there wasany danger of that!) And to write to her every few minutes. 

Then the conductor cried, "All aboard!" and the bell rang, and shehad to go and leave me. But the last I saw of her she was waving herhandkerchief, and smiling the kind of a smile that's worse than cryingright out loud. Mother's always like that. No matter how bad shefeels, at the last minute she comes up bright and smiling, and just asbrave as can be. 

I had a wonderful trip to Andersonville. Everybody was very kind tome, and there were lovely things to see out the window. The conductorcame in and spoke to me several times--not the way you would lookafter a child, but the way a gentleman would tend to a lady. I likedhim very much. 

There was a young gentleman in the seat in front, too, who was verynice. He loaned me a magazine, and bought some candy for me; but Ididn't see much more of him, for the second time the conductor came inhe told me he'd found a nice seat back in the car on the shady side. He noticed the sun came in where I sat, he said. (_I_ hadn't noticedit specially. ) But he picked up my bag and magazine--but I guess heforgot the candy-box the nice young gentleman in front had just puton my window-sill, for when I got into my new seat the candy wasn'tanywhere; and of course I didn't like to go back for it. But theconductor was very nice and kind, and came in twice again to see if Iliked my new seat; and of course I said I did. It was very nice andshady, and there was a lady and a baby in the next seat, and I playedwith the baby quite a lot. 

It was heaps of fun to be grown up and traveling alone like that! Isat back in my seat and wondered and wondered what the next six monthswere going to be like. And I wondered, too, if I'd forgotten how to be"Mary. "

"Dear me! How shall I ever remember not to run and skip and laugh loudor sing, or ask questions, or do _anything_ that Marie wants to do?" Ithought to myself. 

And I wondered if Aunt Jane would meet me, and what she would be like. She came once when I was a little girl, Mother said; but I didn'tremember her. 

Well, at last we got to Andersonville. John was there with the horses, and Aunt Jane, too. Of course I knew she must be Aunt Jane, becauseshe was with John. The conductor was awfully nice and polite, anddidn't leave me till he'd seen me safe in the hands of Aunt Jane andJohn. Then he went back to his train, and the next minute it hadwhizzed out of the station, and I was alone with the beginning of mynext six months. 

The first beginning was a nice smile, and a "Glad to see ye home, Miss, " from John, as he touched his hat, and the next was a "How doyou do, Mary?" from Aunt Jane. And I knew right off that first minutethat I wasn't going to like Aunt Jane--just the way she said that"Mary, " and the way she looked me over from head to foot. 

Aunt Jane is tall and thin, and wears black--not the pretty, stylishblack, but the "I-don't-care" rusty black--and a stiff white collar. Her eyes are the kind that says, "I'm surprised at you!" all the time, and her mouth is the kind that never shows any teeth when it smiles, and doesn't smile much, anyway. Her hair is some gray, and doesn'tkink or curl anywhere; and I knew right off the first minute shelooked at me that she didn't like mine, 'cause it did curl. 

I was pretty sure she didn't like my clothes, either. I've since foundout she didn't--but more of that anon. (I just love that word "anon. ")And I just knew she disapproved of my hat. But she didn't sayanything--not in words--and after we'd attended to my trunk, we wentalong to the carriage and got in. 

My stars! I didn't suppose horses _could_ go so slow. Why, we were_ages_ just going a block. You see I'd forgotten; and without thinkingI spoke right out. 

"My! Horses _are_ slow, aren't they?" I cried. "You see, Grandpa hasan auto, and--"

"Mary!"--just like that she interrupted--Aunt Jane did. (Funny howold folks can do what they won't let you do. Now if I'd interruptedanybody like that!) "You may as well understand at once, " went on AuntJane, "that we are not interested in your grandfather's auto, or hishouse, or anything that is his. " (I felt as if I was hearing thecatechism in church!) "And that the less reference you make to yourlife in Boston, the better we shall be pleased. As I said before, weare not interested. Besides, while under your father's roof, it wouldseem to me very poor taste, indeed, for you to make constant referenceto things you may have been doing while _not_ under his roof. Thesituation is deplorable enough, however you take it, without making itpositively unbearable. You will remember, Mary?"

Mary said, "Yes, Aunt Jane, " very polite and proper; but I can tellyou that inside of Mary, _Marie_ was just boiling. 

Unbearable, indeed!

We didn't say anything more all the way home. Naturally, _I_ was notgoing to, after that speech; and Aunt Jane said nothing. So silencereigned supreme. 

Then we got home. Things looked quite natural, only there was a newmaid in the kitchen, and Nurse Sarah wasn't there. Father wasn'tthere, either. And, just as I suspected, 't was a star that was toblame, only this time the star was the moon--an eclipse; and he'd gonesomewhere out West so he could see it better. 

He isn't coming back till next week; and when I think how he made mecome on the first day, so as to get in the whole six months, when allthe time he did not care enough about it to be here himself, I'm justmad--I mean, the righteously indignant kind of mad--for I can't helpthinking how poor Mother would have loved those extra days with her. 

Aunt Jane said I was to have my old room, and so, as soon as I gothere, I went right up and took off my hat and coat, and pretty quickthey brought up my trunk, and I unpacked it; and I didn't hurry aboutit either. I wasn't a bit anxious to get downstairs again to AuntJane. Besides, I may as well own up, I was crying--a little. Mother'sroom was right across the hall, and it looked so lonesome; and Icouldn't help remembering how different this homecoming was from theone in Boston, six months ago. 

Well, at last I had to go down to dinner--I mean supper--and, by theway, I made another break on that. I _called_ it dinner right outloud, and never thought--till I saw Aunt Jane's face. 

"_Supper_ will be ready directly, " she said, with cold and icyemphasis. "And may I ask you to remember, Mary, please, thatAndersonville has dinner at _noon_, not at six o'clock. "

"Yes, Aunt Jane, " said Mary, polite and proper again. (I shan't saywhat Marie said inside. )

We didn't do anything in the evening but read and go to bed at nineo'clock. I _wanted_ to run over to Carrie Heywood's; but Aunt Janesaid no, not till morning. (I wonder why young folks _never_ can dothings when they _want_ to do them, but must always wait till morningor night or noon, or some other time!)

In the morning I went up to the schoolhouse. I planned it so as to getthere at recess, and I saw all the girls except one that was sick, andone that was away. We had a perfectly lovely time, only everybodywas talking at once so that I don't know now what was said. But theyseemed glad to see me. I know that. Maybe I'll go to school next week. Aunt Jane says she thinks I ought to, when it's only the first of May. She's going to speak to Father when he comes next week. 

She was going to speak to him about my clothes; then she decided toattend to those herself, and not bother him. As I suspected, shedoesn't like my dresses. I found out this morning for sure. She cameinto my room and asked to see my things. My! But didn't I hate to showthem to her? Marie said she wouldn't; but Mary obediently trotted tothe closet and brought them out one by one. 

Aunt Jane turned them around with the tips of her fingers, all thetime sighing and shaking her head. When I'd brought them all out, she shook her head again and said they would not do at all--not inAndersonville; that they were extravagant, and much too elaborate fora young girl; that she would see the dressmaker and arrange that I hadsome serviceable blue and brown serges at once. 

Blue and brown serge, indeed! But, there, what's the use? I'm Marynow, I keep forgetting that; though I don't see how I can forgetit--with Aunt Jane around. 

But, listen. A funny thing happened this morning. Something cameup about Boston, and Aunt Jane asked me a question. Then she askedanother and another, and she kept me talking till I guess I talked'most a whole half-hour about Grandpa Desmond, Aunt Hattie, Mother, and the house, and what we did, and, oh, a whole lot of things. Andhere, just two days ago, she was telling me that she wasn't interestedin Grandpa Desmond, his home, or his daughter, or anything that washis!

There's something funny about Aunt Jane. 

 * * * * *

_One week later_. 

Father's come. He came yesterday. But I didn't know it, and I camerunning downstairs, ending with a little bounce for the last step. Andthere, right in front of me in the hall was--_Father_. 

I guess he was as much surprised as I was. Anyhow, he acted so. Hejust stood stock-still and stared, his face turning all kinds ofcolors. 

"You?" he gasped, just above his breath. Then suddenly he seemed toremember. "Why, yes, yes, to be sure. You are here, aren't you? How doyou do, Mary?"

He came up then and held out his hand, and I thought that was all hewas going to do. But after a funny little hesitation he stooped andkissed my forehead. Then he turned and went into the library with veryquick steps, and I didn't see him again till at the supper-table. 

At the supper-table he said again, "How do you do, Mary?" Then heseemed to forget all about me. At least he didn't say anything more tome; but three or four times, when I glanced up, I found him looking atme. But just as soon as I looked back at him he turned his eyes awayand cleared his throat, and began to eat or to talk to Aunt Jane. 

After dinner--I mean supper--he went out to the observatory, just ashe always used to. Aunt Jane said her head ached and she was going tobed. I said I guessed I would step over to Carrie Heywood's; but AuntJane said, certainly not; that I was much too young to be runningaround nights in the dark. Nights! And it was only seven o'clock, andnot dark at all! But of course I couldn't go. 

Aunt Jane went upstairs, and I was left alone. I didn't feel a bitlike reading; besides, there wasn't a book or a magazine anywhere_asking_ you to read. They just shrieked, "Touch me not!" behind theglass doors in the library. I hate sewing. I mean _Marie_ hates it. Aunt Jane says Mary's got to learn. 

For a time I just walked around the different rooms downstairs, looking at the chairs and tables and rugs all _just so_, as if they 'dbeen measured with a yardstick. Marie jerked up a shade and pushed achair crooked and kicked a rug up at one corner; but Mary put them allback properly--so there wasn't any fun in that for long. 

After a while I opened the parlor door and peeked in. They used tokeep it open when Mother was here; but Aunt Jane doesn't use it. Iknew where the electric push button was, though, and I turned on thelight. 

It used to be an awful room, and it's worse now, on account of itsshut-up look. Before I got the light on, the chairs and sofas loomedup like ghosts in their linen covers. And when the light did come on, I saw that all the old shiver places were there. Not one was missing. Great-Grandfather Anderson's coffin plate on black velvet, the waxcross and flowers that had been used at three Anderson funerals, thehair wreath made of all the hair of seventeen dead Andersons and fivelive ones--no, no, I don't mean _all_ the hair, but hair from allseventeen and five. Nurse Sarah used to tell me about it. 

Well, as I said, all the shiver places were there, and I shiveredagain as I looked at them; then I crossed over to Mother's old piano, opened it, and touched the keys. I love to play. There wasn't anymusic there, but I don't need music for lots of my pieces. I know themby heart--only they're all gay and lively, and twinkly-toe dancy. _Marie_ music. I don't know a one that would be proper for _Mary_ toplay. 

But I was just tingling to play _something_, and I remembered thatFather was in the observatory, and Aunt Jane upstairs in the otherpart of the house where she couldn't possibly hear. So I began toplay. I played the very slowest piece I had, and I played softly atfirst; but I know I forgot, and I know I hadn't played two piecesbefore I was having the best time ever, and making all the noise Iwanted to. 

Then all of a sudden I had a funny feeling as if somebody somewherewas watching me; but I just couldn't turn around. I stopped playing, though, at the end of that piece, and then I looked; but there wasn'tanybody in sight. But the wax cross was there, and the coffin plate, and that awful hair wreath; and suddenly I felt as if that room wasjust full of folks with great staring eyes. I fairly shook withshivers then, but I managed to shut the piano and get over to the doorwhere the light was. Then, a minute later, out in the big silent hall, I crept on tiptoe toward the stairs. I knew then, all of a sudden, whyI'd felt somebody was listening. There was. Across the hall in thelibrary in the big chair before the fire sat--_Father_! And for 'mosta whole half-hour I had been banging away at that piano on marches anddance music! My! But I held my breath and stopped short, I can tellyou. But he didn't move nor turn, and a minute later I was safely bythe door and halfway up the stairs. 

I stayed in my room the rest of that evening; and for the second timesince I've been here I cried myself to sleep. 

 * * * * *

_Another week later_, Well, I've got them--those brown and blue serge dresses and thecalfskin boots. My, but I hope they're stiff and homely enough--all ofthem! And hot, too. Aunt Jane did say to-day that she didn't know butwhat she'd made a mistake not to get gingham dresses. But, then, she'dhave to get the gingham later, anyway, she said; then I'd have both. 

Well, they can't be worse than the serge. That's sure. I hate theserge. They're awfully homely. Still, I don't know but it's just aswell. Certainly it's lots easier to be Mary in a brown serge andclumpy boots than it is in the soft, fluffy things Marie used to wear. You couldn't be Marie in _these_ things. Honestly, I'm feeling realMaryish these days. 

I wonder if that's why the girls seem so queer at school. They _are_queer. Three times lately I've come up to a crowd of girls and heardthem stop talking right off short. They colored up, too; and prettyquick they began to slip away, one by one, till there wasn't anybodyleft but just me, just as they used to do in Boston. But of course itcan't be for the same reason here, for they've known all along aboutthe divorce and haven't minded it at all. 

I heard this morning that Stella Mayhew had a party last night. But_I_ didn't get invited. Of course, you can't always ask everybody toyour parties, but this was a real big party, and I haven't found agirl in school, yet, that wasn't invited--but me. But I guess itwasn't anything, after all. Stella is a new girl that has come here tolive since I went away. Her folks are rich, and she's very popular, and of course she has loads of friends she had to invite; and shedoesn't know me very well. Probably that was it. And maybe I justimagine it about the other girls, too. Perhaps it's the brown sergedress. Still, it can't be that, for this is the first day I've wornit. But, as I said, I feel Maryish already. 

I haven't dared to touch the piano since that night a week ago, onlyonce when Aunt Jane was at a missionary meeting, and I knew Father wasover to the college. But didn't I have a good time then? I just guessI did!

Aunt Jane doesn't care for music. Besides, it's noisy, she says, andwould be likely to disturb Father. So I'm not to keep on with my musiclessons here. She's going to teach me to sew instead. She says sewingis much more sensible and useful. 

Sensible and useful! I wonder how many times I've heard those wordssince I've been here. And durable, too. And nourishing. That's anotherword. Honestly, Marie is getting awfully tired of Mary's sensiblesewing and dusting, and her durable clumpy shoes and stuffy dresses, and her nourishing oatmeal and whole-wheat bread. But there, what canyou do? I'm trying to remember that it's _different_, anyway, and thatI said I liked something different. 

I don't see much of Father. Still, there's something kind of queerabout it, after all. He only speaks to me about twice a day--just"Good-morning, Mary, " and "Good-night. " And so far as most of hisactions are concerned you wouldn't think by them that he knew I was inthe house, Yet, over and over again at the table, and at times when Ididn't even know he was 'round, I've found him watching me, and withsuch a queer, funny look in his eyes. Then, very quickly always, helooks right away. 

But last night he didn't. And that's especially what I wanted to writeabout to-day. And this is the way it happened. 

It was after supper, and I had gone into the library. Father had goneout to the observatory as usual, and Aunt Jane had gone upstairs toher room as usual, and as usual I was wandering 'round looking forsomething to do. I wanted to play on the piano, but I didn't dareto--not with all those dead-hair and wax-flower folks in the parlorwatching me, and the chance of Father's coming in as he did before. 

I was standing in the window staring out at nothing--it wasn't quitedark yet--when again I had that queer feeling that somebody waslooking at me. I turned--and there was Father. He had come in and wassitting in the big chair by the table. But this time he didn't lookright away as usual and give me a chance to slip quietly out of theroom, as I always had before. Instead he said:

"What are you doing there, Mary?"

"N-nothing. " I know I stammered. It always scares me to talk toFather. 

"Nonsense!" Father frowned and hitched in his chair. Father alwayshitches in his chair when he's irritated and nervous. "You can't bedoing nothing. Nobody but a dead man does nothing--and we aren't sosure about him. What are you doing, Mary?"

"Just l-looking out the window. "

"Thank you. That's better. Come here. I want to talk to you. "

"Yes, Father. "

I went, of course, at once, and sat down in the chair near him. Hehitched again in his seat. 

"Why don't you do something--read, sew, knit?" he demanded. "Why do Ialways find you moping around, doing nothing?"

Just like that he said it; and when he had just told me--

"Why, Father!" I cried; and I know that I showed how surprised I was. "I thought you just said I couldn't do nothing--that nobody could!"

"Eh? What? Tut, tut!" He seemed very angry at first; then suddenlyhe looked sharply into my face. Next, if you'll believe it, helaughed--the queer little chuckle under his breath that I've heard himgive two or three times when there was something he thought was funny. "Humph!" he grunted. Then he gave me another sharp look out ofhis eyes, and said: "I don't think you meant that to be quite soimpertinent as it sounded, Mary, so we'll let it pass--this time. I'llput my question this way: Don't you ever knit or read or sew?"

"I do sew every day in Aunt Jane's room, ten minutes hemming, tenminutes seaming, and ten minutes basting patchwork squares together. Idon't know how to knit. "

"How about reading? Don't you care for reading?"

"Why, of course I do. I love it!" I cried. "And I do read lots--athome. "

"At--_home_?"

I knew then, of course, that I'd made another awful break. Therewasn't any smile around Father's eyes now, and his lips came togetherhard and thin over that last word. 

"At--at _my_ home, " I stammered. "I mean, my _other_ home. "

"Humph!" grunted Father. Then, after a minute: "But why, pray, can'tyou read here? I'm sure there are--books enough. " He flourished hishands toward the bookcases all around the room. 

"Oh, I do--a little; but, you see, I'm so afraid I'll leave some ofthem out when I'm through, " I explained, "Well, what of it? What if you do?" he demanded. 

"Why, _Father_!" I tried to show by the way I said it that he knew--ofcourse he knew. But he made me tell him right out that Aunt Janewouldn't like it, and that he wouldn't like it, and that the booksalways had to be kept exactly where they belonged. 

"Well, why not? Why shouldn't they?" he asked then, almost crossly, and hitching again in his chair. "Aren't books down there--inBoston--kept where they belong, pray?"

It was the first time since I'd come that he'd ever mentioned Boston;and I almost jumped out of my chair when I heard him. But I soon sawit wasn't going to be the last, for right then and there he began toquestion me, even worse than Aunt Jane had. 

He wanted to know everything, _everything_; all about the house, withits cushions and cozy corners and curtains 'way up, and books leftaround easy to get, and magazines, and Baby Lester, and the fun we hadromping with him, and everything. Only, of course, I didn't mentionMother. Aunt Jane had told me not to--not anywhere; and to bespecially careful before Father. But what can you do when he asks youhimself, right out plain? And that's what he did. 

He'd been up on his feet, tramping up and down the room all the timeI'd been talking; and now, all of a sudden, he wheels around and stopsshort. 

"How is--your mother, Mary?" he asks. And it was just as if he'dopened the door to another room, he had such a whole lot of questionsto ask after that. And when he'd finished he knew everything: whattime we got up and went to bed, and what we did all day, and theparties and dinners and auto rides, and the folks that came such a lotto see Mother. 

Then all of a sudden he stopped--asking questions, I mean. He stoppedjust as suddenly as he'd begun. Why, I was right in the middle oftelling about a concert for charity we got up just before I came away, and how Mother had practiced for days and days with the young man whoplayed the violin, when all of a sudden Father jerked his watch fromhis pocket and said:

"There, there, Mary, it's getting late. You've talked enough--toomuch. Now go to bed. Good-night. "

Talked too much, indeed! And who'd been making me do all the talking, I should like to know? But, of course, I couldn't _say_ anything. That's the unfair part of it. Old folks can say anything, _anything_they want to to _you_, but you can't say a thing back to them--not athing. 

And so I went to bed. And the next day all that Father said to mewas, "Good-morning, Mary, " and, "Good-night, " just as he had eversince I came. And that's all he's said yesterday and to-day. But he'slooked at me. He's looked at me a lot. I know, because at mealtimesand others, when he's been in the room with me, I've looked up andfound his eyes on me. Funny, isn't it?

 * * * * *

_Two weeks later_. 

Well, I don't know as I have anything very special to say. Still, Isuppose I ought to write something; so I'll put down what little thereis. 

Of course, there doesn't so much happen here, anyway, as there does athome--I mean in Boston. (I _must_ stop calling it home down to Bostonas if this wasn't home at all. It makes Aunt Jane very, very angry, and I don't think Father likes it very well. ) But, as I was saying, there really doesn't so much happen here as there does down to Boston;and it isn't nearly so interesting. But, there! I suppose I mustn'texpect it to be interesting. I'm Mary now, not Marie. 

There aren't any teas and dinners and pretty ladies and music andsoulful-eyed prospective suitors _here_. My! Wouldn't Aunt Jane havefour fits? And Father, too. But I'd just like to put one of Mother'steas with the little cakes and flowers and talk and tinkling laughsdown in Aunt Jane's parlor, and then watch what happened. Oh, ofcourse, the party couldn't stand it long--not in there with the hairwreath and the coffin plate. But they could stand it long enough forFather to thunder from the library, "Jane, what in Heaven's name isthe meaning of all this?" And for Aunt Jane to give one look at thekind of clothes _real_ folks wear, and then flee with her hands to herears and her eyes upraised to the ceiling. Wouldn't it be fun?

But, there! What's the use of imagining perfectly crazy, impossiblethings like that? We haven't had a thing here in that parlor since Icame but one missionary meeting and one Ladies' Aid Sewing Circle; andafter the last one (the Sewing Circle) Aunt Jane worked a whole daypicking threads off the carpet, and smoothing down the linen coversbecause they'd got so mussed up. And I heard her tell the hired girlthat she shouldn't have that Sewing Circle here again in a hurry, andwhen she did have them they'd have to sew in the dining-room with asheet spread down to catch the threads. My! but I would like to seeAunt Jane with one of Mother's teas in her parlor!

I can't see as Father has changed much of any these last two weeks. Hestill doesn't pay much of any attention to me, though I do find himlooking at me sometimes, just as if he was trying to make up his mindabout something. He doesn't say hardly anything to me, only once ortwice when he got to asking questions again about Boston and Mother. 

The last time I told him all about Mr. Harlow, and he was sointerested! I just happened to mention his name, and he wanted to knowright away if it was Mr. Carl Harlow, and if I knew whether Mother hadever known him before. And of course I told him right away that itwas--the same one she was engaged to before she was engaged to him. 

Father looked funny and kind of grunted and said, yes, yes, he knew. Then he said, "That will do, Mary. " And he began to read his bookagain. But he never turned a page, and it wasn't five minutes beforehe got up and walked around the room, picking out books from thebookcases and putting them right back, and picking up things from themantel and putting _them_ right back. Then he turned to me and askedwith a kind of of-course-I-don't-care air:

"Did you say you saw quite a little of--this Harlow fellow?"

But he did care. I know he did. He was _real_ interested. I could seethat he was. And so I told him everything, all about how he came thereto the teas, and sent her flowers and candy, and was getting a divorcehimself, and what he said on the sofa that day, and how Motheranswered. As I said, I told him everything, only I was careful not tocall Mr. Harlow a prospective suitor, of course. I remembered toowell what Aunt Hattie had said. Father didn't say anything when I gotthrough. He just got up and left the room, and pretty quick I saw himcrossing the lawn to the observatory. 

I guess there aren't any prospective suitors here. I mean, I guessFather isn't a prospective suitor--anyhow, not yet. (Of course, it'sthe man that has to be the suitor. ) He doesn't go anywhere, only overto the college and out to the observatory. I've watched so to see. Iwanted specially to know, for of course if he was being a prospectivesuitor to any one, she'd be my new mother, maybe. And I'm going to beawfully particular about any new mother coming into the house. 

A whole lot more, even, depends on mothers than on fathers, you know;and if you're going to have one all ready-made thrust upon you, youare sort of anxious to know what kind she is. Some way, I don't thinkI'd like a new mother even as well as I'd like a new father; and Idon't believe I'd like _him_ very well. 

Of course, there are quite a lot of ladies here that Father _could_have. There are several pretty teachers in the schools, and some niceunmarried ladies in the church. And there's Miss Parmelia Snow. She'sProfessor Snow's sister. She wears glasses and is terribly learned. Maybe he _would_ like her. But, mercy! I shouldn't. 

Then there's Miss Grace Ann Sanborn. She's fat, and awfully jolly. Shecomes here a lot lately to see Aunt Jane. I don't know why. They don'tbelong to the same church, or anything. But she "runs over, " as shecalls it, almost every afternoon just a little before dinner--I meansupper. 

Mrs. Darling used to come then, too, when I first came; but she comesover evenings now more. Maybe it's because she doesn't like Miss GraceAnn. I don't think she _does_ like her, for every time she saw her, she'd say: "Oh, _you_? So you're here!" And then she'd turn and talkto Aunt Jane and simply ignore Miss Grace Ann. And pretty quick she'dget up and go. And now she comes evenings. She's fixing over herhouse, and she runs and asks Aunt Jane's advice about every littlething. She asks Father's, too, every chance she gets, when she seeshim in the hall or on the front steps. I heard her tell Aunt Janeshe considered Professor Anderson a man of most excellent taste andjudgment. 

I suppose Mrs. Darling _could_ be my new mother. She's a widow. Herhusband died last year. She is very well off now that her husbandis dead, I heard Aunt Jane say one day. She meant well off inmoney--quite a lot of it, you know. I _thought_ she meant well offbecause he was dead and she didn't have to live with him any more, and I said so to Aunt Jane. (He was a cross man, and very stern, aseverybody knew. ) But, dear suz me! Aunt Jane was awfully shocked, andsaid certainly not; that she meant Mr. Darling had left his wife agreat deal of money. 

Then she talked very stern and solemn to me, and said that I must notthink just because my poor dear father's married life had ended insuch a wretched tragedy that every other home had such a skeleton inthe closet. 

_I_ grew stern and dignified and solemn then. I knew, of course, whatshe meant. I'm no child. She meant Mother. She meant that Mother, mydear blessed mother, was the skeleton in their closet. And of course Iwasn't going to stand there and hear that, and not say a word. 

But I didn't say just a word. I said a good many words. I won't try toput them all down here; but I told her quietly, in a firm voice, andwith no temper (showing), that I guessed Father was just as much of askeleton in Mother's closet as she was in his; and that if she couldsee how perfectly happy my mother was now she'd understand a little ofwhat my father's skeleton had done to her all those years she'd had tolive with it. 

I said a lot more, but before I'd got half finished with what I wantedto say, I got to crying, so I just had to run out of the room. 

That night I heard Aunt Jane tell Mrs. Darling that the worst featureof the whole deplorable situation was the effect on the child's mind, and the wretched conception it gave her of the sacredness of themarriage tie, or something like that. And Mrs. Darling sighed, andsaid, oh, and ah, and the pity of it. 

I don't like Mrs. Darling. 

Of course, as I said before, Mrs. Darling could be my new mother, being a widow, so. But, mercy! I hope she won't. I'd rather have MissGrace Ann than her, and I shouldn't be crazy about having Miss GraceAnn. 

Well, I guess there's nothing more to write. Things at school are justthe same, only more so. The girls are getting so they act almostas bad as those down to Boston in the school where I went before Ichanged. Of course, maybe it's the divorce here, same as it was there. But I don't see how it can be that here. Why, they've known it fromthe very first!

Oh, dear suz me! How I do wish I could see Mother to-night and haveher take me in her arms and kiss me. I'm so tired of being Mary 'wayoff up here where nobody cares or wants me. 

Even Father doesn't want me, not really want me. I know he doesn't. Idon't see why he keeps me, only I suppose he'd be ashamed not to takeme his six months as long as the court gave me to him for that time. 

 * * * * *

_Another two weeks later_. 

I'm so angry I can hardly write, and at the same time I'm so angryI've just got to write. I can't talk. There isn't anybody to talk to;and I've got to tell somebody. So I'm going to tell it here. 

I've found out now what's the matter with the girls--you know I saidthere _was_ something the matter with them; that they acted queerand stopped talking when I came up, and faded away till there wasn'tanybody but me left; and about the party Stella Mayhew had and didn'tinvite me. 

Well, it's been getting worse and worse. Other girls have had parties, and more and more often the girls have stopped talking and have lookedqueer when I came up. We got up a secret society and called it the"Tony Ten, " and I was going to be its president. Then all of a suddenone day I found there wasn't any Tony Ten--only Carrie Heywood and me. The other eight had formed another society and Stella Mayhew was theirpresident. 

I told Carrie we wouldn't care; that we'd just change it and callit the "Tony Two"; and that two was a lot more exclusive than ten, anyway. But I did care, and Carrie did. I knew she did. And I know itbetter now because last night--she told me. You see things have beengetting simply unbearable these last few days, and it got so it lookedas if I wasn't even going to have Carrie left. _She_ began to actqueer and I accused her of it, and told her if she didn't want tobelong to the Tony Two she needn't. That I didn't care; that I'd be asecret society all by myself. But I cried. I couldn't help crying; andshe knew I did--care. Then she began to cry; and to-day, after school, we went to walk up on the hill to the big rock; and there--she toldme. And it _was_ the divorce. 

And it's all that Stella Mayhew--the new girl. Her mother found out Iwas divorced (I mean Mother was) and she told Stella not to play withme, nor speak to me, nor have a thing to do with me. And I said toCarrie, all right! Who cared? _I_ didn't. That I never had liked thatMayhew girl, anyway. But Carrie said that wasn't all. She said Stellahad got to be real popular before I came; that her folks had lots ofmoney, and she always had candy and could treat to ice-cream andauto rides, and everybody with her was sure of a good time. She hadparties, too--lots of them; and of course, all the girls and boysliked that. 

Well, when I came everything was all right till Stella's mother foundout about the divorce, and then--well, then things were different. First Stella contented herself with making fun of me, Carrie said. Shelaughed at the serge dresses and big homely shoes, and then she beganon my name, and said the idea of being called Mary by Father and Marieby Mother, and that 't was just like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (That'sa story, Carrie says. I'm going to read it, if Father's got it. Ifthere ever was another Mary and Marie all in one in the world I wantto know what she did. ) But Carrie says the poking fun at me didn'tmake much difference with the girls, so Stella tried something else. She not only wouldn't speak to me herself, or invite me, or anything, but she told all the girls that they couldn't go with her and me, too. That they might take their choice. And Carrie said some of them didchoose and stayed with me; but they lost all the good times andice-cream and parties and rides and everything; and so one by one theydropped me and went back to Stella, and now there wasn't anybody left, only her, Carrie. And then she began to cry. 

And when she stopped speaking, and I knew all, and saw her cryingthere before me, and thought of my dear blessed mother, I was so angryI could scarcely speak. I just shook with righteous indignation. And in my most superb, haughty, and disdainful manner I told CarrieHeywood to dry her tears; that she needn't trouble herself anyfurther, nor worry about losing any more ice-cream nor parties. That Iwould hereto declare our friendship null and void, and this day setmy hand and seal to never speak to her again, if she liked, andconsidered that necessary to keeping the acquaintance of the preciousStella. 

But she cried all the more at that, and flung herself upon me, and, ofcourse, I began to cry, too--and you can't stay superb and haughty anddisdainful when you're all the time trying to hunt up a handkerchiefto wipe away the tears that are coursing down your wan cheeks. And ofcourse I didn't. We had a real good cry together, and vowed we lovedeach other better than ever, and nobody could come between us, noteven bringing a chocolate-fudge-marshmallow college ice--which we bothadore. But I told her that she would be all right, just the same, for of course I should never step my foot inside of that schoolhouseagain. That I couldn't, out of respect to Mother. That I should tellAunt Jane that to-morrow morning. There isn't any other school here, so they can't send me anywhere else. But it's 'most time for school toclose, anyway. There are only two weeks more. 

But I don't think that will make any difference to Aunt Jane. It's theprinciple of the thing. It's always the principle of the thing withAunt Jane. She'll be very angry, I know. Maybe she'll send me home. Oh, I _hope_ she will!

Well, I shall tell her to-morrow, anyway. Then--we'll see. 

 * * * * *

_One day later_. 

And, dear, dear, what a day it has been!

I told her this morning. She was very angry. She said at first:"Nonsense, Mary, don't be impertinent. Of course you'll go to school!"and all that kind of talk. But I kept my temper. I did not act angry. I was simply firm and dignified. And when she saw I really meant whatI said, and that I would not step my foot inside that schoolroomagain--that it was a matter of conscience with me--that I did notthink it was _right_ for me to do it, she simply stared for a minute, as if she couldn't believe her eyes and ears. Then she gasped:

"Mary, what do you mean by such talk to me? Do you think I shallpermit this sort of thing to go on for a moment?"

I thought then she was going to send me home. Oh, I did so hope shewas. But she didn't. She sent me to my room. 

"You will stay there until your father comes home this noon, " shesaid. "This is a matter for him to settle. "

_Father_! And I never even thought of her going to _him_ with it. Shewas always telling me never to bother Father with anything, and I knewshe didn't usually ask him anything about me. She settled everythingherself. But _this_--and the very thing I didn't want her to ask him, too. But of course I couldn't help myself. That's the trouble. Youthis _so_ helpless in the clutches of old age!

Well, I went to my room. Aunt Jane told me to meditate on my sins. ButI didn't. I meditated on other people's sins. _I_ didn't have any tomeditate on. Was it a sin, pray, for me to stand up for my mother andrefuse to associate with people who wouldn't associate with _me_ onaccount of _her_? I guess not!

I meditated on Stella Mayhew and her mother, and on those silly, faithless girls that thought more of an ice-cream soda than they didof justice and right to their fellow schoolmate. And I meditated onAunt Jane and her never giving me so much as a single kiss since Icame. And I meditated on how much better Father liked stars andcomets than he did his own daughter; and I meditated on what a cruel, heartless world this is, anyway, and what a pity it was that I, sofair and young, should have found it out so soon--right on the bank, as it were, or where that brook and river meet. And I wondered, if Idied if anybody would care; and I thought how beautiful and pathetic Iwould look in my coffin with my lily-white hands folded on my breast. And I _hoped_ they 'd have the funeral in the daytime, because if itwas at night-time Father'd be sure to have a star or something to keep_him_ from coming. And I _wanted_ him to come. I _wanted_ him to feelbad; and I meditated on how bad he would feel--when it was too late. 

But even with all this to meditate on, it was an awfully long timecoming noon; and they didn't call me down to dinner even then. AuntJane sent up two pieces of bread without any butter and a glass ofwater. How like Aunt Jane--making even my dinner a sin to meditate on!Only she would call it _my_ sin, and I would call it hers. 

Well, after dinner Father sent for me to come down to the library. SoI knew then, of course, that Aunt Jane had told him. I didn't knowbut she would wait until night. Father usually spends his hour afterdinner reading in the library and mustn't be disturbed. But evidentlyto-day Aunt Jane thought I was more consequence than his reading. Anyhow, she told him, and he sent for me. 

My, but I hated to go! Fathers and Aunt Janes are two differentpropositions. Fathers have more rights and privileges, of course. Everybody knows that. 

Well, I went into the library. Father stood with his back to thefireplace and his hands in his pockets. He was plainly angry at beingdisturbed. Anybody could see that. He began speaking at once, theminute I got into the room--very cold and dignified. 

"Mary, your aunt tells me you have been disobedient and disrespectfulto her. Have you anything to say?"

I shook my head and said, "No, sir. "

What could I say? Old folks ask such senseless questions, sometimes. Naturally I wasn't going to say I _had_ been disrespectful anddisobedient when I hadn't; and of course, I couldn't say I _hadn't_been when Aunt Jane said I _had_. That would be just like saying AuntJane lied. So, of course, I had nothing to say. And I said so. 

"But she declares you refused to go back to school, Mary, " said Fatherthen. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Then you did refuse?"

"Yes, sir. "

"Well, you may go and tell her now, please, that you are sorry, andthat you will go to school this afternoon. You may go now. " And heturned to the table and picked up his book. 

I didn't go, of course. I just stood there twisting my handkerchiefin my fingers; and, of course, right away he saw me. He had sat downthen. 

"Mary, didn't you hear me?" he demanded. 

"Yes, sir, but--Father, I _can't_ go back to that school, " I choked. And I began to cry. 

"But I tell you that you must. "

I shook my head. 

"I can't. "

"Do you mean that you defy me as you did your Aunt Jane thismorning?--that you refuse to go back to school?"

"Yes, sir. "

For a minute he sat and stared at me just as Aunt Jane had done; thenhe lifted his head and threw back his shoulders as if he was throwingoff a heavy weight. 

"Come, come, Mary, " he said sternly. "I am not a patient man, and mytemper has reached the breaking point. You will go back to school andyou will go now. I mean that, Mary. "

"But, Father, I _can't_" I choked again; and I guess there wassomething in my face this time that made even him see. For again hejust stared for a minute, and then said:

"Mary, what in the world does this mean? Why can't you go back? Haveyou been--expelled?"

"Oh, no, sir. "

"Then you mean you won't go back. "

"I mean I _can't_--on account of Mother. "

I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't had to. I didn't want to tell him, but I knew from the very first that I'd have to tell him before Igot through. I could see it in his face. And so, now, with his eyesblazing as he jumped almost out of his chair and exclaimed, "Yourmother!" I let it out and got it over as soon as possible. 

"I mean, on account of Mother--that not for you, or Aunt Jane, oranybody will I go back to that school and associate with folks thatwon't associate with me--on account of Mother. "

And then I told it--all about the girls, Stella Mayhew, Carrie, andhow they acted, and what they said about my being Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde because I was a Mary and a Marie, and the ice-cream, and theparties they had to give up if they went with _me_. And I know I wascrying so I could hardly speak before I finished; and Father was onhis feet tramping up and down the room muttering something under hisbreath, and looking--oh, I can't begin to tell how he looked. But itwas awful. 

"And so that's why I wish, " I finished chokingly, "that it would hurryup and be a year, so Mother could get married. "

"_Married!_" Like a flash he turned and stopped short, staring at me. 

"Why, yes, " I explained; "for if she _did_ get married, she wouldn'tbe divorced any longer, would she?"

But he wouldn't answer. With a queer little noise in his throat heturned again and began to walk up and down, up and down, until Ithought for a minute he'd forgotten I was there. But he hadn't. Forafter a while he stopped again right in front of me. 

"So your mother is thinking of getting married, " he said in a voice soqueer it sounded as if it had come from away off somewhere. 

But I shook my head and said no, of course; and that I was very sureshe wouldn't till her year was up, and even then I didn't know whichshe'd take, so I couldn't tell for sure anything about it. But I hopedshe'd take one of them, so she wouldn't be divorced any longer. 

"But you don't know _which_ she'll take, " grunted Father again. Heturned then, and began to walk up and down again, with his hands inhis pockets; and I didn't know whether to go away or to stay, and Isuppose I'd have been there now if Aunt Jane hadn't suddenly appearedin the library doorway. 

"Charles, if Mary is going to school at all to-day it is high time shewas starting, " she said. But Father didn't seem to hear. He was stilltramping up and down the room, his hands in his pockets. 

"Charles!" Aunt Jane raised her voice and spoke again. "I said if Maryis going to school at all to-day it is high time she was starting. "

"Eh? What?" If you'll believe it, that man looked as dazed as if he'dnever even _heard_ of my going to school. Then suddenly his facechanged. "Oh, yes, to be sure. Well, er--Mary is not going to schoolto-day, " he said. Then he looked at his watch, and without anotherword strode into the hall, got his hat, and left the house, leavingAunt Jane and me staring into each other's faces. 

But I didn't stay much longer than Father did. I strode into the hall, too, by Aunt Jane. But I didn't leave the house. I came up here to myown room; and ever since I've been writing it all down in my book. 

Of course, I don't know now what's going to happen next. But I _wish_you could have seen Aunt Jane's face when Father said I wasn't goingto school to-day! I don't believe she's sure yet that she heardaright--though she didn't try to stop me, or even speak when I leftand came upstairs. But I just know she's keeping up a powerfulthinking. 

For that matter, so am I. What _is_ going to happen next? Have I gotto go to school to-morrow? But then, of course, I shan't do that. Besides, I don't believe Father'll ask me to, after what I said aboutMother. _He_ didn't like that--what those girls said--any better thanI did. I'm sure of that. Why, he looked simply furious. But thereisn't any other school here that I can be sent to, and--

But what's the use? I might surmise and speculate all day and notcome anywhere near the truth. I must await--what the night will bringforth, as they say in really truly novels. 

 * * * * *

_Four days later_. 

And what did the night bring forth? Yes, what did it bring! Verilyit brought forth one thing I thought nothing ever could have broughtforth. 

It was like this. 

That night at the supper-table Aunt Jane cleared her throat in theI-am-determined-I-will-speak kind of a way that she always uses whenshe speaks to Father. (Aunt. Jane doesn't talk to Father much morethan Mother used to. )

"Charles, " she began. 

Father had an astronomy paper beside his plate, and he was so busyreading he didn't hear, so Aunt Jane had to speak again--a littlelouder this time. 

"Charles, I have something to say to you. "

"Eh? What? Oh--er--yes. Well, Jane, what is it?" Father was looking upwith his I'll-be-patient-if-it-kills-me air, and with his forefingerdown on his paper to keep his place. 

As if anybody could talk to a person who's simply tolerating you for aminute like that, with his forefinger holding on to what he _wants_ totend to! Why, I actually found myself being sorry for Aunt Jane. 

She cleared her throat again. 

"It is understood, of course, that Mary is to go to school to-morrowmorning, I suppose, " she said. 

"Why, of course, of course, " began Father impatiently, looking down athis paper. "Of course she'll go to--" he stopped suddenly. A completechange came to his face. He grew red, then white. His eyes sort offlashed. "School?" he said then, in a hard, decided voice. "Oh, no;Mary is not going to school to-morrow morning. " He looked down to hispaper and began to read again. For him the subject was very evidentlyclosed. But for Aunt Jane it was _not_ closed. 

"You don't mean, Charles, that she is not to go to school at all, anymore, " she gasped. 

"Exactly. " Father read on in his paper without looking up. 

"But, Charles, to stop her school like this!"

"Why not? It closes in a week or two, anyway. "

Aunt Jane's lips came together hard. 

"That's not the question at all, " she said, cold like ice. "Charles, I'm amazed at you--yielding to that child's whims like this--that shedoesn't want to go to school! It's the principle of the thing that I'mobjecting to. Do you realize what it will lead to--what it--"

"Jane!" With a jerk Father sat up straight. "I realize some thingsthat perhaps you do not. But that is neither here nor there. I do notwish Mary to go to school any more this spring. That is all; and Ithink--it is sufficient. "

"Certainly. " Aunt Jane's lips came together again grim and hard. "Perhaps you will be good enough to say what she _shall_ do with hertime. "

"Time? Do? Why--er--what she always does; read, sew, study--"

"Study?" Aunt Jane asked the question with a hateful little smile thatFather would have been blind not to have understood. And he was equalto it--but I 'most fell over backward when I found _how_ equal to ithe was. 

"Certainly, " he says, "study. I--I'll hear her lessons myself--in thelibrary, after I come home in the afternoon. Now let us hear no moreabout it. "

With that he pushed back his plate, stuffed his astronomy paper intohis pocket, and left the table, without waiting for dessert. And AuntJane and I were left alone. 

I didn't say anything. Victors shouldn't boast--and I was a victor, ofcourse, about the school. But when I thought of what Father had saidabout my reciting my lessons to him every day in the library--I wasn'tso sure whether I'd won out or not. Recite lessons to my father? Why, I couldn't even imagine such a thing!

Aunt Jane didn't say anything either. I guess she didn't know what tosay. And it was kind of a queer situation, when you came right down toit. Both of us sitting there and knowing I wasn't going back to schoolany more, and I knowing why, and knowing Aunt Jane didn't know why. (Of course I hadn't told Aunt Jane about Mother and Mrs. Mayhew. ) Itwould be a funny world, wouldn't it, if we all knew what each otherwas thinking all the time? Why, we'd get so we wouldn't do anything_but_ think--for there wouldn't any of us _speak_ to each other, I'mafraid, we'd be so angry at what the other was thinking. 

Well, Aunt Jane and I didn't speak that night at the supper-table. Wefinished in stern silence; then Aunt Jane went upstairs to her roomand I went up to mine. (You see what a perfectly wildly exciting lifeMary is living! And when I think of how _full_ of good times Motherwanted every minute to be. But that was for Marie, of course. )

The next morning after breakfast Aunt Jane said:

"You will spend your forenoon studying, Mary. See that you learn wellyour lessons, so as not to annoy your father. "

"Yes, Aunt Jane, " said Mary, polite and proper, and went upstairsobediently; but even Mary didn't know exactly how to study thoselessons. 

Carrie had brought me all my books from school. I had asked her towhen I knew that I was not going back. There were the lessons that hadbeen assigned for the next day, of course, and I supposed probablyFather would want me to study those. But I couldn't imagine Fatherteaching _me_ all alone. And how was I ever going to ask himquestions, if there were things I didn't understand? Besides, Icouldn't imagine myself reciting lessons to Father--_Father_!

But I needn't have worried. If I could only have known. Little did Ithink--But, there, this is no way to tell a story. I read in a book, "How to Write a Novel, " that you mustn't "anticipate. " (_I_ thoughtfolks always anticipated novels. I do. I thought you wanted them to. )

Well, to go on. 

Father got home at four o'clock. I saw him come up the walk, and Iwaited till I was sure he'd got settled in the library, then I wentdown. 

_He wasn't there_. 

A minute later I saw him crossing the lawn to the observatory. Well, what to do I didn't know. Mary said to go after him; but Marie saidnay, nay. And in spite of being Mary just now, I let Marie have herway. 

Rush after him and tell him he'd forgotten to hear my lessons?_Father_? Well, I guess not! Besides, it wasn't my fault. _I_ wasthere all ready. It wasn't my blame that he wasn't there to hear me. But he might remember and come back. Well, if he did, _I'd_ be there. So I went to one of those bookcases and pulled out a touch-me-notbook from behind the glass door. Then I sat down and read till thesupper-bell rang. 

Father was five minutes late to supper. I don't know whether he lookedat me or not. I didn't dare to look at him--until Aunt Jane said, inher chilliest manner:

"I trust your daughter had good lessons, Charles. "

I _had_ to look at him then. I just couldn't look anywhere else. So Iwas looking straight at him when he gave that funny little startledglance into my eyes. And into his eyes then there crept the funniest, dearest little understanding twinkle--and I suddenly realized thatFather, _Father_, was laughing with me at a little secret between_us_. But 't was only for a second. The next moment his eyes were verygrave and looking at Aunt Jane. 

"I have no cause to complain--of my daughter's lessons to-day, " hesaid very quietly. Then he glanced over at me again. But I had to lookaway _quick_, or I would have laughed right out. 

When he got up from the table he said to me: "I shall expect to seeyou to-morrow in the library at four, Mary. "

And Mary answered, "Yes, Father, " polite and proper, as she should;but Marie inside was just chuckling with the joke of it all. 

The next day I watched again at four for Father to come up the walk;and when he had come in I went down to the library. He was there inhis pet seat before the fireplace. (Father always sits before thefireplace, whether there's a fire there or not. And sometimes he looks_so_ funny sitting there, staring into those gray ashes just as if itwas the liveliest kind of a fire he was watching. )

As I said, he was there, but I had to speak twice before he looked up. Then, for a minute, he stared vaguely. 

"Eh? Oh! Ah--er--yes, to be sure, " he muttered then, "You have comewith your books. Yes, I remember. "

But there wasn't any twinkle in his eyes, nor the least little bit ofan understanding smile; and I _was_ disappointed. I _had_ been lookingfor it. I knew then, when I felt so suddenly lost and heart-achey, that I had been expecting and planning all day on that twinklyunderstanding smile. You know you feel worse when you've just found afather and then lost him!

And I had lost him. I knew it the minute he sighed and frowned andgot up from his seat and said, oh, yes, to be sure. He was just Dr. Anderson then--the man who knew all about the stars, and who hadbeen unmarried to Mother, and who called me "Mary" in anof-course-you're-my-daughter tone of voice. 

Well, he took my books and heard my lessons, and told me what I was tostudy next day. He's done that two days now. 

Oh, I'm so tired of being Mary! And I've got more than four wholemonths of it left. I didn't get Mother's letter to-day. Maybe that'swhy I'm specially lonesome to-night. 

 * * * * *

_July first_. 

School is done, both the regular school and my school. Not that myschool has amounted to much. Really it hasn't. Oh, for three or fourdays he asked questions quite like just a teacher. Then he got totalking. Sometimes it would be about something in the lessons;sometimes it would be about a star, or the moon. And he'd get sointerested that I'd think for a minute that maybe the understandingtwinkle would come into his eyes again. But it never did. 

Sometimes it wasn't stars and moons, though, that he talked about. Itwas Boston, and Mother. Yes, he did. He talked a lot about Mother. AsI look back at it now, I can see that he did. He asked me all overagain what she did, and about the parties and the folks that came tosee her. He asked again about Mr. Harlow, and about the concert, andthe young man who played the violin, and what was his name, and howold was he, and did I like him. And then, right in the middle of somequestion, or rather, right in the middle of some _answer_ I was giving_him_, he would suddenly remember he was hearing my lessons, and hewould say, "Come, come, Mary, what has this to do with your lessons?"

Just as if I was to blame! (But, then, we women always get the blame, I notice. ) And then he'd attend strictly to the books for maybe fivewhole minutes--before he asked another question about that party, orthe violinist. 

Naturally the lessons haven't amounted to much, as you can imagine. But the term was nearly finished, anyway; and my _real_ school is inBoston, of course. 

It's vacation now. I do hope _that_ will amount to something!

 * * * * *

_August first. _

It hasn't, so far--I mean vacation. Really, what a world ofdisappointment this is! How on earth I'm going to stand being Mary forthree months more I don't know. But I've got to, I suppose. I've beenhere May, June, and July; and that leaves August, September, andOctober yet to come. And when I think of Mother and Boston and Marie, and the darling good times down there where you're really _wanted_, Iam simply crazy. 

If Father wanted me, really wanted me, I wouldn't care a bit. I'd bewilling to be Mary six whole months. Yes, I'd be _glad_ to. But hedoesn't. I'm just here by order of the court. And what can you do whenyou're nothing but a daughter by order of the court?

Since the lessons have stopped, Father's gone back to his"Good-morning, Mary, " and "Good-night, " and nothing else, day in andday out. Lately he's got so he hangs around the house an awful lot, too, so I can't even do the things I did the first of the month. Imean that I'd been playing some on the piano, along at the first, after school closed. Aunt Jane was out in the garden a lot, and Fatherout to the observatory, so I just reveled in piano-playing till Ifound almost every time I did it that he had come back, and was in thelibrary with the door open. So I don't dare to play now. 

And there isn't a blessed thing to do. Oh, I have to sew an hour, andnow I have to weed an hour, too; and Aunt Jane tried to have me learnto cook; but Susie (in the kitchen) flatly refused to have me "messingaround, " so Aunt Jane had to give that up. Susie's the one person AuntJane's afraid of, you see. She always threatens to leave if anythinggoes across her wishes. So Aunt Jane has to be careful. I heard hertell Mrs. Small next door that good hired girls were awfully scarce inAndersonville. 

As I said before, if only there was somebody here that wanted me. Butthere isn't. Of course Father doesn't. That goes without saying. AndAunt Jane doesn't. That goes, too, without saying. Carrie Heywood hasgone away for all summer, so I can't have even her; and of course, Iwouldn't associate with any of the other girls, even if they wouldassociate with me--which they won't. 

That leaves only Mother's letters. They are dear, and I love them. Idon't know what I'd do without them. And yet, sometimes I think maybethey're worse than if I didn't have them. They make me so homesick, and I always cry so after I get them. Still, I know I just couldn'tlive a minute if 'twasn't for Mother's letters. 

Besides being so lonesome there's another thing that worries me, too;and that is, _this_--what I'm writing, I mean. The novel. It's gettingawfully stupid. Nothing happens. _Nothing!_ Of course, if 'twas justa story I could make up things--lots of them--exciting, interestingthings, like having Mother elope with the violinist, and Father shoothim and fall in love with Mother all over again, or else with somebodyelse, and shoot that one's lover. Or maybe somebody'd try to shootFather, and I'd get there just in time to save him. Oh, I'd _love_that!

But this is a real story, so, of course, I can't put in anything onlyjust what happens; and _nothing happens_. 

And that's another thing. About the love story--I'm afraid there isn'tgoing to be one. Anyway, there isn't a bit of a sign of one, yet, unless it's Mother. And of course, I haven't seen her for threemonths, so I can't say anything about that. 

Father hasn't got one. I'm sure of that. He doesn't like ladies. Iknow he doesn't. He always runs away from them. But they don't runaway from him! Listen. 

As I said before, quite a lot of them call here to see Aunt Jane, andthey come lots of times evenings and late afternoons, and I know nowwhy they do it. They come then because they think Father'll be at homeat that time; and they want to see him. 

I know it now, but I never thought of it till the other day whenI heard our hired girl, Susie, talking about it with Bridget, theSmalls' hired girl, over the fence when I was weeding the garden oneday. Then I knew. It was like this:

Mrs. Darling had been over the night before as usual, and had stayedan awfully long time talking to Aunt Jane on the front piazza. Fatherhad been there, too, awhile. She stopped him on his way into thehouse. I was there and I heard her. She said:

"Oh, Mr. Anderson, I'm so glad I saw you! I wanted to ask your adviceabout selling poor dear Mr. Darling's law library. "

And then she went on to tell him how she'd had an offer, but shewasn't sure whether it was a good one or not. And she told him howhighly she prized his opinion, and he was a man of such splendidjudgment, and she felt so alone now with no strong man's shoulder tolean upon, and she would be so much obliged if he only would tell herwhether he considered that offer a good one or not. 

Father hitched and ahemmed and moved nearer the door all the time shewas talking, and he didn't seem to hear her when she pushed a chairtoward him and asked him to please sit down and tell her what to do;that she was so alone in the world since poor dear Mr. Darling hadgone. (She always calls him poor dear Mr. Darling now, but Susiesays she didn't when he was alive; she called him something quitedifferent. I wonder what it was. )

Well, as I said, Father hitched and fidgeted, and said he didn't know, he was sure; that she'd better take wiser counsel than his, and thathe was very sorry, but she really must excuse him. And he got throughthe door while he was talking just as fast as he could himself, sothat she couldn't get in a single word to keep him. Then he was gone. 

Mrs. Darling stayed on the piazza two whole hours longer, but Fathernever came out at all again. 

It was the next morning that Susie said this over the back-yard fenceto Bridget:

"It does beat all how popular this house is with the ladies--aftercollege hours!"

And Bridget chuckled and answered back:

"Sure it is! An' I do be thinkin' the Widder Darlin' is a heap fonderof Miss Jane now than she would have been had poor dear Mr. Darlin'lived!"

And she chuckled again, and so did Susie. And then, all of a sudden, I knew. It was Father all those ladies wanted. It was Father Mrs. Darling wanted. They came here to see him. They wanted to marry him. _They_ were the prospective suitors. As if I didn't know what Susieand Bridget meant! I'm no child!

But all this doesn't make Father like _them_. I'm not sure but itmakes him dislike them. Anyhow, he won't have anything to do withthem. He always runs away over to the observatory, or somewhere, andwon't see them; and I've heard him say things about them to Aunt Jane, too--words that sound all right, but that don't mean what they say, and everybody knows they don't. So, as I said before, I don't see anychance of Father's having a love story to help out this book--notright away, anyhow. 

As for _my_ love story--I don't see any chance of that's beginning, either. Yet, seems as if there ought to be the beginning of it by thistime--I'm going on fifteen. Oh, there have been _beginnings_, lots ofthem--only Aunt Jane wouldn't let them go on and be endings, though Itold her good and plain that I thought it perfectly all right; and Ireminded her about the brook and river meeting where I stood, and allthat. 

But I couldn't make her see it at all. She said, "Stuff andnonsense"--and when Aunt Jane says _both_ stuff and nonsense I knowthere's nothing _doing_. (Oh, dear, that's slang! Aunt Jane says shedoes wish I would eliminate the slang from my vocabulary. Well, Iwish _she'd_ eliminate some of the long words from _hers_. Marie saidthat--not Mary. )

Well, Aunt Jane said stuff and nonsense, and that I was much too youngto run around with silly boys. You see, Charlie Smith had walked homefrom school with me twice, but I had to stop that. And Fred Smallwas getting so he was over here a lot. Aunt Jane stopped _him_. PaulMayhew--yes, _Paul Mayhew_, Stella's brother!--came home with me, too, and asked me to go with him auto-riding. My, how I did want to go! Iwanted the ride, of course, but especially I wanted to go because hewas Mrs. Mayhew's son. I just wanted to show Mrs. Mayhew! But AuntJane wouldn't let me. That's the time she talked specially aboutrunning around with silly boys. But she needn't have. Paul is no sillyboy. He's old enough to get a license to drive his own car. 

But it wasn't just because he was young that Aunt Jane refused. Ifound out afterward. It was because he was any kind of a man payingme attention. I found that out through Mr. Claude Livingstone. Mr. Livingstone brings our groceries. He's a _real_ young gentleman--tall, black mustache, and lovely dark eyes. He goes to our church, andhe asked me to go to the Sunday-School picnic with him. I was _so_pleased. And I supposed, of course, Aunt Jane would let me go with_him. He's_ no silly boy! Besides, I knew him real well, and likedhim. I used to talk to him quite a lot when he brought the groceries. 

But did Aunt Jane let me go? She did not. Why, she seemed almost moreshocked than she had been over Charlie Smith and Fred Small, and theothers. 

"Mercy, child!" she exclaimed. "Where in the world do you pickup these people?" And she brought out that "these people" _so_disagreeably! Why, you'd think Mr. Livingstone was a foreign Japanese, or something. 

I told her then quietly, and with dignity, and with no temper(showing), that Mr. Livingstone was not a foreign Japanese, but was avery nice gentleman; and that I had not picked him up. He came to herown door himself, almost every day. 

"My own door!" exclaimed Aunt Jane. And she looked absolutelyfrightened. "You mean to tell me that that creature has been cominghere to see you, and I not know it?"

I told her then--again quietly and with dignity, and without temper(showing)--that he had been coming, not to see me, but in the naturalpursuance of his profession of delivering groceries. And I saidthat he was not a creature. On the contrary, he was, I was sure, anestimable young man. He went to her own church and Sunday-School. Besides, I could vouch for him myself, as I knew him well, having seenand talked with him almost every day for a long while, when he came tothe house. 

But nothing I could say seemed to have the least effect upon her atall, only to make her angrier and angrier, if anything. In fact _I_think she showed a great deal of temper for a Christian woman about afellow Christian in her own church. 

But she wouldn't let me go to the picnic; and not only that, but Ithink she changed grocers, for Mr. Livingstone hasn't been here for along time, and when I asked Susie where he was she looked funny, andsaid we weren't getting our groceries where Mr. Livingstone worked anylonger. 

Well, of course, that ended that. And there hasn't been any othersince. That's why I say _my_ love story doesn't seem to be gettingalong very well. Naturally, when it gets noised around town that yourAunt Jane won't let you go anywhere with a young man, or let a youngman come to see you, or even walk home with you after the firsttime--why, the young men aren't going to do very much toward makingyour daily life into a love story. 

 * * * * *

_Two weeks later. _

A queer thing happened last night. It was like this:

I think I said before what an awfully stupid time Mary is having ofit, and how I couldn't play now, or make any noise, 'cause Father hastaken to hanging around the house so much. Well, listen what happened. 

Yesterday Aunt Jane went to spend the day with her best friend. Shesaid for me not to leave the house, as some member of the familyshould be there. She told me to sew an hour, weed an hour, dust thehouse downstairs and upstairs, and read some improving book an hour. The rest of the time I might amuse myself. 

Amuse myself! A jolly time I could have all by myself! Even Fatherwasn't to be home for dinner, so I wouldn't have _that_ excitement. Hewas out of town, and was not to come home till six o'clock. 

It was an awfully hot day. The sun just beat down, and there wasn'ta breath of air. By noon I was simply crazy with my stuffy, long-sleeved, high-necked blue gingham dress and my great clumpyshoes. It seemed all of a sudden as if I couldn't stand it--notanother minute--not a single minute more--to be Mary, I mean. Andsuddenly I determined that for a while, just a little while, I'd beMarie again. Why couldn't I? There wasn't anybody going to be therebut just myself, _all day long_. 

I ran then upstairs to the guest-room closet where Aunt Jane had mademe put all my Marie dresses and things when the Mary ones came. Well, I got out the very fluffiest, softest white dress there was there, andthe little white slippers and the silk stockings that I loved, and theblue silk sash, and the little gold locket and chain that Mother gaveme that Aunt Jane wouldn't let me wear. And I dressed up. My, didn'tI dress up? And I just _threw_ those old heavy shoes and black cottonstockings into the corner, and the blue gingham dress after them(though Mary went right away and picked the dress up, and hung it inthe closet, of course); but I had the fun of throwing it, anyway. 

Oh, how good those Marie things did feel to Mary's hot, tired fleshand bones, and how I did dance and sing around the room in those lightlittle slippers! Then Susie rang the dinner-bell and I went down tothe dining-room feeling like a really truly young lady, I can tellyou. 

Susie stared, of course and said, "My, how fine we are to-day!" But Ididn't mind Susie. 

After dinner I went out into the hall and I sang; I sang all over thehouse. And I ran upstairs and I ran down; and I jumped all the lastthree steps, even if it was so warm. Then I went into the parlor andplayed every lively thing that I could think of on the piano. And Isang there, too--silly little songs that Marie used to sing to Lester. And I tried to think I was really down there to Boston, singing toLester; and that Mother was right in the next room waiting for me. 

Then I stopped and turned around on the piano-stool. And there was thecoffin plate, and the wax cross, and the hair wreath; and the room wasjust as still as death. And I knew I wasn't in Boston. I was there inAndersonville, And there wasn't any Baby Lester there, nor any motherwaiting for me in the next room. And all the fluffy white dresses andsilk stockings in the world wouldn't make me Marie. I was really justMary, and I had got to have three whole months more of it. 

And then is when I began to cry. And I cried just as hard as I'd beensinging a minute before. I was on the floor with my head in my arms onthe piano-stool when Father's voice came to me from the doorway. 

"Mary, Mary, what in the world does this mean?"

I jumped up and stood "at attention, " the way you have to, of course, when fathers speak to you. I couldn't help showing I had beencrying--he had seen it. But I tried very hard to stop now. My firstthought, after my startled realization that he was there, was towonder how long he had been there--how much of all that awful singingand banging he had heard. 

"Yes, sir. " I tried not to have my voice shake as I said it; but Icouldn't quite help that. 

"What is the meaning of this, Mary? Why are you crying?"

I shook my head. I didn't want to tell him, of course; so I juststammered out something about being sorry I had disturbed him. ThenI edged toward the door to show him that if he would step one side Iwould go away at once and not bother him any longer. 

But he didn't step one side. He asked more questions, one right afteranother. 

"Are you sick, Mary?"

I shook my head. 

"Did you hurt yourself?"

I shook my head again. 

"It isn't--your mother--you haven't had bad news from her?"

And then I blurted it out without thinking--without thinking at allwhat I was saying: "No, no--but I wish I had, I wish I had; 'causethen I could go to her, and go away from here!" The minute I'd saidit I _knew_ what I'd said, and how awful it sounded; and I clapped myfingers to my lips. But 'twas too late. It's always too late, whenyou've once said it. So I just waited for him to thunder out hisanger; for, of course, I thought he _would_ thunder in rage andrighteous indignation. 

But he didn't. Instead, very quietly and gently he said:

"Are you so unhappy, then, Mary--here?"

And I looked at him, and his eyes and his mouth and his whole faceweren't angry at all. They were just sorry, actually sorry. Andsomehow, before I knew it, I was crying again, and Father, with hisarm around me--_with his arm around me!_ think of that!--was leadingme to the sofa. 

And I cried and cried there, with my head on the arm of the sofa, tillI'd made a big tear spot on the linen cover; and I wondered if itwould dry up before Aunt Jane saw it, or if it would change coloror leak through to the red plush underneath, or some other dreadfulthing. And then, some way, I found myself telling it all over toFather--about Mary and Marie, I mean, just as if he was Mother, orsome one I loved--I mean, some one I loved and _wasn't afraid of_; forof course I love Father. Of course I do!

Well, I told him everything (when I got started there was nostopping)--all about how hard it was to be Mary, and how to-day I hadtried to be Marie for just a little while, to rest me. He interruptedhere, and wanted to know if that was why I looked so differentto-day--more as I had when I first came; and I said yes, that thesewere Marie things that Mary couldn't wear. And when he asked, "Why, pray?" in a voice almost cross, I told him, of course, that Aunt Janewouldn't let me; that Mary had to wear brown serge and calfskin bootsthat were durable, and that would wear well. 

And when I told him how sorry I was about the music and such a noiseas I'd been making, he asked if _that_ was Marie's fault, too; and Isaid yes, of course--that Aunt Jane didn't like to have Mary play atall, except hymns and funeral marches, and Mary didn't know any. Andhe grunted a queer little grunt, and said, "Well, well, upon my soul, upon my soul!" Then he said, "Go on. " And I did go on. 

I told him how I was afraid it _was_ going to be just like Dr. Jekylland Mr. Hyde. (I forgot to say I've read it now. I found it inFather's library. ) Of course not _just_ like it, only one of me wasgoing to be bad, and one good, I was afraid, if I didn't look out. Itold him how Marie always wanted to kick up rugs, and move the chairsout of their sockets in the carpet, and leave books around handy, andsuch things. And so to-day it seemed as if I'd just got to have avacation from Mary's hot gingham dresses and clumpy shoes. And I toldhim how lonesome I was without anybody, not _anybody_; and I toldabout Charlie Smith and Paul Mayhew and Mr. Claude Livingstone, and how Aunt Jane wouldn't let me have them, either, even if I wasstanding where the brook and river meet. 

Father gave another funny little grunt here, and got up suddenly andwalked over to the window. I thought at first he was angry; but hewasn't. He was even more gentle when he came back and sat down again, and he seemed interested, very much interested in everything I toldhim. But I stopped just in time from saying again how I wished I couldgo back to Boston; but I'm not sure but he knew I was going to say it. 

But he was very nice and kind and told me not to worry about themusic--that he didn't mind it at all. He'd been in several times andheard it. And I thought almost, by the way he spoke, that he'd come inon purpose to hear it; but I guess that was a mistake. He just put itthat way so I wouldn't worry over it--about its bothering him, I mean. 

He was going to say more, maybe; but I don't know, I had to run. Iheard Aunt Jane's voice on the piazza saying good-bye to the lady thathad brought her home; so, of course, I had to run and hang Marie inthe closet and get out Mary from the corner before she saw me. And Idid. 

By dinner-time I had on the gingham dress and the hot clumpy shoesagain; and I had washed my face in cold water so I had got most of thetear spots off. I didn't want Aunt Jane to see them and ask questions, of course. And I guess she didn't. Anyway, she didn't say anything. 

Father didn't say anything either, but he acted queer. Aunt Jane triedto tell him something about the missionary meeting and the heathen, and a great famine that was raging. At first he didn't say anything;then he said, oh, yes, to be sure, how very interesting, and he wasglad, very glad. And Aunt Jane was so disgusted, and accused himof being even more absent-minded than usual, which was entirelyunnecessary, she said. 

But even that didn't move Father a mite. He just said, yes, yes, verylikely; and went on scowling to himself and stirring his coffee afterhe'd drank it all up--I mean, stirring where it had been in the cup. 

I didn't know but after supper he'd speak to me and ask me to come tothe library. I _hoped_ he would. There were lots more things I'd liketo have said to him. But he didn't. He never said a word. He just keptscowling, and got up from the table and went off by himself. But hedidn't go out to the observatory, as he most generally does. He wentinto the library and shut the door. 

He was there when the telephone message came at eight o'clock. Andwhat do you think? He'd _forgotten_ he was going to speak before theCollege Astronomy Club that evening! Forgotten his old stars for once. I don't know why. I did think, for a minute, 'twas 'cause of me--whatI'd told him. But I knew, of course, right away that it couldn't bethat. He'd never forget his stars for _me_! Probably he was justreading up about some other stars, or had forgotten how late it was, or something. (Father's always forgetting things. ) But, anyway, whenAunt Jane called him he got his hat and hurried off without so muchas one word to me, who was standing near, or to Aunt Jane, who wasfollowing him all through the hall, and telling him in her mostI'm-amazed-at-you voice how shockingly absent-minded he was getting tobe. 

 * * * * *

_One week later. _

Father's been awfully queer this whole week through. I can't make himout at all. Sometimes I think he's glad I told him all those things inthe parlor that day I dressed up in Marie's things, and sometimes Ithink he's sorry and wished I hadn't. 

The very next morning he came down to breakfast with such a funny lookon his face. He said good-morning to me three times, and all throughbreakfast he kept looking over at me with a kind of scowl that was notcross at all--just puzzled. 

After breakfast he didn't go out to the observatory, not even into thelibrary. He fidgeted around the dining-room till Aunt Jane went outinto the kitchen to give her orders to Susie; then he burst out, allof a sudden:

"Well, Mary, what shall we do to-day?" Just like that he said it, asif we'd been doing things together every day of our lives. 

"D-do?" I asked; and I know I showed how surprised I was by the way Istammered and flushed up. 

"Certainly, do, " he answered, impatient and scowling. "What shall wedo?"

"Why, Father, I--I don't know, " I stammered again. 

"Come, come, of course you know!" he cried. "You know what you want todo, don't you?"

I shook my head. I was so astonished I couldn't even think. And whenyou can't think you certainly can't talk. 

"Nonsense, Mary, " scowled Father again. "Of course you know whatyou want to do! What are you in the habit of doing with your youngfriends--your Carries and Charlies, and all the rest?"

I guess I just stood and stared and didn't say anything; for after aminute he cried: "Well--well--well? I'm waiting. "

"Why, we--we walk--and talk--and play games, " I began; but right awayhe interrupted. 

"Good! Very well, then, we'll walk. I'm not Carrie or Charlie, but Ibelieve I can walk and talk--perhaps even play games. Who knows? Come, get your hat. "

And I got my hat, and we went. 

But what a funny, funny walk that was! He meant to make it a good one;I know he did. And he tried. He tried real hard. But he walked sofast I couldn't half keep up with him; then, when he saw how I washurrying, he'd slow down, 'way down, and look so worried--till he'dforget and go striding off again, way ahead of me. 

We went up on the hill through the Benton woods, and it was perfectlylovely up there. He didn't say much at first. Then, all of a sudden, he began to talk, about anything and everything. And I knew, by theway he did it, that he'd just happened to think he'd got to talk. 

And how he talked! He asked me was I warmly clad (and here it isAugust!), and did I have a good breakfast, and how old was I, and didI enjoy my studies--which shows how little he was really thinking whathe was saying. He knows school closed ages ago. Wasn't he teaching mehimself the last of it, too? All around us were flowers and birds, andoh, so many, many lovely things. But he never said a word about them. He just talked--because he'd got to talk. I knew it, and it made melaugh inside, though all the while it made me sort of want to cry, too. Funny, wasn't it?

After a time he didn't talk any more, but just walked on and on; andby and by we came home. 

Of course, it wasn't awfully jolly--that walk wasn't; and I guessFather didn't think it was either. Anyhow, he hasn't asked me togo again this week, and he looked tired and worried and sort ofdiscouraged when he got back from that one. 

But he's asked me to do other things. The next day after the walk heasked me to play to him. Yes, he _asked_ me to; and he went into theparlor and sat down on one of the chairs and listened while I playedthree pieces. Of course, I didn't play loud ones, nor very fast ones, and I was so scared I'm afraid I didn't play them very well. But hewas very polite and said, "Thank you, Mary, " and, "That that was verynice"; then he stood up and said, "Thank you" again and went away intothe library, very polite, but stiff, like company. 

The next evening he took me out to the observatory to see the stars. That was lovely. Honestly I had a perfectly beautiful time, and Ithink Father did, too. He wasn't stiff and polite one bit. Oh, I don'tmean that he was _impolite_ or rude. It's just that he wasn't stiffas if I was company. And he was so happy with his stars and histelescope, and so glad to show them to me--oh, I had a beautiful time, and I told him so; and he looked real pleased. But Aunt Jane came forme before I'd had half enough, and I had to go to bed. 

The next morning I thought he'd be different, somehow, because we'dhad such a lovely time together the night before. But he wasn't. Hejust said, "Good-morning, Mary, " and began to read his paper. And heread his paper all through breakfast without saying another word tome. Then he got up and went into the library, and I never saw himagain all day except at dinner-time and supper-time, and _then_ hedidn't talk to me. 

But after supper he took me out again to see the stars, and he wasjust as nice and friendly as could be. Not a bit like a man that'sonly a father by order of the court. But the next day--!

Well--and that's the way it's been all the week. And that's why I sayhe's been so queer. One minute he'll be just as nice and folksy as youcould ask anybody to be, and the very next he's looking right throughyou as if he didn't see you at all, and you wonder and wonder what'sthe matter, and if you've done anything to displease him. 

Sometimes he seems almost glad and happy, and then he'll look so sorryand sad!

I just can't understand my father at all. 

 * * * * *

_Another week later_. 

I'm so excited I don't know what to do. The most wonderful thing hashappened. I can't hardly believe it yet myself. Yet it's so. My trunkis all packed, and I'm to go home to-morrow. _To-morrow!_

This is the way it happened. 

Mother wrote Aunt Jane and asked if I might not be allowed to comehome for the opening of school in September. She said she understoodquite well that she had no _right_ to ask this, and, of course, ifthey saw fit, they were entirely within their rights to refuse toallow me to go until the allotted time. But that she could not helpasking it for my sake, on account of the benefit to be derived frombeing there at the opening of the school year. 

Of course, I didn't know Mother was going to write this. But she knewall about the school here, and how I came out, and everything. I'vealways told Mother everything that has happened. Oh, of course, Ihaven't written "every few minutes, " as she asked me to. (That was ajoke, anyway, of course. ) But I have written every few days, and, as Isaid before, I told her everything. 

Well, when the letter came I took it to Aunt Jane myself; and I was_crazy_ to know what was in it, for I recognized the writing, ofcourse. But Aunt Jane didn't tell me. She opened it, read it, kind offlushed up, and said, "Humph! The idea!" under her breath, and put theletter in her pocket. 

Marie wanted to make a scene and insist on knowing what was in her ownmother's letter; but Mary contented herself with looking superb andhaughty and disdainful, and marching out of the room without givingAunt Jane the satisfaction of even being asked what was in thatletter. 

But at the table that noon Aunt Jane read it to Father out loud. Sothat's how I came to know just what was in it. She started first tohand it over to him to read; but as he put out his hand to take it Iguess he saw the handwriting, for he drew back quickly, looking redand queer. 

"From Mrs. Anderson to you?" he asked. And when Aunt Jane nodded herhead he sat still farther back in his chair and said, with a littlewave of his hand, "I never care to read--other people's letters. "

Aunt Jane said, "Stuff and nonsense, Charles, don't be silly!" But shepulled back the letter and read it--after giving a kind of an uneasyglance in my direction. 

Father never looked up once while she was reading it. He kept his eyeson his plate and the baked beans he was eating. I watched him. Yousee, I knew, by Aunt Jane's reading the letter to him, that it wassomething he had got to decide; and when I found out what it was, ofcourse, I was just crazy. I wanted to go so. So I watched Father'sface to see if he was going to let me go. But I couldn't make out. Icouldn't make out at all. It changed--oh, yes, it changed a great dealas she read; but I couldn't make out what kind of a change it was atall. 

Aunt Jane finished the letter and began to fold it up. I could see shewas waiting for Father to speak; but he never said a word. He keptright on--eating beans. 

Then Aunt Jane cleared her throat and spoke. 

"You will not let her go, of course, Charles; but naturally I had toread the letter to you. I will write to Mrs. Anderson to-night. "

Father looked up then. 

"Yes, " he said quietly; "and you may tell her, please, that Mary_will_ go. "

"Charles!"

Aunt Jane said that. But I--I almost ran around the table and huggedhim. (Oh, how I wish he was the kind of a father you could do thatto!)

"Charles!" said Aunt Jane again. "Surely you aren't going to give inso tamely as this to that child and her mother!"

"I'm not giving in at all, Jane, " said Father, very quietly again. "Iam consulting my own wishes in the matter. I prefer to have her go. "

_I_ 'most cried out then. Some way, it _hurt_ to have him say it likethat, right out--that he _wanted_ me to go. You see, I'd begun tothink he was getting so he didn't mind so very much having me here. All the last two weeks he'd been different, really different. But moreof that anon. I'll go on with what happened at the table. And, as Isaid, I did feel bad to have him speak like that. And I can remembernow just how the lump came right up in my throat. 

Then Aunt Jane spoke, stiff and dignified. 

"Oh, very well, of course, if you put it that way. I can quite wellunderstand that you would want her to go--for _your_ sake. But Ithought that, under the circumstances, you would manage somehow to putup with the noise and--"

"Jane!" Just like that he interrupted, and he thundered, too, so thatAunt Jane actually jumped. And I guess I did, too. He had sprung tohis feet. "Jane, let us close this matter once for all. I am notletting the child go for _my_ sake. I am letting her go for her own. So far as I am concerned, if I consulted no one's wishes but my own, Ishould--keep her here always. "

With that he turned and strode from the room, leaving Aunt Jane and mejust staring after him. 

But only for a minute did _I_ stare. It came to me then what he hadsaid--that he would like to keep me here _always_. For I had heard it, even if he had said the last word very low, and in a queer, indistinctvoice. I was sure I had heard it, and I suddenly realized what itmeant. So I ran after him; and that time, if I had found him, I thinkI _would_ have hugged him. But I didn't find him. He must have gonequite away from the house. He wasn't even out to the observatory. Iwent out to see. 

He didn't come in all the afternoon. I watched for that, too. And whenhe did come--well, I wouldn't have dared to hug him then. He had hisvery sternest I-am-not-thinking-of-you-at-all air, and he just camein to supper and then went into the library without saying hardlyanything. Yet, some way, the look on his face made me cry. I don'tknow why. 

The next day he was more as he has been since we had that talk in theparlor. And he _has_ been different since then, you know. He reallyhas. He has talked quite a lot with me, as I have said, and I thinkhe's been trying, part of the time, to find something I'll beinterested in. Honestly, I think he's been trying to make upfor Carrie Heywood and Stella Mayhew and Charlie Smith and Mr. Livingstone. I think that's why he took me to walk that day in thewoods, and why he took me out to the observatory to see the starsquite a number of times. Twice he's asked me to play to him, and oncehe asked me if Mary wasn't about ready to dress up in Marie's clothesagain. But he was joking then, I knew, for Aunt Jane was right therein the house. Besides, I saw the twinkle in his eyes that I've seenthere once or twice before. I just love that twinkle in Father's eyes!

But that hasn't come any since Mother's letter to Aunt Jane arrived. He's been the same in one way, yet different in another. Honestly, ifit didn't seem too wildly absurd for anything, I should say he wasactually sorry to have me go. But, of course, that isn't possible. Oh, yes, I know he said that day at the dinner-table that he should liketo keep me always. But I don't think he really meant it. He hasn'tacted a mite like that since, and I guess he said it just to hush upAunt Jane, and make her stop arguing the matter. 

Anyway, I'm _going_ to-morrow. And I'm so excited I can hardlybreathe. 

CHAPTER VI

WHEN I AM BOTH TOGETHER

BOSTON AGAIN. 

Well, I came last night. Mother and Grandfather and Aunt Hattie andBaby Lester all met me at the station. And, my! wasn't I glad to seethem? Well, I just guess I was!

I was specially glad on account of having such a dreadful time withFather that morning. I mean, I was feeling specially lonesome andhomesick, and not-belonging-anywhere like. 

You see, it was this way: I'd been sort of hoping, I know, that atthe last, when I came to really go, Father would get back theunderstanding smile and the twinkle, and show that he really _did_care for me, and was sorry to have me go. But, dear me! Why, henever was so stern and solemn, andyou're-my-daughter-only-by-the-order-of-the-court sort of way as hewas that morning. 

He never even spoke at the breakfast-table. (He wasn't there hardlylong enough to speak, anyway, and he never ate a thing, only hiscoffee--I mean he drank it. ) Then he pushed his chair back from thetable and stalked out of the room. 

He went to the station with me; but he didn't talk there much, only toask if I was sure I hadn't forgotten anything, and was I warmly clad. Warmly clad, indeed! And there it was still August, and hot as itcould be! But that only goes to show how absent-minded he was, and howlittle he was really thinking of _me_!

Well, of course, he got my ticket and checked my trunk, and did allthose proper, necessary things; then we sat down to wait for thetrain. But did he stay with me and talk to me and tell me how glad hehad been to have me with him, and how sorry he was to have me go, andall the other nice, polite things 'most everybody thinks they've gotto say when a visitor goes away? He did not. He asked me again if Iwas sure I had not left anything, and was I warmly clad; then he tookout his newspaper and began to read. That is, he pretended to read;but I don't believe he read much, for he never turned the sheet once;and twice, when I looked at him, he was looking fixedly at me, as ifhe was thinking of something. So I guess he was just pretending toread, so he wouldn't have to talk to me. 

But he didn't even do that long, for he got up and went over andlooked at a map hanging on the wall opposite, and at a big time-tablenear the other corner. Then he looked at his watch again with awon't-that-train-ever-come? air, and walked back to me and sat down. 

And how do you suppose _I_ felt, to have him act like that before allthose people--to show so plainly that he was just longing to have mego? I guess he wasn't any more anxious for that train to come than _I_was. And it did seem as if it never would come, too. And it didn'tcome for ages. It was ten minutes late. 

Oh, I did so hope he wouldn't go down to the junction. It's so hard tobe taken care of "because it's my duty, you know"! But he went. I toldhim he needn't, when he was getting on the train with me. I told him Ijust knew I could do it beautifully all by myself, almost-a-young ladylike me. But he only put his lips together hard, and said, cold, likeice: "Are you then so eager to be rid of me?" Just as if _I_ was theone that was eager to get rid of somebody!

Well, as I said, he went. But he wasn't much better on the train thanhe had been in the station. He was as nervous and fidgety as a witch, and he acted as if he did so wish it would be over and over quick. Butat the junction--at the junction a funny thing happened. He put me onthe train, just as Mother had done, and spoke to the conductor. (HowI hated to have him do that! Why, I'm six whole months older, 'most, than I was when I went up there!) And then when he'd put me in myseat (Father, I mean; not the conductor), all of a sudden he leanedover and kissed me; _kissed me--Father_! Then, before I could speak, or even look at him, he was gone; and I didn't see him again, thoughit must have been five whole minutes before that train went. 

I had a nice trip down to Boston, though nothing much happened. Thisconductor was not near so nice and polite as the one I had coming up;and there wasn't any lady with a baby to play with, nor any nice younggentleman to loan me magazines or buy candy for me. But it wasn't avery long ride from the junction to Boston, anyway. So I didn't mind. Besides, I knew I had Mother waiting for me. 

And wasn't I glad to get there? Well, I just guess I was! And _they_acted as if they were glad to see me--Mother, Grandfather, AuntHattie, and even Baby Lester. He knew me, and remembered me. He'dgrown a lot, too. And they said I had, and that I looked very nice. (Iforgot to say that, of course, I had put on the Marie clothes to comehome in--though I honestly think Aunt Jane wanted to send me home inMary's blue gingham and calfskin shoes. As if I'd have appeared inBoston in _that_ rig!)

My, but it was good to get into an automobile again and just _go_! Andit was so good to have folks around you dressed in something besidesdon't-care black alpaca and stiff collars. And I said so. And Motherseemed so pleased. 

"You did want to come back to me, darling, didn't you?" she cried, giving me a little hug. And she looked so happy when I told her allover again how good it seemed to be Marie again, and have her andBoston, and automobiles, and pretty dresses and folks and noise again. 

She didn't say anything about Father then; but later, when we were upin my pretty room alone, and I was taking off my things, she made metell her that Father _hadn't_ won my love away from her, and that I_didn't_ love him better than I did her; and that I _wouldn't_ ratherstay with him than with her. 

Then she asked me a lot of questions about what I did there, and AuntJane, and how she looked, and Father, and was he as fond of stars asever (though she must have known 'most everything, 'cause I'd alreadywritten it, but she asked me just the same). And she seemed realinterested in everything I told her. 

And she asked was he lonesome; and I told her no, I didn't think so;and that, anyway, he could have all the ladies' company he wanted byjust being around when they called. And when she asked what I meant, Itold her about Mrs. Darling, and the rest, and how they came eveningsand Sundays, and how Father didn't like them, but would flee to theobservatory. And she laughed and looked funny, for a minute. But rightaway she changed and looked very sober, with the kind of expressionshe has when she stands up in church and says the Apostles' Creed onSunday; only this time she said she was very sorry, she was sure; thatshe hoped my father would find some estimable woman who would make agood home for him. 

Then the dinner-gong sounded, and she didn't say any more. 

There was company that evening. The violinist. He brought his violin, and he and Mother played a whole hour together. He's awfully handsome. I think he's lovely. Oh, I do so hope he's _the_ one! Anyhow, I hopethere's _some_ one. I don't want this novel to all fizzle out withoutthere being _any_ one to make it a love story! Besides, as I saidbefore, I'm particularly anxious that Mother shall find somebody tomarry her, so she'll stop being divorced, anyway. 

 * * * * *

_A month later_. 

Yes, I know it's been _ages_ since I've written here in this book; butthere just hasn't been a minute's time. 

First, of course, school began, and I had to attend to that. And, ofcourse, I had to tell the girls all about Andersonville--except theparts I didn't want to tell, about Stella Mayhew, and my coming out ofschool. I didn't tell _that_. And right here let me say how glad I wasto get back to this school--a real school--so different from that oneup in Andersonville! For that matter, _everything's_ different herefrom what it is in Andersonville. I'd so much rather be Marie thanMary. I know I won't ever be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde here. I'll be thegood one all the time. 

It's funny how much easier it is to be good in silk stockings and afluffy white dress than it is in blue gingham and calfskin. Oh, I'llown up that Marie forgets sometimes and says things Mary used to say;like calling Olga a hired girl instead of a maid, as Aunt Hattiewants, and saying dinner instead of luncheon at noon, and some otherthings. 

I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother one day that it was going to takeabout the whole six months to break Mary Marie of those outlandishcountry ways of hers. (So, you see, it isn't all honey and pie evenfor Marie. This trying to be Mary and Marie, even six months apart, isn't the easiest thing ever was!) I don't think Mother liked it verywell--what Aunt Hattie said about my outlandish ways. I didn't hearall Mother said, but I knew by the way she looked and acted, and thelittle I did hear, that she didn't care for that word "outlandish"applied to her little girl--not at all. 

Mother's a dear. And she's so happy! And, by the way, I think it _is_the violinist. He's here a lot, and she's out with him to concertsand plays, and riding in his automobile. And she always puts on herprettiest dresses, and she's very particular about her shoes, and herhats, that they're becoming, and all that. Oh, I'm so excited! And I'mhaving such a good time watching them! Oh, I don't mean watching themin a disagreeable way, so that they _see_ it; and, of course, I don'tlisten--not the sneak kind of listening. But, of course, I have to getall I can--for the book, you know; and, of course, if I just happento be in the window-seat corner in the library and hear thingsaccidentally, why, that's all right. 

And I have heard things. 

He says her eyes are lovely. He likes her best in blue. He's verylonely, and he never found a woman before who really understood him. He thinks her soul and his are tuned to the same string. (Oh, dear!That sounds funny and horrid, and not at all the way it did when _he_said it. It was beautiful then. But--well, that is what it meant, anyway. )

She told him she was lonely, too, and that she was very glad tohave him for a friend; and he said he prized her friendship aboveeverything else in the world. And he looks at her, and follows heraround the room with his eyes; and she blushes up real pink and prettylots of times when he comes into the room. 

Now, if that isn't making love to each other, I don't know what _is_. I'm sure he's going to propose. Oh, I'm so excited!

Oh, yes, I know if he does propose and she says yes, he'll be my newfather. I understand that. And, of course, I can't help wondering howI'll like it. Sometimes I think I won't like it at all. Sometimes Ialmost catch myself wishing that I didn't have to have any new fatheror mother. I'd _never_ need a new mother, anyway, and I wouldn't needa new father if my father-by-order-of-the-court would be as nice as hewas there two or three times in the observatory. 

But, there! After all, I must remember that I'm not the one that'sdoing the choosing. It's Mother. And if she wants the violinist Imustn't have anything to say. Besides, I really like him very much, anyway. He's the best of the lot. I'm sure of that. And that'ssomething. And then, of course, I'm glad to have something to makethis a love story, and best of all I would be glad to have Mother stopbeing divorced, anyway. 

Mr. Harlow doesn't come here any more, I guess. Anyway, I haven't seenhim here once since I came back; and I haven't heard anybody mentionhis name. 

Quite a lot of the others are here, and there are some new ones. Butthe violinist is here most, and Mother seems to go out with him mostto places. That's why I say I think it's the violinist. 

I haven't heard from Father. 

Now just my writing that down that way shows that I _expected_ to hearfrom him, though I don't really see why I should, either. Of course, he never _has_ written to me; and, of course, I understand that I'mnothing but his daughter by order of the court. But, some way, I didthink maybe he'd write me just a little bit of a note in answer tomine--my bread-and-butter letter, I mean; for of course, Mother had mewrite that to him as soon as I got here. 

But he hasn't. 

I wonder how he's getting along, and if he misses me any. But ofcourse, he doesn't do _that_. If I was a star, now--!

 * * * * *

_Two days after Thanksgiving_. 

The violinist has got a rival. I'm sure he has. It's Mr. Easterbrook. He's old--much as forty--and bald-headed and fat, and has got lots ofmoney. And he's a very estimable man. (I heard Aunt Hattie say that. )He's awfully jolly, and I like him. He brings me the loveliest boxesof candy, and calls me Puss. (I don't like _that_, particularly. I'dprefer him to call me Miss Anderson. ) He's not nearly so good-lookingas the violinist. The violinist is lots more thrilling, but Ishouldn't wonder if Mr. Easterbrook was more comfortable to live with. 

The violinist is the kind of a man that makes you want to sit up andtake notice, and have your hair and finger nails and shoes just right;but with Mr. Easterbrook you wouldn't mind a bit sitting in a bigchair before the fire with a pair of old slippers on, if your feetwere tired. 

Mr. Easterbrook doesn't care for music. He's a broker. He looksawfully bored when the violinist is playing, and he fidgets with hiswatch-chain, and clears his throat very loudly just before hespeaks every time. His automobile is bigger and handsomer than theviolinist's. (Aunt Hattie says the violinist's automobile is a hiredone. ) And Mr. Easterbrook's flowers that he sends to Mother arehandsomer, too, and lots more of them, than the violinist's. AuntHattie has noticed that, too. In fact, I guess there isn't anythingabout Mr. Easterbrook that she doesn't notice. 

Aunt Hattie likes Mr. Easterbrook lots better than she does theviolinist. I heard her talking to Mother one day. She said that anyone that would look twice at a lazy, shiftless fiddler with probablynot a dollar laid by for a rainy day, when all the while there wasjust waiting to be picked an estimable gentleman of independentfortune and stable position like Mr. Easterbrook--well, she had heropinion of her; that's all. She meant Mother, of course. _I_ knewthat. I'm no child. 

Mother knew it, too; and she didn't like it. She flushed up and bither lip, and answered back, cold, like ice. 

"I understand, of course, what you mean, Hattie; but even if Iacknowledged that this very estimable, unimpeachable gentleman waswaiting to be picked (which I do not), I should have to remind youthat I've already had one experience with an estimable, unimpeachablegentleman of independent fortune and stable position, and I do notcare for another. "

"But, my dear Madge, " began Aunt Hattie again, "to marry a man without_any_ money--"

"I haven't married him yet, " cut in Mother, cold again, like ice. "Butlet me tell you this, Hattie. I'd rather live on bread and water ina log cabin with the man I loved than in a palace with an estimable, unimpeachable gentleman who gave me the shivers every time he cameinto the room. "

And it was just after she said this that I interrupted. I was right inplain, sight in the window-seat reading; but I guess they'd forgottenI was there, for they both jumped a lot when I spoke. And yet I'llleave it to you if what I said wasn't perfectly natural. 

"Of course, you would, Mother!" I cried. "And, anyhow, if you didmarry the violinist, and you found out afterward you didn't like him, that wouldn't matter a mite, for you could _un_marry him at any time, just as you did Father, and--"

But they wouldn't let me finish. They wouldn't let me say anythingmore. Mother cried, "_Marie_!" in her most I'm-shocked-at-you voice;and Aunt Hattie cried, "Child--child!" And she seemed shocked, too. And both of them threw up their hands and looked at each other in thedid-you-ever-hear-such-a-dreadful-thing? way that old folks do whenyoung folks have displeased them. And them they both went right out ofthe room, talking about the unfortunate effect on a child's mind, andperverted morals, and Mother reproaching Aunt Hattie for talking aboutthose things before that child (meaning me, of course). Then they gottoo far down the hall for me to hear any more. But I don't see whythey needed to have made such a fuss. It wasn't any secret that Mothergot a divorce; and if she got one once, of course she could again. (That's what I'm going to do when I'm married, if I grow tired ofhim--my husband, I mean. ) Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Mayhew and her crowddon't seem to think divorces are very nice; but there needn't anybodytry to make me think that anything my mother does isn't perfectly niceand all right. And _she_ got a divorce. So, there!

 * * * * *

_One week later_. 

There hasn't much happened--only one or two things. But maybe I'dbetter tell them before I forget it, especially as they have a gooddeal to do with the love part of the story. And I'm always so glad toget anything of that kind. I've been so afraid this wouldn't be muchof a love story, after all. But I guess it will be, all right. Anyhow, I _know_ Mother's part will be, for it's getting more and moreexciting--about Mr. Easterbrook and the violinist, I mean. 

They both want Mother. Anybody can see that now, and, of course, Mother sees it. But which she'll take I don't know. Nobody knows. It'sperfectly plain to be seen, though, which one Grandfather and AuntHattie want her to take! It's Mr. Easterbrook. 

And he is awfully nice. He brought me a perfectly beautiful braceletthe other day--but Mother wouldn't let me keep it. So he had to takeit back. I don't think he liked it very well, and I didn't like it, either. I _wanted_ that bracelet. But Mother says I'm much too youngto wear much jewelry. Oh, will the time ever come when I'll be oldenough to take my proper place in the world? Sometimes it seems as ifit never would!

Well, as I said, it's plain to be seen who it is that Grandfatherand Aunt Hattie favor; but I'm not so sure about Mother. Mother actsfunny. Sometimes she won't go with either of them anywhere; then sheseems to want to go all the time. And she acts as if she didn't carewhich she went with, so long as she was just going--somewhere. Ithink, though, she really likes the violinist the best; and I guessGrandfather and Aunt Hattie think so, too. 

Something happened last night. Grandfather began to talk at thedinner-table. He'd heard something he didn't like about the violinist, I guess, and he started in to tell Mother. But they stopped him. Mother and Aunt Hattie looked at him and then at me, and then back tohim, in their most see-who's-here!--you-mustn't-talk-before-her way. So he shrugged his shoulders and stopped. 

But I guess he told them in the library afterwards, for I heard themall talking very excitedly, and some loud; and I guess Mother didn'tlike what they said, and got quite angry, for I heard her say, whenshe came out through the door, that she didn't believe a word of it, and she thought it was a wicked, cruel shame to tell stories like thatjust because they didn't like a man. 

This morning she broke an engagement with Mr. Easterbrook to goauto-riding and went with the violinist to a morning musicale instead;and after she'd gone Aunt Hattie sighed and looked at Grandfather andshrugged her shoulders, and said she was afraid they'd driven herstraight into the arms of the one they wanted to avoid, and that Madgealways _would_ take the part of the under dog. 

I suppose they thought I wouldn't understand. But I did, perfectly. They meant that by telling stories about the violinist they'd beenhoping to get her to give him up, but instead of that, they'd made herturn to him all the more, just because she was so sorry for him. 

Funny, isn't it?

 * * * * *

_One week later_. 

Well, I guess now something has happened all right! And let me sayright away that _I_ don't like that violinist now, either, any betterthan Grandfather and Aunt Hattie. And it's not entirely because ofwhat happened last night, either. It's been coming on for quite awhile--ever since I first saw him talking to Theresa in the hall whenshe let him in one night a week ago. 

Theresa is awfully pretty, and I guess he thinks, so. Anyhow, I heardhim telling her so in the hall, and she laughed and blushed and lookedsideways at him. Then they saw me, and he stiffened up and said, veryproper and dignified, "Kindly hand my card to Mrs. Anderson. " AndTheresa said, "Yes, sir. " And she was very proper and dignified, too. 

Well, that was the beginning. I can see now that it was, though, Inever thought of its meaning anything then, only that he thoughtTheresa was a pretty girl, just as we all do. 

But four days ago I saw them again. He tried to put his arm around herthat time, and the very next day he tried to kiss her, and after aminute she let him. More than once, too. And last night I heard himtell her she was the dearest girl in all the world, and he'd beperfectly happy if he could only marry her. 

Well, you can imagine how I felt, when I thought all the time it wasMother he was coming to see! And now to find out that it was Theresahe wanted all the time, and he was only coming to see Mother so hecould see Theresa!

At first I was angry, --just plain angry; and I was frightened, too, for I couldn't help worrying about Mother--for fear she would mind, you know, when she found out that it was Theresa that he cared for, after all. I remembered what a lot Mother had been with him, and thepretty dresses and hats she'd put on for him, and all that. And Ithought how she'd broken engagements with Mr. Easterbrook to go withhim, and it made me angry all over again. And I thought how _mean_ itwas of him to use poor Mother as a kind of shield to hide his courtingof Theresa! I was angry, too, to have my love story all spoiled, whenI was getting along so beautifully with Mother and the violinist. 

But I'm feeling better now. I've been thinking it over. I don'tbelieve Mother's going to care so very much. I don't believe she'd_want_ a man that would pretend to come courting her, when all thewhile he was really courting the hired girl--I mean maid. Besides, there's Mr. Easterbrook left (and one or two others that I haven'tsaid much about, as I didn't think they had much chance). And so faras the love story for the book is concerned, _that_ isn't spoiled, after all, for it will be ever so much more exciting to have theviolinist fall in love with Theresa than with Mother, for, of course, Theresa isn't in the same station of life at all, and that makes ita--a mess-alliance. (I don't remember exactly what that word is; butI know it means an alliance that makes a mess of things because thelovers are not equal to each other. ) Of course, for the folks who haveto live it, it may not be so nice; but for my story here this makes itall the more romantic and thrilling. So _that's_ all right. 

Of course, so far, I'm the only one that knows, for I haven't told it, and I'm the only one that's seen anything. Of course, I shall warnMother, if I think it's necessary, so she'll understand it isn't her, but Theresa, that the violinist is really in love with and courting. _She_ won't mind, I'm sure, after she thinks of it a minute. And won'tit be a good joke on Aunt Hattie and Grandfather when they find outthey've been fooled all the time, supposing it's Mother, and worryingabout it?

Oh, I don't know! This is some love story, after all!

 * * * * *

_Two days later. _

Well, I should say it was! What do you suppose has happened now? Why, that wretched violinist is nothing but a deep-dyed villain! Listenwhat he did. He proposed to Mother--actually proposed to her--andafter all he'd said to that Theresa girl, about his being perfectlyhappy if he could marry _her_. And Mother--Mother all the time notknowing! Oh, I'm so glad I was there to rescue her! I don't mean atthe proposal--I didn't hear that. But afterward. 

It was like this. 

They had been out automobiling--Mother and the violinist. He came forher at three o'clock. He said it was a beautiful warm day, and maybethe last one they'd have this year; and she must go. And she went. 

I was in my favorite window-seat, reading, when they came home andwalked into the library. They never looked my way at all, but justwalked toward the fireplace. And there he took hold of both her handsand said:

"Why must you wait, darling? Why can't you give me my answer now, andmake me the happiest man in all the world?"

"Yes, yes, I know, " answered Mother; and I knew by her voice thatshe was all shaky and trembly. "But if I could only be sure--sure ofmyself. "

"But, dearest, you're sure of me!" cried the violinist. "You _know_how I love you. You know you're the only woman I have ever loved, orever could love!"

Yes, just like that he said it--that awful lie--and to my mother. Mystars! Do you suppose I waited to hear any more? I guess not!

[Illustration: "WHY MUST YOU WAIT, DARLING?"]

I fairly tumbled off my seat, and my book dropped with a bang, as Iran forward. Dear, dear, but how they did jump--both of them! And Iguess they _were_ surprised. I never thought how 'twas going to affectthem--my breaking in like that. But I didn't wait--not a minute. AndI didn't apologize, or say "Excuse me, " or any of those things thatI suppose I ought to have done. I just started right in and began totalk. And I talked hard and fast, and lots of it. 

I don't know now what I said, but I know I asked him what he meant bysaying such an awful lie to my mother, when he'd just said the samething, exactly 'most, to Theresa, and he'd hugged her and kissed her, and everything. I'd _seen_ him. And--

But I didn't get a chance to say half I wanted to. I was going on totell him what I thought of him; but Mother gasped out, "Marie! _Marie!Stop_!"

And then I stopped. I had to, of course. Then she said that would do, and I might go to my room. And I went. And that's all I know about it, except that she came up, after a little, and said for me not to talkany more about it, to her, or to any one else; and to please try toforget it. 

I tried to tell her what I'd seen, and what I'd heard that wicked, deep-dyed villain say; but she wouldn't let me. She shook her head, and said, "Hush, hush, dear"; and that no good could come of talkingof it, and she wanted me to forget it. She was very sweet and verygentle, and she smiled; but there were stern corners to her mouth, even when the smile was there. And I guess she told him what was what. Anyhow, I know they had quite a talk before she came up to me, for Iwas watching at the window for him to go; and when he did go helooked very red and cross, and he stalked away with anever-will-I-darken-this-door-again kind of a step, just as far as Icould see him. 

I don't know, of course, what will happen next, nor whether he'll evercome back for Theresa; but I shouldn't think even _she_ would wanthim, after this, if she found out. 

And now where's _my_ love story coming in, I should like to know?

 * * * * *

_Two days after Christmas_. 

Another wonderful thing has happened. I've had a letter fromFather--from _Father_--a _letter_--ME!

It came this morning. Mother brought it in to me. She looked queer--alittle. There were two red spots in her cheeks, and her eyes were verybright. 

"I think you have a letter here from--your father, " she said, handingit out. 

She hesitated before the "your father" just as she always does. And'tisn't hardly ever that she mentions his name, anyway. But when shedoes, she always stops a funny little minute before it, just as shedid to-day. 

And perhaps I'd better say right here, before I forget it, that Motherhas been different, some way, ever since that time when the violinistproposed. I don't think she _cares_ really--about the violinist, Imean--but she's just sort of upset over it. I heard her talking toAunt Hattie one day about it, and she said:

"To think such a thing could happen--to _me_! And when for a minute Iwas really hesitating and thinking that maybe I _would_ take him. Oh, Hattie!"

And Aunt Hattie put her lips together with her most I-told-you-so air, and said:

"It was, indeed, a narrow escape, Madge; and it ought to show you theworth of a real man. There's Mr. Easterbrook, now--"

But Mother wouldn't even listen then. She pooh-poohed and tossed herhead, and said, "Mr. Easterbrook, indeed!" and put her hands to herears, laughing, but in earnest just the same, and ran out of the room. 

And she doesn't go so much with Mr. Easterbrook as she did. Oh, shegoes with him some, but not enough to make it a bit interesting--forthis novel, I mean--nor with any of the others, either. In fact, I'mafraid there isn't much chance now of Mother's having a love story tomake this book right. Only the other day I heard her tell Grandfatherand Aunt Hattie that _all_ men were a delusion and a snare. Oh, shelaughed as she said it. But she was in earnest, just the same. I couldsee that. And she doesn't seem to care much for any of the differentmen that come to see her. She seems to ever so much rather stay withme. In fact, she stays with me a lot these days--almost all the timeI'm out of school, indeed. And she talks with me--oh, she talks withme about lots of things. (I love to have her talk with me. You knowthere's a lot of difference between talking _with_ folks and _to_folks. Now, Father always talks _to_ folks. )

One day it was about getting married that Mother talked with me, andI said I was so glad that when you didn't like being married, or gottired of your husband, you could get _un_married, just as she did, andgo back home and be just the same as you were before. 

But Mother didn't like that, at all. She said no, no, and that Imustn't talk like that, and that you _couldn't_ go back and be thesame. And that she'd found it out. That she used to think you could. But you couldn't. She said it was like what she read once, that youcouldn't really be the same any more than you could put the dress youwere wearing back on the shelf in the store, and expect it to turnback into a fine long web of cloth all folded up nice and tidy, as itwas in the first place. And, of course, you couldn't do that--afterthe cloth was all cut up into a dress!

She said more things, too; and after Father's letter came she saidstill more. Oh, and I haven't told yet about the letter, have I? Well, I will now. 

As I said at first, Mother brought it in and handed it over to me, saying she guessed it was from Father. And I could see she waswondering what could be in it. But I guess she wasn't wondering anymore than _I_ was, only I was gladder to get it than she was, Isuppose. Anyhow, when she saw _how_ glad I was, and how I jumped forthe letter, she drew back, and looked somehow as if she'd been hurt, and said:

"I did not know, Marie, that a letter from--your father would mean somuch to you. "

I don't know what I did say to that. I guess I didn't say anything. I'd already begun to read the letter, and I was in such a hurry tofind out what he'd said. 

I'll copy it here. It wasn't long. It was like this:

 MY DEAR MARY:

 Some way Christmas has made me think of you. I wish I had sent you some gift. Yet I have not the slightest idea what would please you. To tell the truth, I tried to find something--but had to give it up. 

 I am wondering if you had a good time, and what you did. After all, I'm pretty sure you did have a good time, for you are Marie now. You see I have not forgotten how tired you got of being--Mary. Well, well, I do not know as I can blame you. 

 And now that I have asked what you did for Christmas, I suspect it is no more than a fair turnabout to tell you what I did. I suppose I had a very good time. Your Aunt Jane says I did. I heard her telling one of the neighbors that last night. She said she left no stone unturned to give me a good time. So, of course, I must have had a good time. 

 She had a very fine dinner, and she invited Mrs. Darling and Miss Snow and Miss Sanborn to eat it with us. She said she didn't want me to feel lonesome. But you can feel real lonesome in a crowd sometimes. Did you know that, Mary?

 But I left them to their chatter after dinner and went out to the observatory. I think I must have fallen asleep on the couch there, for it was quite dark when I awoke. But I didn't mind that, for there were some observations I wanted to take. It was a beautifully clear night, so I stayed there till nearly morning. 

 How about it? I suppose Marie plays the piano every day now, doesn't she? The piano here hasn't been touched since you went away. Oh, yes, it was touched once. Your aunt played hymns on it for a missionary meeting. 

 Well, what did you do Christmas? Suppose you write and tell

 Your

 FATHER

I'd been reading the letter out loud, and when I got through Motherwas pacing up and down the room. For a minute she didn't say anything;then she whirled 'round suddenly and faced me, and said, just as ifsomething inside of her was _making_ her say it:

"I notice there is no mention of your mother in that letter, Marie. Isuppose--your father has quite forgotten that there is such a personin the world as--I. "

But I told her no, oh, no, and that I was sure he remembered her, for he used to ask me questions often about what she did, and theviolinist and all. 

"The violinist!" cried Mother, whirling around on me again. (She'dbegun to walk up and down once more. ) "You don't mean to say you evertold your father about _him_!"

"Oh, no, not everything, " I explained, trying to show how patient Iwas, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn't work. ) "I couldn'ttell him everything because everything hadn't happened then. But Itold about his being here, and about the others, too; but, of course, I said I didn't know which you'd take, and--"

"You told him you didn't know _which I'd take_!" gasped Mother. 

Just like that she interrupted, and she looked so shocked. And shedidn't look much better when I explained very carefully what I didsay, even though I assured her over and over again that Father wasinterested, very much interested. When I said that, she just muttered, "Interested, indeed!" under her breath. Then she began to walk again, up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden, she flung herself onthe couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. Andwhen I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for shethrew her arms around me and cried:

"Oh, my darling, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, howdreadful it is?"

And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and_un_married as we were. She held me close again and began to sob andcry. 

"Oh, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it all is--how unnaturalit is for us to live--this way? And for you--you poor child!--whatcould be worse for you? And here I am, jealous--jealous of your ownfather, for fear you'll love him better than you do me!

"Oh, I know I ought not to say all this to you--I know I ought not to. But I can't--help it. I want you! I want you every minute; but I haveto give you up--six whole months of every year I have to give you upto him. And he's your father, Marie. And he's a good man. I know he'sa good man. I know it all the better now since I've seen--other men. And I ought to tell you to love him. But I'm so afraid--you'll lovehim better than you do me, and want to leave--me. And I can't give youup! I can't give you up!"

Then I tried to tell her, of course, that she wouldn't have to giveme up, and that I loved her a whole lot better than I did Father. Buteven that didn't comfort her, 'cause she said I _ought_ to love _him_. That he was lonesome and needed me. He needed me just as much asshe needed me, and maybe more. And then she went on again about howunnatural and awful it was to live the way we were living. And shecalled herself a wicked woman that she'd ever allowed things to get tosuch a pass. And she said if she could only have her life to live overagain she'd do so differently--oh, so differently. 

Then she began to cry again, and I couldn't do a thing with her; andof course, that worked me all up and I began to cry. 

She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely withher wet ball of a handkerchief. And she asked what was she thinkingof, and didn't she know any better than to talk like this to me. Thenshe said, come, we'd go for a ride. 

And we did. 

And all the rest of that day Mother was so gay and lively you'd thinkshe didn't know how to cry. 

Now, wasn't that funny?

Of course, I shall answer Father's letter right away, but I haven'tthe faintest idea _what_ to say. 

 * * * * *

_One week later. _

I answered it--Father's letter, I mean--yesterday, and it's gone now. But I had an awful time over it. I just didn't know what in the worldto say. I'd start out all right, and I'd think I was going to getalong beautifully. Then, all of a sudden, it would come over me, whatI was doing--_writing a letter to my father_! And I could imagine justhow he'd look when he got it, all stern and dignified, sitting inhis chair in the library, and opening the letter _just so_ with hispaper-cutter; and I'd imagine his eyes looking down and reading what Iwrote. And when I thought of that, my pen just wouldn't go. The ideaof _my_ writing anything my father would want to read!

And so I'd try to think of things that I could write--big things--bigthings that would interest big men: about the President, andour-country-'tis-of-thee, and the state of the weather and the crops. And so I'd begin:

"Dear Father: I take my pen in hand to inform you that--"

Then I'd stop and think and think, and chew my pen-handle. Then I'dput down _something_. But it was awful, and I knew it was awful. SoI'd have to tear it up and begin again. Three times I did that; then Ibegan to cry. It did seem as if I never could write that letter. OnceI thought of asking Mother what to say, and getting her to help me. Then I remembered how she cried and took on and said things when theletter came, and talked about how dreadful and unnatural it all was, and how she was jealous for fear I'd love Father better than I didher. And I was afraid she'd do it again, and so I didn't like to askher. And so I didn't do it. 

Then, after a time, I got out his letter and read it again. And all ofa sudden I felt all warm and happy, just as I did when I first got it;and some way I was back with him in the observatory and he was tellingme all about the stars. And I forgot all about being afraid of him, and about the crops and the President and my-country-'tis-of-thee. And I just remembered that he'd asked me to tell him what I did onChristmas Day; and I knew right off that that would be easy. Why, justthe easiest thing in the world! And so I got out a fresh sheet ofpaper and dipped my pen in the ink and began again. 

And this time I didn't have a bit of trouble. I told him all about thetree I had Christmas Eve, and the presents, and the little coloredlights, and the fun we had singing and playing games. And then how, onChristmas morning, there was a lovely new snow on the ground, and Mr. Easterbrook came with a perfectly lovely sleigh and two horses to takeMother and me to ride, and what a splendid time we had, and how lovelyMother looked with her red cheeks and bright eyes, and how, when wegot home, Mr. Easterbrook said we looked more like sisters than motherand daughter, and wasn't that nice of him. Of course, I told a littlemore about Mr. Easterbrook, too, so Father'd know who he was--a newfriend of Mother's that I'd never known till I came back this time, and how he was very rich and a most estimable man. That Aunt Hattiesaid so. 

Then I told him that in the afternoon another gentleman came and tookus to a perfectly beautiful concert. And I finished up by tellingabout the Christmas party in the evening, and how lovely the houselooked, and Mother, and that they said I looked nice, too. 

And that was all. And when I had got it done, I saw that I had writtena long letter, a great long letter. And I was almost afraid it wastoo long, till I remembered that Father had asked me for it; he had_asked_ me to tell him all about what I did on Christmas Day. 

So I sent it off. 

 * * * * *

_March_. 

Yes, I know it's been quite a while, but there hasn't been a thing tosay--nothing new or exciting, I mean. There's just school, and theusual things; only Mr. Easterbrook doesn't come any more. (Of course, the violinist hasn't come since that day he proposed. ) I don't knowwhether Mr. Easterbrook proposed or not. I only know that all of asudden he stopped coming. I don't know the reason. 

I don't overhear so much as I used to, anyway. Not but that I'm in thelibrary window-seat just the same; but 'most everybody that comes inlooks there right off, now; and, of course, when they see me theydon't hardly ever go on with what they are saying. So it justnaturally follows that I don't overhear things as I used to. 

Not that there's much to hear, though. Really, there just isn'tanything going on, and things aren't half so lively as they used to bewhen Mr. Easterbrook was here, and all the rest. They've all stoppedcoming, now, 'most. I've about given up ever having a love story ofMother's to put in. 

And mine, too. Here I am fifteen next month, going on sixteen. (Why, that brook and river met long ago!) But Mother is getting to be almostas bad as Aunt Jane was about my receiving proper attentions fromyoung men. Oh, she lets me go to places, a little, with the boys atschool; but I always have to be chaperoned. And whenever are theygoing to have a chance to say anything really _thrilling_ with Motheror Aunt Hattie right at my elbow? Echo answers never! So I've aboutgiven up _that's_ amounting to anything, either. 

Of course, there's Father left, and of course, when I go back toAndersonville this summer, there may be something doing there. But Idoubt it. 

I forgot to say I haven't heard from Father again. I answered hisChristmas letter, as I said, and wrote just as nice as I knew how, andtold him all he asked me to. But he never answered, nor wrote again. Iam disappointed, I'll own up. I thought he would write. I think Motherdid, too. She's asked me ever so many times if I hadn't heard from himagain. And she always looks so sort of funny when I say no--sort ofglad and sorry together, all in one. 

But, then, Mother's queer in lots of ways now. For instance: Oneweek ago she gave me a perfectly lovely box of chocolates--a wholetwo-pound box all at once; and I've never had more than a half-poundat once before. But just as I was thinking how for once I was going tohave a real feast, and all I wanted to eat--what do you think she toldme? She said I could have three pieces, and only three pieces a day;and not one little tiny one more. And when I asked her why she gave mesuch a big box for, then, if that was all I could have, she said itwas to teach me self-discipline. That self-discipline was one of themost wonderful things in the world. That if she'd only been taught itwhen she was a girl, her life would have been very, very different. And so she was giving me a great big box of chocolates for my veryown, just so as to teach me to deny myself and take only three piecesevery day. 

Three pieces!--and all that whole big box of them just making mymouth water all the while; and all just to teach me that horrid oldself-discipline! Why, you'd think it was Aunt Jane doing it instead ofMother!

 * * * * *

_One week later. _

It's come--Father's letter. It came last night. Oh, it was short, andit didn't say anything about what _I_ wrote. But I was proud of it, just the same. I just guess I was! There wasn't much in it but justthat I might stay till the school closed in June, and then come. But_he wrote it_. He didn't get Aunt Jane to write to Mother, as he didbefore. And then, besides, he must have forgotten his stars longenough to think of me a _little_--for he remembered about the school, and that I couldn't go there in Andersonville, and so he said I hadbetter stay here till it finished. 

And I was so glad to stay! It made me very happy--that letter. It madeMother happy, too. She liked it, and she thought it was very, verykind of Father to be willing to give me up almost three whole monthsof his six, so I could go to school here. And she said so. She saidonce to Aunt Hattie that she was almost tempted to write and thankhim. But Aunt Hattie said, "Pooh, " and it was no more than he ought todo, and that _she_ wouldn't be seen writing to a man who so carefullyavoided writing to _her_. So Mother didn't do it, I guess. 

But I wrote. I had to write three letters, though, before I got onethat Mother said would do to send. The first one sounded so _glad_ Iwas staying that Mother said she was afraid he would feel hurt, andthat would be too bad--when he'd been so kind. And the second onesounded as if I was so _sorry_ not to go to Andersonville the first ofApril that Mother said that would never do in the world. He'd thinkI didn't _want_ to stay in Boston. But the third letter I managed tomake just glad enough to stay, and just sorry enough not to go. Sothat Mother said it was all right. And I sent it. You see I _asked_Mother to help me about this letter. I knew she wouldn't cry and moanabout being jealous this time. And she didn't. She was real excitedand happy over it. 

 * * * * *

_April_. 

Well, the last chocolate drop went yesterday. There were justseventy-six pieces in that two-pound box. I counted them that firstday. Of course, they were fine and dandy, and I just loved them; butthe trouble is, for the last week I've been eating such snippy littlepieces. You see, every day, without thinking, I'd just naturally pickout the biggest pieces. So you can imagine what they got down totoward the last--mostly chocolate almonds. 

As for the self-discipline--I don't see as I feel any more disciplinedthan I did before, and I _know_ I want chocolates just as much asever. And I said so to Mother. 

But Mother _is_ queer. Honestly she is. And I can't help wondering--isshe getting to be like Aunt Jane?

Now, listen to this:

Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfectdarling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match. And I knew I'd look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would havegot it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin withdots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child--for any child. 

Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it--some. Infact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot. Mother didn't say anything_then_; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me andsaid:

"I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But itwas not suitable at all for you--not until you're older, dear. "

She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug:

"Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't gettingto be vain, and too fond of dress. "

I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of thatself-discipline business. 

But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline. 

_Is_ she getting to be like Aunt Jane?

 * * * * *

_One week later. _

She is. 

I _know_ she is now. 

I'm learning to cook--_to cook_! And it's Mother that says I must. Shetold Aunt Hattie--I heard her--that she thought every girl shouldknow how to cook and to keep house; and that if she had learned thosethings when she was a girl, her life would have been quite different, she was sure. 

Of course, I'm not learning in Aunt Hattie's kitchen. Aunt Hattie'sgot a new cook, and she's worse than Olga used to be--about notwanting folks messing around, I mean. So Aunt Hattie said right offthat we couldn't do it there. I am learning at a Domestic ScienceSchool, and Mother is going with me. I didn't mind so much when shesaid she'd go, too. And, really, it is quite a lot of fun--really itis. But it _is_ queer--Mother and I going to school together to learnhow to make bread and cake and boil potatoes! And, of course, AuntHattie laughs at us. But I don't mind. And Mother doesn't, either. But, oh, how Aunt Jane would love it, if she only knew!

 * * * * *

_May_. 

Something is the matter with Mother, certainly. She's acting queererand queerer, and she _is_ getting to be like Aunt Jane. Why, only thismorning she hushed me up from laughing so loud, and stopped myromping up and down the stairs with Lester. She said it was noisy andunladylike--and only just a little while ago she just loved to have melaugh and play and be happy! And when I said so to her this morning, she said, yes, yes, of course, and she wanted me to be happy now, onlyshe wished to remind me that very soon I was going back to my fatherin Andersonville, and that I ought to begin now to learn to be morequiet, so as not to trouble him when I got there. 

Now, what do you think of that?

And another thing. What _do_ you suppose I am learning about _now_?You'd never guess. Stars. Yes, _stars_! And that is for Father, too. 

Mother came into my room one day with a book of Grandfather's underher arm. She said it was a very wonderful work on astronomy, and shewas sure I would find it interesting. She said she was going to readit aloud to me an hour a day. And then, when I got to Andersonvilleand Father talked to me, I'd _know_ something. And he'd be pleased. 

She said she thought we owed it to Father, after he'd been so good andkind as to let me stay here almost three whole months of his six, soI could keep on with my school. And that she was very sure this wouldplease him and make him happy. 

And so, for 'most a week now, Mother has read to me an hour a dayout of that astronomy book. Then we talk about it. And it _is_interesting. Mother says it is, too. She says she wishes _she'd_ knownsomething about astronomy when she was a girl; that she's sure itwould have made things a whole lot easier and happier all around, whenshe married Father; for then she would have known something aboutsomething _he_ was interested in. She said she couldn't help thatnow, of course; but she could see that _I_ knew something about suchthings. And that was why she was reading to me now. Then she saidagain that she thought we owed it to Father, when he'd been so good tolet me stay. 

It seems so funny to hear her talk such a lot about Father as shedoes, when before she never used to mention him--only to say howafraid she was that I would love him better than I did her, and tomake me say over and over again that I didn't. And I said so one dayto her--I mean, I said I thought it was funny, the way she talked now. 

She colored up and bit her lip, and gave a queer little laugh. Thenshe grew very sober and grave, and said:

"I know, dear. Perhaps I am talking more than I used to. But, you see, I've been thinking quite a lot, and I--I've learned some things. Andnow, since your father has been so kind and generous in giving you upto me so much of his time, I--I've grown ashamed; and I'm trying tomake you forget what I said--about your loving me more than him. Thatwasn't right, dear. Mother was wrong. She shouldn't try to influenceyou against your father. He is a good man; and there are none too manygood men in the world--No, no, I won't say that, " she broke off. 

But she'd already said it, and, of course, I knew she was thinking ofthe violinist. I'm no child. 

She went on more after that, quite a lot more. And she said again thatI must love Father and try to please him in every way; and she cried alittle and talked a lot about how hard it was in my position, andthat she was afraid she'd only been making it harder, through herselfishness, and I must forgive her, and try to forget it. And shewas very sure she'd do better now. And she said that, after all, lifewasn't in just being happy yourself. It was in how much happiness youcould give to others. 

Oh, it was lovely! And I cried, and she cried some more, and wekissed each other, and I promised. And after she went away I felt allupraised and holy, like you do when you've been to a beautiful churchservice with soft music and colored windows, and everybody kneeling. And I felt as if I'd never be naughty or thoughtless again. And thatI'd never mind being Mary now. Why, I'd be glad to be Mary half thetime, and even more--for Father. 

But, alas!

Listen. Would you believe it? Just that same evening Mother stopped meagain laughing too loud and making too much noise playing with Lester;and I felt real cross. I just boiled inside of me, and said I hatedMary, and that Mother _was_ getting to be just like Aunt Jane. Andyet, just that morning--

Oh, if only that hushed, stained-window-soft-music feeling _would_last!

 * * * * *

_June_. 

Well, once more school is done, my trunk is all packed, and I'm readyto go to Andersonville. I leave to-morrow morning. But not as I leftlast year. Oh, no. It is very, very different. Why, this year I'mreally _going_ as Mary. Honestly, Mother has turned me into Mary_before I go_. Now, what do you think of that? And if I've got to beMary there and Mary here, too, when can I ever be _Marie_? Oh, I knowI _said_ I'd be willing to be Mary half, and maybe more than half, thetime. But when it comes to really _being_ Mary out of turn extra time, that is quite another thing. 

And I am Mary. 

Listen:

I've learned to cook. That's Mary. 

I've been studying astronomy. That's Mary. 

I've learned to walk quietly, speak softly, laugh not too loudly, andbe a lady at all times. That's Mary. 

And now, to add to all this, Mother has had me _dress_ like Mary. Yes, she began two weeks ago. She came into my room one morning and saidshe wanted to look over my dresses and things; and I could see, by theway she frowned and bit her lip and tapped her foot on the floor, thatshe wasn't suited. And I was glad; for, of course, I always like tohave new things. So I was pleased when she said:

"I think, my dear, that on Saturday we'll have to go in town shopping. Quite a number of these things will not do at all. "

And I was so happy! Visions of new dresses and hats and shoes rosebefore me, and even the pink beaded silk came into my mind--though Ididn't really have much hopes of that. 

Well, we went shopping on Saturday, but--did we get the pink silk? Wedid not. We did get--you'd never guess what. We got two new ginghamdresses, very plain and homely, and a pair of horrid, thick low shoes. Why, I could have cried! I did 'most cry as I exclaimed:

"Why, Mother, those are _Mary_ things!"

"Of course, they're Mary things, " answered Mother, cheerfully--thekind of cheerfulness that says: "I'm being good and you ought to be. "Then she went on. "That's what I meant to buy--Mary things, as youcall them. Aren't you going to be Mary just next week? Of course, youare! And didn't you tell me last year, as soon as you got there, MissAnderson objected to your clothing and bought new for you? Well, I amtrying to see that she does not have to do that this year. "

And then she bought me a brown serge suit and a hat so tiresomelysensible that even Aunt Jane will love them, I know. And to-morrowI've got to put them on to go in. 

Do you wonder that I say I am Mary already?

CHAPTER VII

WHEN I AM NEITHER ONE

ANDERSONVILLE. 

Well, I came last night. I had on the brown suit and the sensible hat, and every turn of the wheels all day had been singing: "Mary, Mary, now you're Mary!" Why, Mother even _called_ me Mary when she saidgood-bye. She came to the junction with me just as she had before, andput me on the other train. 

"Now, remember, dear, you're to try very hard to be a joy and acomfort to your father--just the little Mary that he wants you to be. Remember, he has been very kind to let you stay with me so long. "

She cried when she kissed me just as she did before; but she didn'ttell me this time to be sure and not love Father better than I didher. I noticed that. But, of course, I didn't say anything, though Imight have told her easily that I knew nothing could ever make me love_him_ better than I did _her_. 

But I honestly tried, as long as I was dressed like Mary, to feel likeMary; and I made up my mind that I would _be_ Mary, too, just as wellas I knew how to be, so that even Aunt Jane couldn't find any faultwith me. And I'd try to please Father, and make him not mind my beingthere, even if I couldn't make him love me. And as I got to thinkingof it, I was _glad_ that I had on the Mary things, so I wouldn't haveto make any change. Then I could show Aunt Jane that I was reallygoing to be Mary, right along from the start, when she met me atthe station. And I would show Father, too, if he was at home. And Icouldn't help hoping he _would_ be home this time, and not off to lookat any old stars or eclipses. 

When we got to Andersonville, and the train rolled into the station, I'most forgot, for a minute, and ran down the aisle, so as to get outquick. I was so excited! But right away I thought of Aunt Jane andthat she might see me; so I slowed down to a walk, and I let quite alot of other folks get ahead of me, as I was sure Mary ought to. Yousee, I was determined to be a good little Mary from the very start, sothat even Aunt Jane couldn't find a word of fault--not even with myactions. I knew she couldn't with my clothes!

Well, I stepped down from the cars and looked over to where thecarriages were to find John and Aunt Jane. But they weren't there. There wasn't even the carriage there; and I can remember now just howmy heart sort of felt sick inside of me when I thought that even AuntJane had forgotten, and that there wasn't anybody to meet me. 

There was a beautiful big green automobile there, and I thought howI wished _that_ had come to meet me; and I was just wondering what Ishould do, when all of a sudden somebody spoke my name. And who do youthink it was? You'd never guess it in a month. It was _Father_. Yes, FATHER!

Why, I could have hugged him, I was so glad. But of course I didn't, right before all those people. But he was so tall and handsome andsplendid, and I felt so proud to be walking along the platform withhim and letting folks see that he'd come to meet me! But I couldn'tsay anything--not anything, the way I wanted to; and all I could dowas to stammer out:

"Why, where's Aunt Jane?"

And that's just the thing I didn't _want_ to say; and I knew it theminute I'd said it. Why, it sounded as if I missed Aunt Jane, andwanted _her_ instead of _him_, when all the time I was so pleased andexcited to see him that I could hardly speak. 

I don't know whether Father liked it, or minded it. I couldn't tell byhis face. He just kind of smiled, and looked queer, and said that AuntJane--er--couldn't come. Then _I_ felt sorry; for I saw, of course, that that was why _he_ had come; not because he wanted to, but becauseAunt Jane couldn't, so he had to. And I could have cried, all thewhile he was fixing it up about my trunk. 

He turned then and led the way straight over to where the carriageswere, and the next minute there was John touching his cap to me;only it was a brand-new John looking too sweet for anything in achauffeur's cap and uniform. And, what do you think? He was helping meinto that beautiful big green car before I knew it. 

"Why, Father, Father!" I cried. "You don't mean"--I just couldn'tfinish; but he finished for me. 

"It is ours--yes. Do you like it?"

"Like it!" I guess he didn't need to have me say any more. But I didsay more. I just raved and raved over that car until Father's eyescrinkled all up in little smile wrinkles, and he said:

"I'm glad. I hoped you'd like it. "

"I guess I do like it!" I cried. Then I went on to tell him how Ithought it was the prettiest one I ever saw, and 'way ahead of evenMr. Easterbrook's. 

"And, pray, who is Mr. Easterbrook?" asked Father then. "Theviolinist, perhaps--eh?"

Now, wasn't it funny he should have remembered that there was aviolinist? But, of course, I told him no, it wasn't the violinist. Itwas another one that took Mother to ride, the one I told him aboutin the Christmas letter; and he was very rich, and had two perfectlybeautiful cars; and I was going on to tell more--how he didn't takeMother now--but I didn't get a chance, for Father interrupted, andsaid, "Yes, yes, to be sure. " And he _showed_ he wasn't interested, for all the little smile wrinkles were gone, and he looked stern anddignified, more like he used to. And he went on to say that, as we hadalmost reached home, he had better explain right away that Aunt Janewas no longer living there; that his cousin from the West, Mrs. Whitney, was keeping house for him now. She was a very nice lady, andhe hoped I would like her. And I might call her "Cousin Grace. "

And before I could even draw breath to ask any questions, we werehome; and a real pretty lady, with a light-blue dress on, was helpingme out of the car, and kissing me as she did so. 

Now, do you wonder that I have been rubbing my eyes and wondering if Iwas really I, and if this was Andersonville? Even now I'm not sure butit's a dream, and I shall wake up and find I've gone to sleep on thecars, and that the train is just drawing into the station, and thatJohn and the horses, and Aunt Jane in her I-don't-care-how-it-looksblack dress are there to meet me. 

 * * * * *

_One week later_. 

It isn't a dream. It's all really, truly true--everything: Fathercoming to meet me, the lovely automobile, and the pretty lady in thelight-blue dress, who kissed me. And when I went downstairs the nextmorning I found out it was real, 'specially the pretty lady; for shekissed me again, and said she hoped I'd be happy there. And she neversaid one word about dusting one hour and studying one hour and weedingone hour. (Of course, she couldn't say anything about my clothes, forI was already in a Mary blue-gingham dress. ) She just told me to amusemyself any way I liked, and said, if I wanted to, I might run over tosee some of the girls, but not to make any plans for the afternoon, for she was going to take me to ride. 

Now, what do you think of that? Go to see the girls in the morning, and take a ride--an automobile ride!--in the afternoon. _InAndersonville_! Why, I couldn't believe my ears. Of course, I was wildand crazy with delight--but it was all so different. Why, I began tothink almost that I was Marie, and not Mary at all. 

And it's been that way the whole week through. I've had a beautifultime. I've been so excited! And Mother is excited, too. Of course, Iwrote her and told her all about it right away. And she wrote rightback and wanted to know everything--everything I could tell her; allthe little things. And she was so interested in Cousin Grace, andwanted to know all about her; said _she_ never heard of her before, and was she Father's own cousin, and how old was she, and was shepretty, and was Father around the house more now, and did I see a lotof him? She thought from something I said that I did. 

I've just been writing her again, and I could tell her more now, ofcourse, than I could in that first letter. I've been here a wholeweek, and, of course, I know more about things, and have done more. 

I told her that Cousin Grace wasn't really Father's cousin at all, soit wasn't any wonder she hadn't ever heard of her. She was the wifeof Father's third cousin who went to South America six years ago andcaught the fever and died there. So this Mrs. Whitney isn't really anyrelation of his at all. But he'd always known her, even before shemarried his cousin; and so, when her husband died, and she didn't haveany home, he asked her to come here. 

I don't know why Aunt Jane went away, but she's been gone 'most fourmonths now, they say here. Nellie told me. Nellie is the maid--I meanhired girl--here now. (I _will_ keep forgetting that I'm Mary now andmust use the Mary words here. )

I told Mother that she (Cousin Grace) was quite old, but not so oldas Aunt Jane. (I asked Nellie, and Nellie said she guessed she wasthirty-five, but she didn't look a day over twenty-five. ) And she _is_pretty, and everybody loves her. I think even Father likes to have heraround better than he did his own sister Jane, for he sometimes staysaround quite a lot now--after meals, and in the evening, I mean. Andthat's what I told Mother. Oh, of course, he still likes his stars thebest of anything, but not quite as well as he used to, maybe--not togive _all_ his time to them. 

I haven't anything especial to write. I'm just having a beautifultime. Of course, I miss Mother, but I know I'm going to have her againin just September--I forgot to say that Father is going to let me goback to school again this year ahead of his time, just as he did lastyear. 

So you see, really, I'm here only a little bit of a while, as it isnow, and it's no wonder I keep forgetting I am Mary. 

I haven't got anything new for the love part of my story. I _am_ sorryabout that. But there just isn't anything, so I'm afraid the booknever will be a love story, anyway. 

Of course, I'm not with Mother now, so I don't know whether there'sanything there, or not; but I don't think there will be. And as forFather--I've pretty nearly given him up. Anyhow, there never used tobe any signs of hope for me there. As for myself--well, I've aboutgiven that up, too. I don't believe they're going to give me anychance to have anybody till I'm real old--probably not till I'mtwenty-one or two. And I can't wait all that time to finish this book. 

 * * * * *

_One week later_. 

Things are awfully funny here this time. I wonder if it's all CousinGrace that makes it so. Anyhow, she's just as different as differentcan be from Aunt Jane. And _things_ are different, everywhere. 

Why, I forget half the time that I'm Mary. Honestly, I do. I try to beMary. I try to move quietly, speak gently, and laugh softly, just asMother told me to. But before I know it I'm acting natural again--justlike Marie, you know. 

And I believe it _is_ Cousin Grace. She never looks at you in AuntJane's I'm-amazed-at-you way. And she laughs herself a lot, and singsand plays, too--real pretty lively things; not just hymn tunes. Andthe house is different. There are four geraniums in the dining-roomwindow, and the parlor is open every day. The wax flowers are there, but the hair wreath and the coffin plate are gone. Cousin Gracedoesn't dress like Aunt Jane, either. She wears pretty white and bluedresses, and her hair is curly and fluffy. 

And so I think all this is why I keep forgetting to be Mary. But, ofcourse, I understand that Father expects me to be Mary, and so I tryto remember--only I can't. Why, I couldn't even show him how much Iknew about the stars. I tried to the other night. I went out to theobservatory where he was, and asked him questions about the stars. I tried to seem interested, and was going to tell him how I'd beenstudying about them, but he just laughed kind of funny, and said notto bother my pretty head about such things, but to come in and play tohim on the piano. 

So, of course, I did. And he sat and listened to three whole pieces. Now, wasn't that funny?

 * * * * *

_Two weeks later_. 

I understand it all now--everything: why the house is different, andFather, and everything. And it _is_ Cousin Grace, and it _is_ a lovestory. 

_Father is in love with her_. 

_Now_ I guess I shall have something for this book!

It seems funny now that I didn't think of it at first. But Ididn't--not until I heard Nellie and her beau talking about it. Nelliesaid she wasn't the only one in the house that was going to getmarried. And when he asked her what she meant, she said it was Dr. Anderson and Mrs. Whitney. That anybody could see it that wasn't asblind as a bat. 

My, but wasn't I excited? I just guess I was. And, of course, I sawthen that I had been blind as a bat. But I began to open my eyesafter that, and watch--not disagreeably, you know, but just glad andinterested, and on account of the book. 

And I saw:

That father stayed in the house a lot more than he used to. 

That he talked more. 

That he never thundered--I mean spoke stern and uncompromising toCousin Grace the way he used to to Aunt Jane. 

That he smiled more. 

That he wasn't so absent-minded at meals and other times, but seemedto know we were there--Cousin Grace and I. 

That he actually asked Cousin Grace and me to play for him severaltimes. 

That he went with us to the Sunday-School picnic. (I never saw Fatherat a picnic before, and I don't believe he ever saw himself at one. )

That--oh, I don't know, but a whole lot of little things that I can'tremember; but they were all unmistakable, very unmistakable. And Iwondered, when I saw it all, that I _had_ been as blind as a batbefore. 

Of course, I was glad--glad he's going to marry her, I mean. I wasglad for everybody; for Father and Cousin Grace, for they would behappy, of course, and he wouldn't be lonesome any more. And I was gladfor Mother because I knew she'd be glad that he'd at last found thegood, kind woman to make a home for him. And, of course, I was gladfor myself, for I'd much rather have Cousin Grace here than Aunt Jane, and I knew she'd make the best new mother of any of them. And last, but not least, I'm glad for the book, because now I've got a lovestory sure. That is, I'm pretty sure. Of course, it may not be so; butI think it is. 

When I wrote Mother I told her all about it--the signs and symptoms, Imean, and how different and thawed-out Father was; and I asked if shedidn't think it was so, too. But she didn't answer that part. Shedidn't write much, anyway. It was an awfully snippy letter; but shesaid she had a headache and didn't feel at all well. So that was thereason, probably, why she didn't say more--about Father's love affair, I mean. She only said she was glad, she was sure, if Father had foundan estimable woman to make a home for him, and she hoped they'd behappy. Then she went on talking about something else. And she didn'twrite much more, anyway, about anything. 

 * * * * *

_August_. 

Well, of all the topsy-turvy worlds, this is the topsy-turviest, I amsure. What _do_ they want me to do, and which do they want me to be?Oh, I wish I was just a plain Susie or Bessie, and not a cross-currentand a contradiction, with a father that wants me to be one thing anda mother that wants me to be another! It was bad enough before, whenFather wanted me to be Mary, and Mother wanted me to be Marie. Butnow--

Well, to begin at the beginning. 

It's all over--the love story, I mean, and I know now why it's been sohard for me to remember to be Mary and why everything is different, and all. 

_They don't want me to be Mary_. 

_They want me to be Marie_. 

And now I don't know what to think. If Mother's going to want me tobe Mary, and Father's going to want me to be Marie, how am I going toknow what anybody wants, ever? Besides, it was getting to be such abeautiful love story--Father and Cousin Grace. And now--

But let me tell you what happened. 

It was last night. We were on the piazza, Father, Cousin Grace, andI. And I was thinking how perfectly lovely it was that Father _was_there, and that he was getting to be so nice and folksy, and how I_did_ hope it would last, even after he'd married her, and not haveany of that incompatibility stuff come into it. Well, just thenshe got up and went into the house for something--Cousin Grace, Imean--and all of a sudden I determined to tell Father how glad I was, about him and Cousin Grace; and how I hoped it would last--having himout there with us, and all that. And I told him. 

I don't remember what I said exactly. But I know I hurried on and saidit fast, so as to get in all I could before he interrupted; for he hadinterrupted right at the first with an exclamation; and I knew he wasgoing to say more right away, just as soon as he got a chance. And Ididn't want him to get a chance till I'd said what _I_ wanted to. ButI hadn't anywhere near said what I wanted to when he did stop me. Why, he almost jumped out of his chair. 

"Mary!" he gasped. "What in the world are you talking about?"

"Why, Father, I was telling you, " I explained. And I tried to be socool and calm that it would make him calm and cool, too. (But itdidn't calm him or cool him one bit. ) "It's about when you're married, and--"

"Married!" he interrupted again. (They never let _me_ interrupt likethat!)

"To Cousin Grace--yes. But, Father, you--you _are_ going to marryCousin Grace, aren't you?" I cried--and I did 'most cry, for I saw byhis face that he was not. 

"That is not my present intention, " he said. His lips came togetherhard, and he looked over his shoulder to see if Cousin Grace wascoming back. 

"But you're going to _sometime_, " I begged him. 

"I do not expect to. " Again he looked over his shoulder to see if shewas coming. I looked, too, and we both saw through the window that shehad gone into the library and lighted up and was sitting at the tablereading. 

I fell back in my chair, and I know I looked grieved and hurt anddisappointed, as I almost sobbed:

"Oh, Father, and when I _thought_ you were going to!"

"There, there, child!" He spoke, stern and almost cross now. "Thisabsurd, nonsensical idea has gone quite far enough. Let us think nomore about it. "

"It isn't absurd and nonsensical!" I cried. And I could hardly say thewords, I was choking up so. "Everybody said you were going to, and Iwrote Mother so; and--"

"You wrote that to your mother?" He did jump from his chair this time. 

"Yes; and she was glad. "

"Oh, she was!" He sat down sort of limp-like and queer. 

"Yes. She said she was glad you'd found an estimable woman to make ahome for you. "

"Oh, she did. " He said this, too, in that queer, funny, quiet kind ofway. 

"Yes. " I spoke, decided and firm. I'd begun to think, all of a sudden, that maybe he didn't appreciate Mother as much as she did him; andI determined right then and there to make him, if I could. When Iremembered all the lovely things she'd said about him--

"Father, " I began; and I spoke this time, even more decided and firm. "I don't believe you appreciate Mother. "

"Eh? What?"

He made _me_ jump this time, he turned around with such a jerk, andspoke so sharply. But in spite of the jump I still held on to mysubject, firm and decided. 

"I say I don't believe you appreciate my mother. You acted right nowas if you didn't believe she meant it when I told you she was glad youhad found an estimable woman to make a home for you. But she did meanit. I know, because she said it before, once, last year, that shehoped you _would_ find one. "

"Oh, she did. " He sat back in his chair again, sort of limp-like. ButI couldn't tell yet, from his face, whether I'd convinced him or not. So I went on. 

"Yes, and that isn't all. There's another reason, why I know Motheralways has--has your best interest at heart. She--she tried to make meover into Mary before I came, so as to please you. "

"She did _what_?" Once more he made me jump, he turned so suddenly, and spoke with such a short, sharp snap. 

But in spite of the jump I went right on, just as I had before, firmand decided. I told him everything--all about the cooking lessons, andthe astronomy book we read an hour every day, and the pink silkdress I couldn't have, and even about the box of chocolates and theself-discipline. And how she said if she'd had self-discipline whenshe was a girl, her life would have been very different. And I toldhim about how she began to hush me up from laughing too loud, ormaking any kind of noise, because I was soon to be Mary, and shewanted me to get used to it, so I wouldn't trouble him when I gothere. 

I talked very fast and hurriedly. I was afraid he'd interrupt, and Iwanted to get in all I could before he did. But he didn't interruptat all. I couldn't see how he was taking it, though--what I said--forafter the very first he sat back in his chair and shaded his eyes withhis hand; and he sat like that all the time I was talking. He did noteven stir until I said how at the last she bought me the homely shoesand the plain dark suit so I could go as Mary, and be Mary when AuntJane first saw me get off the train. 

When I said that, he dropped his hand and turned around and stared atme. And there was such a funny look in his eyes. 

"I _thought_ you didn't look the same!" he cried; "not so white andairy and--and--I can't explain it, but you looked different. And yet, I didn't think it could be so, for I knew you looked just as you didwhen you came, and that no one had asked you to--to put on Mary'sthings this year. "

He sort of smiled when he said that; then he got up and began to walkup and down the piazza, muttering: "So you _came_ as Mary, you _came_as Mary. " Then, after a minute, he gave a funny little laugh and satdown. 

Mrs. Small came up the front walk then to see Cousin Grace, and Fathertold her to go right into the library where Cousin Grace was. So wewere left alone again, after a minute. 

It was 'most dark on the piazza, but I could see Father's face in thelight from the window; and it looked--well, I'd never seen it looklike that before. It was as if something that had been on it for yearshad dropped off and left it clear where before it had been blurred andindistinct. No, that doesn't exactly describe it either. I _can't_describe it. But I'll go on and say what he said. 

After Mrs. Small had gone into the house, and he saw that she wassitting down with Cousin Grace in the library, he turned to me andsaid:

"And so you came as Mary?"

I said yes, I did. 

"Well, I--I got ready for Marie. "

But then I didn't quite understand, not even when I looked at him, andsaw the old understanding twinkle in his eyes. 

"You mean--you thought I was coming as Marie, of course, " I said then. 

"Yes, " he nodded. 

"But I came as Mary. "

"I see now that you did. " He drew in his breath with a queer littlecatch to it; then he got up and walked up and down the _piazza_ again. (Why do old folks always walk up and down the room like that whenthey're thinking hard about something? Father always does; and Motherdoes lots of times, too. ) But it wasn't but a minute this time beforeFather came and sat down. 

"Well, Mary, " he began; and his voice sounded odd, with a little shakein it. "You've told me your story, so I suppose I may as well tell youmine--now. You see, I not only got ready for Marie, but I had plannedto keep her Marie, and not let her be Mary--at all. "

And then he told me. He told me how he'd never forgotten that dayin the parlor when I cried (and made a wet spot on the arm of thesofa--_I_ never forgot that!), and he saw then how hard it was for meto live here, with him so absorbed in his work and Aunt Jane so sternin her black dress. And he said I put it very vividly when I talkedabout being Marie in Boston, and Mary here, and he saw just how itwas. And so he thought and thought about it all winter, and wonderedwhat he could do. And after a time it came to him--he'd let me beMarie here; that is, he'd try to make it so I could be Marie. And hewas just wondering how he was going to get Aunt Jane to help him whenshe was sent for and asked to go to an old friend who was sick. And hetold her to go, by all means to go. Then he got Cousin Grace to comehere. He said he knew Cousin Grace, and he was very sure she wouldknow how to help him to let me stay Marie. So he talked it over withher--how they would let me laugh, and sing and play the piano all Iwanted to, and wear the clothes I brought with me, and be just as nearas I could be the way I was in Boston. 

"And to think, after all my preparation for Marie, you should _be_Mary already, when you came, " he finished. 

"Yes. Wasn't it funny?" I laughed. "All the time _you_ were gettingready for Marie, Mother was getting me ready to be Mary. It _was_funny!" And it did seem funny to me then. 

But Father was not laughing. He had sat back in his chair, and hadcovered his eyes with his hand again, as if he was thinking andthinking, just as hard as he could. And I suppose it did seem queerto him, that he should be trying to make me Marie, and all the whileMother was trying to make me Mary. And it seemed so to me, as I beganto think it over. It wasn't funny at all, any longer. 

"And so your mother--did that, " Father muttered; and there was thequeer little catch in his breath again. 

He didn't say any more, not a single word. And after a minute he gotup and went into the house. But he didn't go into the library whereMrs. Small and Cousin Grace were talking. He went straight upstairsto his own room and shut the door. I heard it. And he was still therewhen I went up to bed afterwards. 

Well, I guess he doesn't feel any worse than I do. I thought at firstit was funny, a good joke--his trying to have me Marie while Motherwas making me over into Mary. But I see now that it isn't. It's awful. Why, how am I going to know at all who to be--now? Before, I used toknow just when to be Mary, and when to be Marie--Mary with Father, Marie with Mother. Now I don't know at all. Why, they can't evenseem to agree on that! I suppose it's just some more of thatincompatibility business showing up even when they are apart. And poorme--I have to suffer for it. I'm beginning to see that the child doessuffer--I mean the child of unlikes. 

Now, look at me right now--about my clothes, for instance. (Ofcourse clothes are a little thing, you may think; but I don't thinkanything's little that's always with you like clothes are!) Well, hereall summer, and even before I came, I've been wearing stuffy ginghamand clumpy shoes to please Father. And Father isn't pleased at all. Hewanted me to wear the Marie things. 

And there you are. 

How do you suppose Mother's going to feel when I tell her that afterall her pains Father didn't like it at all. He wanted me to be Marie. It's a shame, after all the pains she took. But I won't write it toher, anyway. Maybe I won't have to tell her, unless she _asks_ me. 

But _I_ know it. And, pray, what am I to do? Of course, I can _act_like Marie here all right, if that is what folks want. (I guess I havebeen doing it a good deal of the time, anyway, for I kept forgettingthat I was Mary. ) But I can't _wear_ Marie, for I haven't a singleMarie thing here. They're all Mary. That's all I brought. 

Oh, dear suz me! Why couldn't Father and Mother have been just thecommon live-happy-ever-after kind, or else found out before theymarried that they were unlikes?

 * * * * *

_September_. 

Well, vacation is over, and I go back to Boston to-morrow. It's beenvery nice and I've had a good time, in spite of being so mixed up asto whether I was Mary or Marie. It wasn't so bad as I was afraid itwould be. Very soon after Father and I had that talk on the piazza, Cousin Grace took me down to the store and bought me two new whitedresses, and the dearest little pair of shoes I ever saw. She saidFather wanted me to have them. 

And that's all--every single word that's been said about thatMary-and-Marie business. And even that didn't really _say_anything--not by name. And Cousin Grace never mentioned it again. AndFather never mentioned it at all. Not a word. 

But he's been queer. He's been awfully queer. Some days he's been justas he was when I first came this time--real talky and folksy, and asif he liked to be with us. Then for whole days at a time he'd be moreas he used to--stern, and stirring his coffee when there isn't anycoffee there; and staying all the evening and half the night out inhis observatory. 

Some days he's talked a lot with me--asked me questions just as heused to, all about what I did in Boston, and Mother, and the peoplethat came there to see her, and everything. And he spoke of theviolinist again, and, of course, this time I told him all about him, and that he didn't come any more, nor Mr. Easterbrook, either; andFather was _so_ interested! Why, it seemed sometimes as if he justcouldn't hear enough about things. Then, all of a sudden, at times, he'd get right up in the middle of something I was saying and act asif he was just waiting for me to finish my sentence so he could go. And he did go, just as soon as I _had_ finished my sentence. And afterthat, maybe, he wouldn't hardly speak to me again for a whole day. 

And so that's why I say he's been so queer since that night on thepiazza. But most of the time he's been lovely, perfectly lovely. Andso has Cousin Grace, And I've had a beautiful time. 

But I do wish they _would_ marry--Father and Cousin Grace, I mean. AndI'm not talking now entirely for the sake of the book. It's for theirsakes--especially for Father's sake. I've been thinking what Motherused to say about him, when she was talking about my being Mary--howhe was lonely, and needed a good, kind woman to make a home for him. And while I've been thinking of it, I've been watching him; and Ithink he does need a good, kind woman to make a home for him. I'd be_willing_ to have a new mother for his sake!

Oh, yes, I know he's got Cousin Grace, but he may not have her always. Maybe she'll be sent for same as Aunt Jane was. _Then_ what's he goingto do, I should like to know?

CHAPTER VIII

WHICH IS THE REAL LOVE STORY

BOSTON. _Four days later_. 

Well, here I am again in Boston. Mother and the rest met me at thestation, and everybody seemed glad to see me, just as they did before. And I was glad to see them. But I didn't feel anywhere near soexcited, and sort of crazy, as I did last year. I tried to, but Icouldn't. I don't know why. Maybe it was because I'd been Marie allsummer, anyway, so I wasn't so crazy to be Marie now, not needing anyrest from being Mary. Maybe it was 'cause I sort of hated to leaveFather. 

And I did hate to leave him, especially when I found he hated to haveme leave him. And he did. He told me so at the junction. You see, ourtrain was late, and we had to wait for it; and there was where he toldme. 

He had come all the way down there with me, just as he had before. Buthe hadn't acted the same at all. He didn't fidget this time, nor walkover to look at maps and time-tables, nor flip out his watch everyother minute with such a bored air that everybody knew he was seeingme off just as a duty. And he didn't ask if I was warmly clad, and hadI left anything, either. He just sat and talked to me, and he asked mehad I been a little happier there with him this year than last; and hesaid he hoped I had. 

And I told him, of course, I had; that it had been perfectly beautifulthere, even if there had been such a mix-up of him getting ready forMarie, and Mother sending Mary. And he laughed and looked queer--sortof half glad and half sorry; and said he shouldn't worry about that. Then the train came, and we got on and rode down to the junction. Andthere, while we were waiting for the other train, he told me how sorryhe was to have me go. 

He said I would never know how he missed me after I went last year. Hesaid you never knew how you missed things--and people--till they weregone. And I wondered if, by the way he said it, he wasn't thinkingof Mother more than he was of me, and of her going long ago. And helooked so sort of sad and sorry and noble and handsome, sitting therebeside me, that suddenly I 'most wanted to cry. And I told him I _did_love him, I loved him dearly, and I had loved to be with him thissummer, and that I'd stay his whole six months with him next year ifhe wanted me to. 

He shook his head at that; but he did look happy and pleased, and saidI'd never know how glad he was that I'd said that, and that he shouldprize it very highly--the love of his little daughter. He said younever knew how to prize love, either, till you'd lost it; and he saidhe'd learned his lesson, and learned it well. I knew then, of course, that he was thinking of Mother and the long ago. And I felt so sorryfor him. 

"But I'll stay--I'll stay the whole six months next year!" I criedagain. 

But again he shook his head. 

"No, no, my dear; I thank you, and I'd love to have you; but it ismuch better for you that you stay in Boston through the school year, and I want you to do it. It'll just make the three months I do haveyou all the dearer, because of the long nine months that I do not, "he went on very cheerfully and briskly; "and don't look so solemn andlong-faced. You're not to blame--for this wretched situation. "

The train came then, and he put me on board, and he kissed meagain--but I was expecting it this time, of course. Then I whizzedoff, and he was left standing all alone on the platform. And I feltso sorry for him; and all the way down to Boston I kept thinking ofhim--what he said, and how he looked, and how fine and splendid andany-woman-would-be-proud-of-him he was as he stood on the platformwaving good-bye. 

And so I guess I was still thinking of him and being sorry forhim when I got to Boston. That's why I couldn't be so crazy andhilariously glad when the folks met me, I suspect. Some way, all of asudden, I found myself wishing _he_ could be there, too. 

Of course, I knew that that was bad and wicked and unkind to Mother, and she'd feel so grieved not to have me satisfied with her. And Iwouldn't have told her of it for the world. So I tried just as hard asI could to forget him--on account of Mother, so as to be loyal to her. And I did 'most forget him by the time I'd got home. But it all cameback again a little later when we were unpacking my trunk. 

You see, Mother found the two new white dresses, and the dear littleshoes. I knew then, of course, that she'd have to know all--I mean, how she hadn't pleased Father, even after all her pains trying to haveme go as Mary. 

"Why, Marie, what in the world is this?" she demanded, holding up oneof the new dresses. 

I could have cried. 

I suppose she saw by my face how awfully I felt 'cause she'd found it. And, of course, she saw something was the matter; and she thought itwas--

Well, the first thing _I_ knew she was looking at me in her verysternest, sorriest way, and saying:

"Oh, Marie, how could you? I'm ashamed of you! Couldn't you wear theMary dresses one little three months to please your father?"

I did cry, then. After all I'd been through, to have her accuse _me_of getting those dresses! Well, I just couldn't stand it. And I toldher so as well as I could, only I was crying so by now that I couldhardly speak. I told her how it was hard enough to be Mary part of thetime, and Marie part of the time, when I _knew_ what they wanted me tobe. But when she tried to have me Mary while he wanted me Marie, andhe tried to have me Marie while she wanted me Mary--I did not knowwhat they wanted; and I wished I had never been born unless I couldhave been born a plain Susie or Bessie, or Annabelle, and not a MaryMarie that was all mixed up till I didn't know what I was. 

And then I cried some more. 

Mother dropped the dress then, and took me in her arms over on thecouch, and she said, "There, there, " and that I was tired and nervous, and all wrought up, and to cry all I wanted to. And by and by, when Iwas calmer I could tell Mother all about it. 

And I did. 

I told her how hard I tried to be Mary all the way up to Andersonvilleand after I got there; and how then I found out, all of a sudden oneday, that father had got ready for _Marie_, and he didn't want me tobe Mary, and that was why he had got Cousin Grace and the automobileand the geraniums in the window, and, oh, everything that made it niceand comfy and homey. And then is when they bought me the new whitedresses and the little white shoes. And I told Mother, of course, itwas lovely to be Marie, and I liked it, only I knew _she_ would feelbad to think, after all _her_ pains to make me Mary, Father didn'twant me Mary at all. 

"I don't think you need to worry--about that, " stammered Mother. Andwhen I looked at her, her face was all flushed, and sort of queer, butnot a bit angry. And she went on in the same odd little shaky voice:"But, tell me, why--why did--your father want you to be Marie and notMary?"

And then I told her how he said he'd remembered what I'd said to himin the parlor that day--how tired I got being Mary, and how I'd puton Marie's things just to get a little vacation from her; and he saidhe'd never forgotten. And so when it came near time for me to comeagain, he determined to fix it so I wouldn't have to be Mary at all. And so that was why. And I told Mother it was all right, and of courseI liked it; only it _did_ mix me up awfully, not knowing which wantedme to be Mary now, and which Marie, when they were both telling medifferent from what they ever had before. And that it was hard, whenyou were trying just the best you knew how. 

And I began to cry again. 

And she said there, there, once more, and patted me on my shoulder, and told me I needn't worry any more. And that _she_ understood it, if I didn't. In fact, she was beginning to understand a lot of thingsthat she'd never understood before. And she said it was very, verydear of Father to do what he did, and that I needn't worry about herbeing displeased at it. That she was pleased, and that she believed hemeant her to be. And she said I needn't think any more whether to beMary or Marie; but to be just a good, loving little daughter to bothof them; and that was all she asked, and she was very sure it was allFather would ask, too. 

I told her then how I thought he _did_ care a little about havingme there, and that I knew he was going to miss me. And I told herwhy--what he'd said that morning in the junction--about appreciatinglove, and not missing things or people until you didn't have them; andhow he'd learned his lesson, and all that. 

And Mother grew all flushed and rosy again, but she was pleased. Iknew she was. And she said some beautiful things about making otherpeople happy, instead of looking to ourselves all the time, just asshe had talked once, before I went away. And I felt again that hushed, stained-window, soft-music, everybody-kneeling kind of a way; and Iwas so happy! And it lasted all the rest of that evening till I wentto sleep. 

And for the first time a beautiful idea came to me, when I thought howMother was trying to please Father, and he was trying to please her. Wouldn't it be perfectly lovely and wonderful if Father and Mothershould fall in love with each other all over again, and get married? Iguess _then_ this would be a love story all right, all right!

 * * * * *

_October. _

Oh, how I wish that stained-window, everybody-kneeling feeling _would_last. But it never does. Just the next morning, when I woke up, itrained. And I didn't feel pleased a bit. Still I remembered whathad happened the night before, and a real glow came over me at thebeautiful idea I had gone to sleep with. 

I wanted to tell Mother, and ask her if it couldn't be, and wouldn'tshe let it be, if Father would. So, without waiting to dress me, Ihurried across the hall to her room and told her all about it--myidea, and everything. 

But she said, "Nonsense, " and, "Hush, hush, " when I asked her if sheand Father couldn't fall in love all over again and get married. Andshe said not to get silly notions into my head. And she wasn't a bitflushed and teary, as she had been the night before, and she didn'ttalk at all as she had then, either. And it's been that way eversince. Things have gone along in just the usual humdrum way, and she'snever been the same as she was that night I came. 

Something--a little something--_did_ happen yesterday, though. There'sgoing to be another big astronomy meeting here in Boston this month, just as there was when Father found Mother years ago; and Grandfatherbrought home word that Father was going to be one of the chiefspeakers. And he told Mother he supposed she'd go and hear him. 

I couldn't make out whether he was joking or not. (I never can tellwhen Grandfather's joking. ) But Aunt Hattie took it right up inearnest, and said, "Pooh, pooh, " she guessed not. She could _see_Madge going down to that hall to hear Dr. Anderson speak!

And then a funny thing happened. I looked at Mother, and I saw herhead come up with a queer little jerk. 

"Well, yes, I am thinking of going, " she said, just as calm and coolas could be. "When does he speak, Father?"

And when Aunt Hattie pooh-poohed some more, and asked how _could_ shedo such a thing, Mother answered:

"Because Charles Anderson is the father of my little girl, and I thinkshe should hear him speak. Therefore, Hattie, I intend to take her. "

And then she asked Grandfather again when Father was going to speak. 

I'm so excited! Only think of seeing my father up on a big platformwith a lot of big men, and hearing him speak! And he'll be the verysmartest and handsomest one there, too. You see if he isn't!

 * * * * *

_Two weeks and one day later_. 

Oh, I've got a lot to write this time--I mean, a lot has happened. Still, I don't know as it's going to take so very long to tell it. Besides, I'm almost too excited to write, anyway. But I'm going to dothe best I can to tell it, just as it happened. 

Father's here--right here in Boston. I don't know when he came. Butthe first day of the meeting was day before yesterday, and he was herethen. The paper said he was, and his picture was there, too. Therewere a lot of pictures, but his was away ahead of the others. It wasthe very best one on the page. (I told you it would be that way. )

Mother saw it first. That is, I think she did. She had the paper inher hand, looking at it, when I came into the room; but as soon as shesaw me she laid it right down quick on the table. If she hadn't beenquite so quick about it, and if she hadn't looked quite so queer whenshe did it, I wouldn't have thought anything at all. But when I wentover to the table after she had gone, and saw the paper with Father'spicture right on the first page--and the biggest picture there--I knewthen, of course, what she'd been looking at. 

I looked at it then, and I read what it said, too. It was lovely. Why, I hadn't any idea Father was so big. I was prouder than ever of him. It told all about the stars and comets he'd discovered, and the bookshe'd written on astronomy, and how he was president of the college atAndersonville, and that he was going to give an address the next day. And I read it all--every word. And I made up my mind right there andthen that I'd cut out that piece and save it. 

But that night, when I went to the library cupboard to get the paper, I couldn't do it, after all. Oh, the paper was there, but that pagewas gone. There wasn't a bit of it left. Somebody had taken it rightout. I never thought then of Mother. But I believe now that it _was_Mother, for--

But I mustn't tell you that part now. Stories are just like meals. Youhave to eat them--I mean tell them--in regular order, and not put theice-cream in where the soup ought to be. So I'm not going to tell yetwhy I suspect it was Mother that cut out that page of the paper withFather's picture in it. 

Well, the next morning was Father's lecture, and I went with Mother. Of course Grandfather was there, too, but he was with the otherastronomers, I guess. Anyhow, he didn't sit with us. And Aunt Hattiedidn't go at all. So Mother and I were alone. 

We sat back--a long ways back. I wanted to go up front, real farfront--the front seat, if I could get it; and I told Mother so. Butshe said, "Mercy, no!" and shuddered, and went back two more rows fromwhere she was, and got behind a big post. 

I guess she was afraid Father would see us, but that's what _I_wanted. I wanted him to see us. I wanted him to be right in the middleof his lecture and look down and see right there before him his littlegirl Mary, and she that had been the wife of his bosom. Now _that_would have been what I called thrilling, real thrilling, especially ifhe jumped or grew red, or white, or stammered, or stopped short, oranything to show that he'd seen us--and cared. 

I'd have loved that. 

But we sat back where Mother wanted to, behind the post. And, ofcourse, Father never saw us at all. 

It was a lovely lecture. Oh, of course, I don't mean to say that Iunderstood it. I didn't. But his voice was fine, and he looked justtoo grand for anything, with the light on his noble brow, and he usedthe loveliest big words that I ever heard. And folks clapped, andlooked at each other, and nodded, and once or twice they laughed. Andwhen he was all through they clapped again, harder than ever. And Iwas so proud of him I wanted to stand right up and holler, "He's myfather! He's my father!" just as loud as I could. But, of course, Ididn't. I just clapped like the rest; only I wished my hands were biglike the man's next to me, so I could have made more noise. 

Another man spoke then, a little (not near so good as Father), andthen it was all over, and everybody got up to go; and I saw that alot of folks were crowding down the aisle, and I looked and there wasFather right in front of the platform shaking hands with folks. 

I looked at Mother then. Her face was all pinky-white, and her eyeswere shining. I guess she thought I spoke, for all of a sudden sheshook her head and said:

"No, no, I couldn't, I couldn't! But _you_ may, dear. Run along andspeak to him; but don't stay. Remember, Mother is waiting, and comeright back. "

I knew then that it must have been just my eyes that spoke, for I_did_ want to go down there and speak to Father. Oh, I did want to go!And I went then, of course. 

He didn't see me at first. There was a long line of us, and a big fatman was doing a lot of talking to him so we couldn't move at all, fora time. Then it came to when I was just three people away from him. And I was looking straight at him. 

He saw me then. And, oh, how I did love the look that came to hisface; it was so surprised and glad, and said, "Oh! _You_!" in such aperfectly lovely way that I choked all up and wanted to _cry_. (Theidea!--cry when I was so _glad_ to see him!)

I guess the two folks ahead of me didn't think they got muchattention, and the next minute he had drawn me out of the line, and wewere both talking at once, and telling each other how glad we were tosee each other. 

But he was looking for Mother--I know he was; for the next minuteafter he saw me, he looked right over my head at the woman back of me. And all the while he was talking with me, his eyes would look at meand then leap as swift as lightning first here, and then there, allover the hall. But he didn't see her. I knew he didn't see her, by thelook on his face. And pretty quick I said I'd have to go. And then hesaid:

"Your mother--perhaps she didn't--_did_ she come?" And his face grewall red and rosy as he asked the question. 

And I said yes, and she was waiting, and that was why I had to go backright away. 

And he said, "Yes, yes, to be sure, " and, "good-bye. " But he stillheld my hand tight, and his eyes were still roving all over the house. And I had to tell him again that I really had to go; and I had to pullreal determined at my hand, before I could break away. And I don'tbelieve I could have gone even then if some other folks hadn't come upat that minute. 

I went back to Mother then. The hall was almost empty, and she wasn'tanywhere in sight at all; but I found her just outside the door. Iknew then why Father's face showed that he hadn't found her. Shewasn't there to find. I suspect she had looked out for that. 

Her face was still pinky-white, and her eyes were shining; and shewanted to know everything we had said--everything. So she found out, of course, that he had asked if she was there. But she didn't sayanything herself, not anything. She didn't say anything, either, atthe luncheon table, when Grandfather was talking with Aunt Hattieabout the lecture, and telling some of the things Father had said. 

Grandfather said it was an admirable address, scholarly andconvincing, or something like that. And he said that he thought Dr. Anderson had improved greatly in looks and manner. And he lookedstraight at Mother when he said that; but still Mother never said aword. 

In the afternoon I went to walk with one of the girls; and when I camein I couldn't find Mother. She wasn't anywhere downstairs, nor in herroom, nor mine, nor anywhere else on that floor. Aunt Hattie said no, she wasn't out, but that she was sure she didn't know where she was. She must be somewhere in the house. 

I went upstairs then, another flight. There wasn't anywhere else togo, and Mother must be _somewhere_, of course. And it seemed suddenlyto me as if I'd just _got_ to find her. I _wanted_ her so. 

And I found her. 

In the little back room where Aunt Hattie keeps her trunks andmoth-ball bags, Mother was on the floor in the corner crying. And whenI exclaimed out and ran over to her, I found she was sitting besidean old trunk that was open; and across her lap was a perfectly lovelypale-blue satin dress all trimmed with silver lace that had grownblack. And Mother was crying and crying as if her heart would break. 

Of course, I tried and tried to stop her, and I begged her to tell mewhat was the matter. But I couldn't do a thing, not a thing, not fora long time. Then I happened to say what a lovely dress, only what apity it was that the lace was all black. 

She gave a little choking cry then, and began to talk--little shortsentences all choked up with sobs, so that I could hardly tell whatshe was talking about. Then, little by little, I began to understand. 

She said yes, it was all black--tarnished; and that it was just likeeverything that she had had anything to do with--tarnished: herlife and her marriage, and Father's life, and mine--everything wastarnished, just like that silver lace on that dress. And she had doneit by her thoughtless selfishness and lack of self-discipline. 

And when I tried and tried to tell her no, it wasn't, and that Ididn't feel tarnished a bit, and that she wasn't, nor Father either, she only cried all the more, and shook her head and began again, allchoked up. 

She said this little dress was the one she wore at the big receptionwhere she first met Father. It was a beautiful blue then, all shiningand spotless, and the silver lace glistened like frost in thesunlight. And she was so proud and happy when Father--and he was fineand splendid and handsome then, too, she said--singled her out, andjust couldn't seem to stay away from her a minute all the evening. Andthen four days later he asked her to marry him; and she was still moreproud and happy. 

And she said their married life, when they started out, was just likethat beautiful dress, all shining and spotless and perfect; but thatit wasn't two months before a little bit of tarnish appeared, and thenanother and another. 

She said she was selfish and willful and exacting, and wanted Fatherall to herself; and she didn't stop to think that he had his work todo, and his place to make in the world; and that all of living, tohim, wasn't just in being married to her, and attending to her everywhim. She said she could see it all now, but that she couldn't then, she was too young, and undisciplined, and she'd never been denied athing in the world she wanted. As she said that, right before my eyesrose that box of chocolates she made me eat one at a time; but, ofcourse, I didn't say anything! Besides, Mother hurried right ontalking. 

She said things went on worse and worse--and it was all her fault. Shegrew sour and cross and disagreeable. She could see now that she did. But she did not realize at all then what she was doing. She was justthinking of herself--always herself; her rights, her wrongs, her hurtfeelings, her wants and wishes. She never once thought that _he_ hadrights and wrongs and hurt feelings, maybe. 

And so the tarnish kept growing more and more. She said there wasnothing like selfishness to tarnish the beautiful fabric of marriedlife. (Isn't that a lovely sentence? I said that over and over tomyself so as to be sure and remember it, so I could get it into thisstory. I thought it was beautiful. )

She said a lot more--oh, ever so much more; but I can't remember itall. (I lost some while I was saying that sentence over and over, soas to remember it. ) I know that she went on to say that by and by thetarnish began to dim the brightness of my life, too; and that was theworst of all, she said--that innocent children should suffer, andtheir young lives be spotted by the kind of living I'd had to have, with this wretched makeshift of a divided home. She began to cry againthen, and begged me to forgive her, and I cried and tried to tell herI didn't mind it; but, of course, I'm older now, and I know I do mindit, though I'm trying just as hard as I can not to be Mary when Iought to be Marie, or Marie when I ought to be Mary. Only I get allmixed up so, lately, and I said so, and I guess I cried some more. 

Mother jumped up then, and said, "Tut, tut, " what was she thinking ofto talk like this when it couldn't do a bit of good, but only madematters worse. And she said that only went to prove how she was stillkeeping on tarnishing my happiness and bringing tears to my brighteyes, when certainly nothing of the whole wretched business was myfault. 

She thrust the dress back into the trunk then, and shut the lid. Thenshe took me downstairs and bathed my eyes and face with cold water, and hers, too. And _she_ began to talk and laugh and tell stories, andbe gayer and jollier than I'd seen her for ever so long. And she wasthat way at dinner, too, until Grandfather happened to mention thereception to-morrow night, and ask if she was going. 

She flushed up red then, oh, so red! and said, "Certainly not. " Thenshe added quick, with a funny little drawing-in of her breath, thatshe should let Marie go, though, with her Aunt Hattie. 

There was an awful fuss then. Aunt Hattie raised her eyebrows andthrew up her hands, and said:

"That child--in the evening! Why, Madge, are you crazy?"

And Mother said no, she wasn't crazy at all; but it was the onlychance Father would have to see me, and she didn't feel that she hadany right to deprive him of that privilege, and she didn't think itwould do me any harm to be out this once late in the evening. And sheintended to let me go. 

Aunt Hattie still didn't approve, and she said more, quite a lot more;but Grandfather spoke up and took my part, and said that, in hisopinion, Madge was right, quite right, and that it was no more thanfair that the man should have a chance to talk with his own child fora little while, and that he would be very glad to take me himself andlook after me, if Aunt Hattie did not care to take the trouble. 

Aunt Hattie bridled up at that, and said that that wasn't the case atall; that she'd be very glad to look after me; and if Mother had quitemade up her mind that she wanted me to go, they'd call the mattersettled. 

And Mother said she had, and so it was settled. And I'm going. I'm towear my new white dress with the pink rosebud trimming, and I'm soexcited I can hardly wait till to-morrow night. But--oh, if onlyMother would go, too!

 * * * * *

_Two days later_. 

Well, _now_ I guess something's doing all right! And my hand isshaking so I can hardly write--it wants to get ahead so fast and_tell_. But I'm going to keep it sternly back and tell it just as ithappened, and not begin at the ice-cream instead of the soup. 

Very well, then. I went last night with Grandfather and Aunt Hattieto the reception; and Mother said I looked very sweet, andany-father-ought-to-be-proud-of me in my new dress. Grandfather pattedme, put on his glasses, and said, "Well, well, bless my soul! Is thisour little Mary Marie?" And even Aunt Hattie said if I acted as wellas I looked I'd do very well. Then Mother kissed me and ran upstairs_quick_. But I saw the tears in her eyes, and I knew why she hurriedso. 

At the reception I saw Father right away, but he didn't see me for along time. He stood in a corner, and lots of folks came up and spoketo him and shook hands; and he bowed and smiled--but in between, whenthere wasn't anybody noticing, he looked so tired and bored. After atime he stirred and changed his position, and I think he was huntingfor a chance to get away, when all of a sudden his eyes, roving aroundthe room, lighted on me. 

My! but just didn't I love the way he came through that crowd, straight toward me, without paying one bit of attention to the folksthat tried to stop him on the way. And when he got to me, he looked soglad to see me, only there was the same quick searching with his eyes, beyond and around me, as if he was looking for somebody else, just ashe had done the morning of the lecture. And I knew it was Mother, ofcourse. So I said:

"No, she didn't come. "

"So I see, " he answered. And there was such a hurt, sorry look awayback in his eyes. But right away he smiled, and said: "But _you_ came!I've got _you_. "

Then he began to talk and tell stories, just as if I was a young ladyto be entertained. And he took me over to where they had things toeat, and just heaped my plate with chicken patties and sandwiches andolives and pink-and-white frosted cakes and ice-cream (not all atonce, of course, but in order). And I had a perfectly beautiful time. And Father seemed to like it pretty well. But after a while he grewsober again, and his eyes began to rove all around the room. 

He took me to a little seat in the corner then, and we sat down andbegan to talk--only Father didn't talk much. He just listened to whatI said, and his eyes grew deeper and darker and sadder, and theydidn't rove around so much, after a time, but just stared fixedly atnothing, away out across the room. By and by he stirred and drew along sigh, and said, almost under his breath:

"It was just such another night as this. "

And of course, I asked what was--and then I knew, almost before he hadtold me. 

"That I first saw your mother, my dear. "

"Oh, yes, I know!" I cried, eager to tell him that I _did_ know. "Andshe must have looked lovely in that perfectly beautiful blue silkdress all silver lace. "

He turned and stared at me. 

"How did _you_ know that?" he demanded. 

"I saw it. "

"You saw it!"

"Yesterday, yes--the dress, " I nodded. 

"But how _could_ you?" he asked, frowning, and looking so surprised. "Why, that dress must be--seventeen years old, or more. "

I nodded again, and I suppose I did look pleased: it's such fun tohave a secret, you know, and watch folks guess and wonder. And I kepthim guessing and wondering for quite a while. Then, of course, I toldhim that it was upstairs in Grandfather's trunk-room; that Mother hadgot it out, and I saw it. 

"But, what--was your mother doing with that dress?" he asked then, looking even more puzzled and mystified. 

And then suddenly I thought and remembered that Mother was crying. And, of course, she wouldn't want Father to know she was crying overit--that dress she had worn when he first met her long ago! (I don'tthink women ever want men to know such things, do you? I know Ishouldn't!) So I didn't tell. I just kind of tossed it off, andmumbled something about her looking it over; and I was going to saysomething else, but I saw that Father wasn't listening. He had begunto talk again, softly, as if to himself. 

"I suppose to-night, seeing you, and all this, brought it back to meso vividly. " Then he turned and looked at me. "You are very like yourmother to-night, dear. "

"I suppose I am, maybe, when I'm Marie, " I nodded. 

He laughed with his lips, but his eyes didn't laugh one bit as hesaid:

"What a quaint little fancy of yours that is, child--as if you weretwo in one. "

"But I am two in one, " I declared. "That's why I'm a cross-current anda contradiction, you know, " I explained. 

I thought he'd understand. But he didn't. I supposed, of course, heknew what a cross-current and a contradiction was. But he turned againand stared at me. 

"A--_what_?" he demanded. 

"A cross-current and a contradiction, " I explained once more. "Children of unlikes, you know. Nurse Sarah told me that long ago. Didn't you ever hear that--that a child of unlikes was a cross-currentand a contradiction?"

"Well, no--I--hadn't, " answered Father, in a queer, half-smotheredvoice. He half started from his seat. I think he was going to walk upand down, same as he usually does. But in a minute he saw he couldn't, of course, with all those people around there. So he sat back again inhis chair. For a minute he just frowned and stared at nothing; then hespoke again, as if half to himself. 

"I suppose, Mary, we were--unlikes, your mother and I. That's justwhat we were; though I never thought of it before, in just that way. "

He waited, then went on, still half to himself, his eyes on thedancers:

"She loved things like this--music, laughter, gayety. I abhorred them. I remember how bored I was that night here--till I saw her. "

"And did you fall in love with her right away?" I just couldn't helpasking that question. Oh, I do so adore love stories!

A queer little smile came to Father's lips. 

"Well, yes, I think I did, Mary. There'd been dozens and dozens ofyoung ladies that had flitted by in their airy frocks--and I neverlooked twice at them. I never looked twice at your mother, for thatmatter, Mary. " (A funny little twinkle came into Father's eyes. I_love_ him with that twinkle!) "I just looked at her once--and thenkept on looking till it seemed as if I just couldn't take my eyes offher. And after a little her glance met mine--and the whole throngmelted away, and there wasn't another soul in the room but just ustwo. Then she looked away, and the throng came back. But I stilllooked at her. "

"Was she so awfully pretty, Father?" I could feel the little thrillstingling all over me. _Now_ I was getting a love story!

"She was, my dear. She was very lovely. But it wasn't just that--itwas a joyous something that I could not describe. It was as if shewere a bird, poised for flight. I know it now for what it was--thevery incarnation of the spirit of youth. And she _was_ young. Why, Mary, she was not so many years older than you yourself, now. "

I nodded, and I guess I sighed. 

"I know--where the brook and river meet, " I said; "only they won't let_me_ have any lovers at all. "

"Eh? What?" Father had turned and was looking at me so funny. "Well, no, I should say not, " he said then. "You aren't sixteen yet. And yourmother--I suspect _she_ was too young. If she hadn't been quite soyoung--"

He stopped, and stared again straight ahead at the dancers--withoutseeing one of them, I knew. Then he drew a great deep sigh that seemedto come from the very bottom of his boots. 

"But it was my fault, my fault, every bit of it, " he muttered, stillstaring straight ahead. "If I hadn't been so thoughtless--As if Icould imprison that bright spirit of youth in a great dull cage ofconventionality, and not expect it to bruise its wings by flutteringagainst the bars!"

I thought that was perfectly beautiful--that sentence. I said it rightover to myself two or three times so I wouldn't forget how to write itdown here. So I didn't quite hear the next things that Father said. But when I did notice, I found he was still talking--and it was aboutMother, and him, and their marriage, and their first days at the oldhouse. I knew it was that, even if he did mix it all up about thespirit of youth beating its wings against the bars. And over and overagain he kept repeating that it was his fault, it was his fault; andif he could only live it over again he'd do differently. 

And right there and then it came to me that Mother said it was herfault, too; and that if only she could live it over again, _she'd_ dodifferently. And here was Father saying the same thing. And all of asudden I thought, well, why can't they try it over again, if they bothwant to, and if each says it, was their--no, his, no, hers--well, hisand her fault. (How does the thing go? I hate grammar!) But I mean, ifshe says it's her fault, and he says it's his. That's what I thought, anyway. And I determined right then and there to give them the chanceto try again, if speaking would do it. 

I looked up at Father. He was still talking half under his breath, hiseyes looking straight ahead. He had forgotten all about me. That wasplain to be seen. If I'd been a cup of coffee without any coffee init, he'd have been stirring me. I know he would. He was like that. 

"Father. _Father!_" I had to speak twice, before he heard me. "Do youreally mean that you would like to try again?" I asked. 

"Eh? What?" And just the way he turned and looked at me showed howmany _miles_ he'd been away from me. 

"Try it again, you know--what you said, " I reminded him. 

"Oh, that!" Such a funny look came to his face, half ashamed, halfvexed. "I'm afraid I _have_ been--talking, my dear. "

"Yes, but would you?" I persisted. 

He shook his head; then, with such an oh-that-it-could-be! smile, hesaid:

"Of course;--we all wish that we could go back and do it overagain--differently. But we never can. "

"I know; like the cloth that's been cut up into the dress, " I nodded. 

"Cloth? Dress?" frowned Father. 

"Yes, that Mother told me about, " I explained. Then I told him thestory that Mother had told me--how you couldn't go back and beunmarried, just as you were before, any more than you could put thecloth back on the shelf, all neatly folded in a great long web afterit had been cut up into a dress. 

"Did your mother say--that?" asked Father. His voice was husky, andhis eyes were turned away, but they were not looking at the dancers. He was listening to me now. I knew that, and so I spoke quick, beforehe could get absent-minded again. 

"Yes, but, Father, you can go back, in this case, and so can Mother, 'cause you both want to, " I hurried on, almost choking in my anxietyto get it all out quickly. "And Mother said it was _her_ fault. Iheard her. "

"_Her_ fault!" I could see that Father did not quite understand, evenyet. 

"Yes, yes, just as you said it was yours--about all those things atthe first, you know, when--when she was a spirit of youth beatingagainst the bars. "

Father turned square around and faced me. 

"Mary, what are you talking about?" he asked then. And I'd have beenscared of his voice if it hadn't been for the great light that wasshining in his eyes. 

But I looked into his eyes, and wasn't scared; and I told himeverything, every single thing--all about how Mother had cried overthe little blue dress that day in the trunk-room, and how she hadshown the tarnished lace and said that _she_ had tarnished thehappiness of him and of herself and of me; and that it was all herfault; that she was thoughtless and willful and exacting and a spoiledchild; and, oh, if she could only try it over again, how differentlyshe would do! And there was a lot more. I told everything--everythingI could remember. Some way, I didn't believe that Mother would mind_now_, after what Father had said. And I just knew she wouldn't mindif she could see the look in Father's eyes as I talked. 

He didn't interrupt me--not long interruptions. He did speak out aquick little word now and then, at some of the parts; and once I knowI saw him wipe a tear from his eyes. After that he put up his hand andsat with his eyes covered all the rest of the time I was talking. Andhe didn't take it down till I said:

"And so, Father, that's why I told you; 'cause it seemed to me if_you_ wanted to try again, and _she_ wanted to try again, why can'tyou do it? Oh, Father, think how perfectly lovely 'twould be if youdid, and if it worked! Why, I wouldn't care whether I was Mary orMarie, or what I was. I'd have you and Mother both together, and, oh, how I should love it!"

It was just here that Father's arm came out and slipped around me in agreat big hug. 

"Bless your heart! But, Mary, my dear, how are we going to--to bringthis about?" And he actually stammered and blushed, and he lookedalmost young with his eyes so shining and his lips so smiling. Andthen is when my second great idea came to me. 

"Oh, Father!" I cried, "couldn't you come courting her again--callsand flowers and candy, and all the rest? Oh, Father, couldn't you?Why, Father, of course, you could!"

This last I added in my most persuasive voice, for I could see the"no" on his face even before he began to shake his head. 

"I'm afraid not, my dear, " he said then. "It would take more thana flower or a bonbon to to win your mother back now, I fear. "

"But you could try, " I urged. 

He shook his head again. 

"She wouldn't see me--if I called, my dear, " he answered. 

He sighed as he said it, and I sighed, too. And for a minute I didn'tsay anything. Of course, if she wouldn't _see_ him--

Then another idea came to me. 

"But, Father, if she _would_ see you--I mean, if you got a chance, you_would_ tell her what you told me just now; about--about its beingyour fault, I mean, and the spirit of youth beating against the bars, and all that. You would, wouldn't you?"

He didn't say anything, not anything, for such a long time I thoughthe hadn't heard me. Then, with a queer, quick drawing-in of hisbreath, he said:

"I think--little girl--if--if I ever got the chance I would say--agreat deal more than I said to you to-night. "

"Good!" I just crowed the word, and I think I clapped my hands; butright away I straightened up and was very fine and dignified, for Isaw Aunt Hattie looking at me from across the room, as I said:

"Very good, then. You shall have the chance. "

He turned and smiled a little, but he shook his head. 

"Thank you, child; but I don't think you know quite what you'repromising, " he said. 

"Yes, I do. "

Then I told him my idea. At first he said no, and it couldn't be, andhe was very sure she wouldn't see him, even if he called. But I saidshe would if he would do exactly as I said. And I told him my plan. And after a time and quite a lot of talk, he said he would agree toit. 

And this morning we did it. 

At exactly ten o'clock he came up the steps of the house here, but hedidn't ring the bell. I had told him not to do that, and I was on thewatch for him. I knew that at ten o'clock Grandfather would be gone, Aunt Hattie probably downtown shopping, and Lester out with hisgoverness. I wasn't so sure of Mother, but I knew it was Saturday, andI believed I could manage somehow to keep her here with me, so thateverything would be all right there. 

And I did. I had a hard time, though. Seems as if she proposedeverything to do this morning--shopping, and a walk, and a call ona girl I knew who was sick. But I said I did not feel like doinganything but just to stay at home and rest quietly with her. (Whichwas the truth--I _didn't_ feel like doing _anything else_!) But thatalmost made matters worse than ever, for she said that was so totallyunlike me that she was afraid I must be sick; and I had all I could doto keep her from calling a doctor. 

[Illustration: THEN I TOLD HIM MY IDEA]

But I did it; and at five minutes before ten she was sitting quietlysewing in her own room. Then I went downstairs to watch for Father. 

He came just on the dot, and I let him in and took him into thelibrary. Then I went upstairs and told Mother there was some onedownstairs who wanted to see her. 

And she said, how funny, and wasn't there any name, and where was themaid. But I didn't seem to hear. I had gone into my room in quite ahurry, as if I had forgotten something I wanted to do there. But, of course, I didn't do a thing--except to make sure that she wentdownstairs to the library. 

They're there now _together_. And he's been here a whole hour already. Seems as if he ought to say _something_ in that length of time!

After I was sure Mother was down, I took out this, and began to writein it. And I've been writing ever since. But, oh, I do so wonderwhat's going on down there. I'm so excited over--

 * * * * *

_One week later_. 

At just that minute Mother came into the room. I wish you could haveseen her. My stars, but she looked pretty!--with her shining eyes andthe lovely pink in her cheeks. And _young_! Honestly, I believe shelooked younger than I did that minute. 

She just came and put her arms around me and kissed me; and I sawthen that her eyes were all misty with tears. She didn't say a word, hardly, only that Father wanted to see me, and I was to go right down. 

And I went. 

I thought, of course, that she was coming too. But she didn't. Andwhen I got down the stairs I found I was all alone; but I went righton into the library, and there was Father waiting for me. 

_He_ didn't say much, either, at first; but just like Mother he puthis arms around me and kissed me, and held me there. Then, very soon, he began to talk; and, oh, he said such beautiful things--_such_tender, lovely, sacred things; too sacred even to write down here. Then he kissed me again and went away. 

But he came back the next day, and he's been here some part of everyday since. And, oh, what a wonderful week it has been!

They're going to be married. It's to-morrow. They'd have been marriedright away at the first, only they had to wait--something aboutlicenses and a five-day notice, Mother said. Father fussed and fumed, and wanted to try for a special dispensation, or something; but Motherlaughed, and said certainly not, and that she guessed it was just aswell, for she positively _had_ to have a few things; and he needn'tthink he could walk right in like that on a body and expect her toget married at a moment's notice. But she didn't mean it. I know shedidn't; for when Father reproached her, she laughed softly, and calledhim an old goose, and said, yes, of course, she'd have married himin two minutes if it hadn't been for the five-day notice, no matterwhether she ever had a new dress or not. 

And that's the way it is with them all the time. They're too funny andlovely together for anything. (Aunt Hattie says they're too silly foranything; but nobody minds Aunt Hattie. ) They just can't seem to doenough for each other. Father was going next week to a place 'way onthe other side of the world to view an eclipse of the moon, but hesaid right off he'd give it up. But Mother said, "No, indeed, " sheguessed he _wouldn't_ give it up; that he was going, and that she wasgoing, too--a wedding trip; and that she was sure she didn't know abetter place to go for a wedding trip than the moon! And Father was_so_ pleased. And he said he'd try not to pay all his attention to thestars this time; and Mother laughed and said, "Nonsense, " and that sheadored stars herself, and that he _must_ pay attention to the stars. It was his business to. Then she looked very wise and got offsomething she'd read in the astronomy book. And they both laughed, andlooked over to me to see if I was noticing. And I was. And so then weall laughed. 

And, as I said before, it is all perfectly lovely and wonderful. 

So it's all settled, and they're going right away on this trip andcall it a wedding trip. And, of course, Grandfather had to get off hisjoke about how he thought it was a pretty dangerous business; and tosee that _this_ honeymoon didn't go into an eclipse while they werewatching the other one. But nobody minds Grandfather. 

I'm to stay here and finish school. Then, in the spring, when Fatherand Mother come back, we are all to go to Andersonville and begin tolive in the old house again. 

Won't it be lovely? It just seems too good to be true. Why, I don'tcare a bit now whether I'm Mary or Marie. But, then, nobody else does, either. In fact, both of them call me the whole name now, Mary Marie. I don't think they ever _said_ they would. They just began to do it. That's all. 

Of course, anybody can see why: _now_ each one is calling me the otherone's name along with their own. That is, Mother is calling me Maryalong with her pet Marie, and Father is calling me Marie along withhis pet Mary. 

Funny, isn't it?

But one thing is sure, anyway. How about this being a love story_now_? Oh, I'm so excited!

CHAPTER IX

WHICH IS THE TEST

ANDERSONVILLE. _Twelve years later_. 

_Twelve years_--yes. And I'm twenty-eight years old. Pretty old, little Mary Marie of the long ago would think. And, well, perhapsto-day I feel just as old as she would put it. 

I came up into the attic this morning to pack away some things I shallno longer need, now that I am going to leave Jerry. (Jerry ismy husband. ) And in the bottom of my little trunk I found thismanuscript. I had forgotten that such a thing existed; but with itslaboriously written pages before me, it all came back to me; and Ibegan to read; here a sentence; there a paragraph; somewhere else apage. Then, with a little half laugh and half sob, I carried it to anold rocking-chair by the cobwebby dormer window, and settled myself toread it straight through. 

And I have read it. 

Poor little Mary Marie! Dear little Mary Marie! To meet you like this, to share with you your joys and sorrows, hopes and despairs, ofthose years long ago, is like sitting hand in hand on a sofa with achildhood's friend, each listening to an eager "And do you remember?"falling constantly from delighted lips that cannot seem to talk halffast enough. 

But you have taught me much, little Mary Marie. I understand--oh, Iunderstand so many things so much better, now, since reading thislittle story in your round childish hand. You see, I had almostforgotten that I was a Mary and a Marie--Jerry calls me Mollie--and Ihad wondered what were those contending forces within me. I know now. It is the Mary and the Marie trying to settle their old, old quarrel. 

It was almost dark when I had finished the manuscript. The far cornersof the attic were peopled with fantastic shadows, and the spiders inthe window were swaying, lazy and full-stomached, in the midst of theday's spoils of gruesome wings and legs. I got up slowly, stiffly, shivering a little. I felt suddenly old and worn and ineffably weary. It is a long, long journey back to our childhood--sometimes, eventhough one may be only twenty-eight. 

I looked down at the last page of the manuscript. It was written onthe top sheet of a still thick pad of paper, and my fingers fairlytingled suddenly, to go on and cover those unused white sheets--tellwhat happened next--tell the rest of the story; not for the sake ofthe story--but for my sake. It might help me. It might make thingsclearer. It might help to justify myself in my own eyes. Not that Ihave any doubts, of course (about leaving Jerry, I mean), but thatwhen I saw it in black and white I could be even more convinced that Iwas doing what was best for him and best for me. 

So I brought the manuscript down to my own room, and this evening Ihave commenced to write. I can't finish it to-night, of course. But Ihave to-morrow, and still to-morrow. (I have so many to-morrows now!And what do they all amount to?) And so I'll just keep writing, as Ihave time, till I bring it to the end. 

I'm sorry that it must be so sad and sorry an end. But there's noother way, of course. There can be but one ending, as I can see. I'msorry. Mother'll be sorry, too. She doesn't know yet. I hate to tellher. Nobody knows--not even Jerry himself--yet. They all think I'mjust making a visit to Mother--and I am--till I write that letter toJerry. And then--

I believe now that I'll wait till I've finished writing this. I'llfeel better then. My mind will be clearer. I'll know more what to say. Just the effort of writing it down--

Of course, if Jerry and I hadn't--

But this is no way to begin. Like the little Mary Marie of long ago Iam in danger of starting my dinner with ice-cream instead of soup!And so I must begin where I left off, of course. And that was at thewedding. 

I remember that wedding as if it were yesterday. I can see now, withMary Marie's manuscript before me, why it made so great an impressionupon me. It was a very quiet wedding, of course--just the membersof the family present. But I shall never forget the fine, sweetloveliness of Mother's face, nor the splendid strength and tendernessof Father's. And the way he drew her into his arms and kissed her, after it was all over--well, I remember distinctly that even AuntHattie choked up and had to turn her back to wipe her eyes. 

They went away at once, first to New York for a day or two, then toAndersonville, to prepare for the real wedding trip to the other sideof the world. I stayed in Boston at school; and because nothing ofconsequence happened all those weeks and months is the reason, Isuspect, why the manuscript got tossed into the bottom of my littletrunk and stayed there. 

In the spring, when Father and Mother returned, and we all went backto Andersonville, there followed another long period of just happygirlhood, and I suspect I was too satisfied and happy to think ofwriting. After all, I've noticed it's when we're sad or troubled oversomething that we have that tingling to cover perfectly good whitepaper with "confessions" and "stories of my life. " As witness rightnow what I'm doing. 

And so it's not surprising, perhaps, that Mary Marie's manuscriptstill lay forgotten in the little old trunk after it was taken up tothe attic. Mary Marie was happy. 

And it _was_ happy--that girlhood of mine, after we came back toAndersonville. I can see now, as I look back at it, that Father andMother were doing everything in their power to blot out of my memorythose unhappy years of my childhood. For that matter, they were alsodoing everything in their power to blot out of their _own_ memoriesthose same unhappy years. To me, as I look back at it, it seemsthat they must have succeeded wonderfully. They were very happy, Ibelieve--Father and Mother. 

Oh, it was not always easy--even I could see that. It took a lot ofadjusting--a lot of rubbing off of square corners to keep the dailylife running smoothly. But when two persons are determined that itshall run smoothly--when each is steadfastly looking to the _other's_happiness, not at his own--why, things just can't help smoothing outthen. But it takes them both. One can't do it alone. Now, if Jerrywould only--

But it isn't time to speak of Jerry yet. 

I'll go back to my girlhood. 

It was a trying period--it must have been--for Father and Mother, inspite of their great love for me, and their efforts to create for mea happiness that would erase the past from my mind. I realize it now. For, after all, I was just a girl--a young girl, like other girls;high-strung, nervous, thoughtless, full of my whims and fancies; and, in addition, with enough of my mother and enough of my father withinme to make me veritably a cross-current and a contradiction, as I hadsaid that I was in the opening sentence of my childish autobiography. 

I had just passed my sixteenth birthday when we all came back to livein Andersonville. For the first few months I suspect that just theglory and the wonder and joy of living in the old home, with Fatherand Mother _happy together_, was enough to fill all my thoughts. Then, as school began in the fall, I came down to normal living again, andbecame a girl--just a growing girl in her teens. 

How patient Mother was, and Father, too! I can see now how gently andtactfully they helped me over the stones and stumbling-blocks thatstrew the pathway of every sixteen-year-old girl who thinks, becauseshe has turned down her dresses and turned up her hair, that she isgrown up, and can do and think and talk as she pleases. 

I well remember how hurt and grieved and superior I was at Mother'sinsistence upon more frequent rubbers and warm coats, and fewerice-cream sodas and chocolate bonbons. Why, surely I was old enough_now_ to take care of myself! Wasn't I ever to be allowed to have myown opinions and exercise my own judgment? It seemed not! Thus spokesuperior sixteen. 

As for clothes!--I remember distinctly the dreary November rainstormof the morning I reproachfully accused Mother of wanting to make meback into a stupid little Mary, just because she so uncompromisinglydisapproved of the beaded chains and bangles and jeweled combs andspangled party dresses that "every girl in school" was wearing. Why, the idea! Did she want me to dress like a little frump of a countrygirl? It seems she did. 

Poor mother! Dear mother! I wonder how she kept her patience at all. But she kept it. I remember that distinctly, too. 

It was that winter that I went through the morbid period. Like ourchildhood's measles and whooping cough, it seems to come to most ofus--us women children. I wonder why? Certainly it came to me. True totype I cried by the hour over fancied slights from my schoolmates, andbrooded days at a time because Father or Mother "didn't understand, " Iquestioned everything in the earth beneath and the heavens above;and in my dark despair over an averted glance from my most intimatefriend, I meditated on whether life was, or was not, worth the living, with a preponderance toward the latter. 

Being plunged into a state of settled gloom, I then became acutelyanxious as to my soul's salvation, and feverishly pursued every ismand ology that caught my roving eye's attention, until in one shortmonth I had become, in despairing rotation, an incipient agnostic, atheist, pantheist, and monist. Meanwhile I read Ibsen, and wiselydiscussed the new school of domestic relationships. 

Mother--dear mother!--looked on aghast. She feared, I think, for mylife; certainly for my sanity and morals. 

It was Father this time who came to the rescue. He pooh-poohedMother's fears; said it was indigestion that ailed me, or that I wasgrowing too fast; or perhaps I didn't get enough sleep, or needed, maybe, a good tonic. He took me out of school, and made it a point toaccompany me on long walks. He talked with me--not _to_ me--about thebirds and the trees and the sunsets, and then about the deeper thingsof life, until, before I realized it, I was sane and sensible oncemore, serene and happy in the simple faith of my childhood, with allthe isms and ologies a mere bad dream in the dim past. 

I was seventeen, if I remember rightly, when I became worried, notover my heavenly estate now, but my earthly one. I must have a career, of course. No namby-pamby everyday living of dishes and dusting andmeals and babies for me. It was all very well, of course, for somepeople. Such things had to be. But for me--

I could write, of course; but I was not sure but that I preferred thestage. At the same time there was within me a deep stirring as of acall to go out and enlighten the world, especially that portion of itin darkest Africa or deadliest India. I would be a missionary. 

Before I was eighteen, however, I had abandoned all this. Father puthis foot down hard on the missionary project, and Mother put hers downon the stage idea. I didn't mind so much, though, as I remember, foron further study and consideration, I found that flowers and applausewere not all of an actor's life, and that Africa and India were notentirely desirable as a place of residence for a young woman alone. Besides, I had decided by then that I could enlighten the world justas effectually (and much more comfortably) by writing stories at homeand getting them printed. 

So I wrote stories--but I did not get any of them printed, in spiteof my earnest efforts. In time, therefore, that idea, also, wasabandoned; and with it, regretfully, the idea of enlightening theworld at all. 

Besides, I had just then (again if I remember rightfully) fallen inlove. 

Not that it was the first time. Oh, no, not at eighteen, when atthirteen I had begun confidently and happily to look for it! What asentimental little piece I was! How could they have been so patientwith me--Father, Mother, everybody!

I think the first real attack--the first that I consciouslycalled love, myself--was the winter after we had all come back toAndersonville to live. I was sixteen and in the high school. 

It was Paul Mayhew--yes, the same Paul Mayhew that had defied hismother and sister and walked home with me one night and invited me togo for an automobile ride, only to be sent sharply about his businessby my stern, inexorable Aunt Jane. Paul was in the senior class now, and the handsomest, most admired boy in school. He didn't care forgirls. That is, he said he didn't. He bore himself with a supremeindifference that was maddening, and that took (apparently) no noticeof the fact that every girl in school was a willing slave to the merenodding of his head or the beckoning of his hand. 

This was the condition of things when I entered school that fall, and perhaps for a week thereafter. Then one day, very suddenly, andwithout apparent reason, he awoke to the fact of my existence. Candy, flowers, books--some one of these he brought to me every morning. Allduring the school day he was my devoted gallant, dancing attendanceevery possible minute outside of session hours, and walking home withme in the afternoon, proudly carrying my books. Did I say "_home_ withme"? That is not strictly true--he always stopped just one block shortof "home"--one block short of my gate. He evidently had not forgottenAunt Jane, and did not intend to take any foolish risks! So he saidgood-bye to me always at a safe distance. 

That this savored of deception, or was in any way objectionable, didnot seem to have occurred to me. Even if it had, I doubt very much ifmy course would have been altered, for I was bewitched and fascinatedand thrilled with the excitement of it all. I was sixteen, remember, and this wonderful Adonis and woman-hater had chosen me, _me!_--andleft all the other girls desolate and sighing, looking after us withlonging eyes. Of course, I was thrilled!

This went on for perhaps a week. Then he asked me to attend a schoolsleigh-ride and supper with him. 

I was wild with delight. At the same time I was wild withapprehension. I awoke suddenly to the fact of the existence of Fatherand Mother, and that their permission must be gained. And I had mydoubts--I had very grave doubts. Yet it seemed to me at that momentthat I just _had_ to go on that sleigh-ride. That it was the onlything in the whole wide world worth while. 

I can remember now, as if it were yesterday, the way I debated in mymind as to whether I should ask Father, Mother, or both together; andif I should let it be seen how greatly I desired to go, and how muchit meant to me; or if I should just mention it as in passing, and taketheir permission practically for granted. 

I chose the latter course, and I took a time when they were bothtogether. At the breakfast-table I mentioned casually that the schoolwas to have a sleigh-ride and supper the next Friday afternoon andevening, and that Paul Mayhew had asked me to go with him, I said Ihoped it would be a pleasant night, but that I should wear my sweaterunder my coat, anyway, and I'd wear my leggings, too, if they thoughtit necessary. 

(Sweater and leggings! Two of Mother's hobbies. Artful child!)

But if I thought that a sweater and a pair of leggings could muffletheir ears as to what had gone before, I soon found my mistake. 

"A sleigh-ride, supper, and not come home until evening?" criedMother. "And with whom, did you say?"

"Paul Mayhew, " I answered. I still tried to speak casually; at thesame time I tried to indicate by voice and manner something of thegreat honor that had been bestowed upon their daughter. 

Father was impressed--plainly impressed; but not at all in the way Ihad hoped he would be. He gave me a swift, sharp glance; then lookedstraight at Mother. 

"Humph! Paul Mayhew! Yes, I know him, " he said grimly. "And I'mdreading the time when he comes into college next year. "

"You mean--" Mother hesitated and stopped. 

"I mean I don't like the company he keeps--already, " nodded Father. 

"Then you don't think that Mary Marie--" Mother hesitated again, andglanced at me. 

"Certainly not, " said Father decidedly. 

I knew then, of course, that he meant I couldn't go on thesleigh-ride, even though he hadn't said the words right out. I forgotall about being casual and indifferent and matter-of-course then. Ithought only of showing them how absolutely necessary it was forthem to let me go on that sleigh-ride, unless they wanted my lifeforever-more hopelessly blighted. 

I explained carefully how he was the handsomest, most popular boyin school, and how all the girls were just crazy to be asked to goanywhere with him; and I argued what if Father had seen him with boyshe did not like--then that was all the more reason why nice girls likeme, when he asked them, should go with him, so as to keep him awayfrom the bad boys! And I told them, that this was the first and last, and only sleigh-ride of the school that year; and I said I'd beheart-broken, just heart-broken, if they did not let me go. And Ireminded them again that he was the very handsomest, most popular boyin school; and that there wasn't a girl I knew who wouldn't be crazyto be in my shoes. 

Then I stopped, all out of breath, and I can imagine just how pleadingand palpitating I looked. 

I thought Father was going to refuse right away, but I saw the glancethat Mother threw him--the glance that said, "Let me attend to this, dear. " I'd seen that glance before, several times, and I knew justwhat it meant; so I wasn't surprised to see Father shrug his shouldersand turn away as Mother said to me:

"Very well, dear. Ill think it over and let you know to-night. "

But I was surprised that night to have Mother say I could go, for I'dabout given up hope, after all that talk at the breakfast-table. Andshe said something else that surprised me, too. She said she'd like toknow Paul Mayhew herself; that she always wanted to know the friendsof her little girl. And she told me to ask him to call the nextevening and play checkers or chess with me. 

Happy? I could scarcely contain myself for joy. And when the nextevening came bringing Paul, and Mother, all prettily dressed as ifhe were really truly company, came into the room and talked sobeautifully to him, I was even more entranced. To be sure, it didbother me a little that Paul laughed so much, and so loudly, and thathe couldn't seem to find anything to talk about only himself, and whathe was doing, and what he was going to do. Some way, he had neverseemed like that at school. And I was afraid Mother wouldn't likethat. 

All the evening I was watching and listening with her eyes and herears everything he did, everything he said. I so wanted Mother to likehim! I so wanted Mother to see how really fine and splendid and noblehe was. But that evening--Why _couldn't_ he stop talking about theprizes he'd won, and the big racing car he'd just ordered for nextsummer? There was nothing fine and splendid and noble about that. And_were_ his finger nails always so dirty?

Why, Mother would think--

Mother did not stay in the room all the time; but she was in more orless often to watch the game; and at half-past nine she brought insome little cakes and lemonade as a surprise. I thought it was lovely;but I could have shaken Paul when he pretended to be afraid of it, andasked Mother if there was a stick in it. 

The idea--Mother! A stick!

I just knew Mother wouldn't like that. But if she didn't, she nevershowed a thing in her face. She just smiled, and said no, there wasn'tany stick in it; and passed the cakes. 

When he had gone I remember I didn't like to meet Mother's eyes, and Ididn't ask her how she liked Paul Mayhew. I kept right on talking fastabout something else. Some way, I didn't want Mother to talk then, forfear of what she would say. 

And Mother didn't say anything about Paul Mayhew--then. But only a fewdays later she told me to invite him again to the house (this time toa chafing-dish supper), and to ask Carrie Heywood and Fred Small, too. 

We had a beautiful time, only again Paul Mayhew didn't "show off" atall in the way I wanted him to--though he most emphatically "showedoff" in _his_ way! It seemed to me that he bragged even more abouthimself and his belongings than he had before. And I didn't like atall the way he ate his food. Why, Father didn't eat like that--withsuch a noisy mouth, and such a rattling of the silverware!

And so it went--wise mother that she was! Far from prohibiting me tohave anything to do with Paul Mayhew, she let me see all I wantedto of him, particularly in my own home. She let me go out with him, properly chaperoned, and she never, by word or manner, hinted that shedidn't admire his conceit and braggadocio. 

And it all came out exactly as I suspect she had planned from thebeginning. When Paul Mayhew asked to be my escort to the classreception in June, I declined with thanks, and immediately afterwardstold Fred Small I would go with _him_. But even when I told Mothernonchalantly, and with carefully averted eyes, that I was going to thereception with Fred Small--even then her pleasant "Well, that's good!"conveyed only cheery mother interest; nor did a hasty glance into herface discover so much as a lifted eyebrow to hint, "I thought you'dcome to your senses _sometime_!"

Wise little mother that she was!

In the days and weeks that followed (though nothing was said) Idetected a subtle change in certain matters, however. And as I lookback at it now, I am sure I can trace its origin to my "affair" withPaul Mayhew. Evidently Mother had no intention of running the risk ofany more block-away courtships; also evidently she intended to knowwho my friends were. At all events, the old Anderson mansion soonbecame the rendezvous of all the boys and girls of my acquaintance. And such good times as we had, with Mother always one of us, and everproposing something new and interesting!

And because boys--not _a_ boy, but boys--were as free to come tothe house as were girls, they soon seemed to me as commonplace andmatter-of-course and free from sentimental interest as were the girls. 

Again wise little mother!

But, of course, even this did not prevent my falling in love with someone older than myself, some one quite outside of my own circle ofintimates. Almost every girl in her teens at some time falls violentlyin love with some remote being almost old enough to be her father--abeing whom she endows with all the graces and perfections of her dreamAdonis. For, after all, it isn't that she is in love with _him_, thisman of flesh and blood before her; it is that she is in love with_love_. A very different matter. 

My especial attack of this kind came to me when I was barely eighteen, the spring I was being graduated from the Andersonville High School. And the visible embodiment of my adoration was the head master, Mr. Harold Hartshorn, a handsome, clean-shaven, well-set-up man of (Ishould judge) thirty-five years of age, rather grave, a little stern, and very dignified. 

But how I adored him! How I hung upon his every word, his everyglance! How I maneuvered to win from him a few minutes' conversationon a Latin verb or a French translation! How I thrilled if he bestowedupon me one of his infrequent smiles! How I grieved over his sternaloofness!

By the end of a month I had evolved this: his stern aloofnessmeant that he had been disappointed in love; his melancholy wasloneliness--his heart was breaking. How I longed to help, to heal, tocure! How I thrilled at the thought of the love and companionship _I_could give him somewhere in a rose-embowered cottage far from themadding crowd! (He boarded at the Andersonville Hotel alone now. ) Whatnobler career could I have than the blotting out of his stricken heartthe memory of that faithless woman who had so wounded him and blightedhis youth? What, indeed? If only he could see it as I saw it. If onlyby some sign or token he could know of the warm love that was his butfor the asking! Could he not see that no longer need he pine alone andunappreciated in the Andersonville Hotel? Why, in just a few weeks Iwas to be through school. And then--

On the night before commencement Mr. Harold Hartshorn ascended ourfront steps, rang the bell, and called for my father. I knew because Iwas upstairs in my room over the front door; and I saw him come up thewalk and heard him ask for Father. 

Oh, joy! Oh, happy day! He knew. He had seen it as I saw it. He hadcome to gain Father's permission, that he might be a duly accreditedsuitor for my hand!

During the next ecstatic ten minutes, with my hand pressed against mywildly beating heart, I planned my wedding dress, selected with careand discrimination my trousseau, furnished the rose-embowered cottagefar from the madding crowd--and wondered _why_ Father did not send forme. Then the slam of the screen door downstairs sent me to the window, a sickening terror within me, Was he _going_--without seeing me, his future bride? Impossible!

Father and Mr. Harold Hartshorn stood on the front steps below, talking. In another minute Mr. Harold Hartshorn had walked away, andFather had turned back on to the piazza. 

As soon as I could control my shaking knees, I went downstairs. 

Father was in his favorite rocking-chair. I advanced slowly. I did notsit down. 

"Was that Mr. Hartshorn?" I asked, trying to keep the shake out of myvoice. 

"Yes. "

"Mr. H-Hartshorn, " I repeated stupidly. 

"Yes. He came to see me about the Downer place, " nodded Father. "Hewants to rent it for next year. "

"To rent it--the Downer place!" (The Downer place was norose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd! Why, it was big, and brick, and _right next_ to the hotel! I didn't want to livethere. )

"Yes--for his wife and family. He's going to bring them back with himnext year, " explained Father. 

"His wife and family!" I can imagine about how I gasped out those fourwords. 

"Yes. He has five children, I believe, and--"

But I had fled to my room. 

After all, my recovery was rapid. I was in love with love, you see;not with Mr. Harold Hartshorn. Besides, the next year I went tocollege. And it was while I was at college that I met Jerry. 

Jerry was the brother of my college friend, Helen Weston. Helen'selder sister was a senior in that same college, and was graduated atthe close of my freshman year. The father, mother, and brother came onto the graduation. And that is where I met Jerry. 

If it might be called meeting him. He lifted his hat, bowed, said apolite nothing with his lips, and an indifferent "Oh, some friend ofHelen's, " with his eyes, and turned to a radiant blonde senior at myside. 

And that was all--for him. But for me--

All that day I watched him whenever opportunity offered; and Isuspect that I took care that opportunity offered frequently. I wasfascinated. I had never seen any one like him before. Tall, handsome, brilliant, at perfect ease, he plainly dominated every group of whichhe was a part. Toward him every face was turned--yet he never seemedto know it. (Whatever his faults, Jerry is _not_ conceited. I willgive him credit for that!) To me he did not speak again that day. I amnot sure that he even looked at me. If he did there must still havebeen in his eyes only the "Oh, some friend of Helen's, " that I hadseen at the morning introduction. 

I did not meet Jerry Weston again for nearly a year; but that did notmean that I did not hear of him. I wonder if Helen ever noticed howoften I used to get her to talk of her home and her family life; andhow interested I was in her gallery of portraits on the mantel--therewere two fine ones of her brother there. 

Helen was very fond of her brother. I soon found that she loved totalk about him--if she had a good listener. Needless to say she had avery good one in me. 

Jerry was an artist, it seemed. He was twenty-eight years old, andalready he had won no small distinction. Prizes, medals, honorablemention, and a special course abroad--all these Helen told me about. She told me, too, about the wonderful success he had just had with theportrait of a certain New York society woman. She said that it wasjust going to "make" Jerry; that he could have anything he wantednow--anything. Then she told me how popular he always was witheverybody. Helen was not only very fond of her brother, but very proudof him. That was plain to be seen. In her opinion, evidently, therewas none to be compared with him. 

And apparently, in my own mind, I agreed with her--there was none tobe compared with him. At all events, all the other boys that usedto call and bring me candy and send me flowers at about this timesuffered woefully in comparison with him! I remember that. So tamethey were--so crude and young and unpolished!

I saw Jerry myself during the Easter vacation of my second year incollege. Helen invited me to go home with her, and Mother wrote that Imight go. Helen had been home with me for the Christmas vacation, and Mother and Father liked her very much. There was no hesitation, therefore, in their consent that I should visit Helen at Easter-time. So I went. 

Helen lived in New York. Their home was a Fifth-Avenue mansion withnine servants, four automobiles, and two chauffeurs. Naturally sucha scale of living was entirely new to me, and correspondinglyfascinating. From the elaborately uniformed footman that opened thedoor for me to the awesome French maid who "did" my hair, I adoredthem all, and moved as in a dream of enchantment. Then came Jerry homefrom a week-end's trip--and I forgot everything else. 

I knew from the minute his eyes looked into mine that whatever I hadbeen before, I was now certainly no mere "Oh, some friend of Helen's. "I was (so his eyes said) "a deucedly pretty girl, and one well worthcultivating. " Whereupon he began at once to do the "cultivating. "

And just here, perversely enough, I grew indifferent. Or was it onlyfeigned--not consciously, but unconsciously? Whatever it was, it didnot endure long. Nothing could have endured, under the circumstances. Nothing ever endures--with Jerry on the other side. 

In less than thirty-six hours I was caught up in the whirlwind of hiswooing, and would not have escaped it if I could. 

When I went back to college he held my promise that if he could gainthe consent of Father and Mother, he might put the engagement ring onmy finger. 

Back at college, alone in my own room, I drew a long breath, and beganto think. It was the first chance I had had, for even Helen now hadbecome Jerry--by reflection. 

The more I thought, the more frightened, dismayed, and despairing Ibecame. In the clear light of calm, sane reasoning, it was all soabsurd, so impossible! What could I have been thinking of?

Of Jerry, of course. 

With hot cheeks I answered my own question. And even the thought ofhim then cast the spell of his presence about me, and again I was backin the whirl of dining and dancing and motoring, with his dear faceat my side. Of Jerry; yes, of Jerry I was thinking. But I must forgetJerry. 

I pictured Jerry in Andersonville, in my own home. I tried to picturehim talking to Father, to Mother. 

Absurd! What had Jerry to do with learned treatises on stars, or withthe humdrum, everyday life of a stupid small town? For that matter, what had Father and Mother to do with dancing and motoring andpainting society queens' portraits? Nothing. 

Plainly, even if Jerry, for the sake of the daughter, liked Father andMother, Father and Mother certainly would not like Jerry. That wascertain. 

Of course I cried myself to sleep that night. That was to be expected. Jerry was the world; and the world was lost. There was nothing leftexcept, perhaps, a few remnants and pieces, scarcely worth thecounting--excepting, of course, Father and Mother. But one could notalways have one's father and mother. There would come a time when--

Jerry's letter came the next day--by special delivery. He had gonestraight home from the station and begun to write to me. (How likeJerry that was--particularly the special-delivery stamp!) The most ofhis letter, aside from the usual lover's rhapsodies, had to do withplans for the summer--what we would do together at the Westons'summer cottage in Newport. He said he should run up to Andersonvilleearly--very early; just as soon as I was back from college, in fact, so that he might meet Father and Mother, and put that ring on myfinger. 

And while I read the letter, I just knew he would do it. Why, I couldeven see the sparkle of the ring on my finger. But in five minutesafter the letter was folded and put away, I knew, with equalcertitude--that he wouldn't. 

It was like that all that spring term. While under the spell of theletters, as I read them, I saw myself the adored wife of Jerry Weston, and happy ever after. All the rest of the time I knew myself to beplain Mary Marie Anderson, forever lonely and desolate. 

I had been at home exactly eight hours when a telegram from Jerryasked permission to come at once. 

As gently as I could I broke the news to Father and Mother. He wasHelen's brother. They must have heard me mention him, I knew him well, very well, indeed. In fact, the purpose of this visit was to ask themfor the hand of their daughter. 

Father frowned and scolded, and said, "Tut, tut!" and that I wasnothing but a child. But Mother smiled and shook her head, even whileshe sighed, and reminded him that I was twenty--two whole years olderthan she was when she married him; though in the same breath sheadmitted that I _was_ young, and she certainly hoped I'd be willing towait before I married, even if the young man was all that they couldask him to be. 

Father was still a little rebellious, I think; but Mother--bless herdear sympathetic heart!--soon convinced him that they must at leastconsent to see this Gerald Weston. So I sent the wire inviting him tocome. 

More fearfully than ever then I awaited the meeting between my loverand my father and mother. With the Westons' mansion and manner ofliving in the glorified past, and the Anderson homestead, and _its_manner of living, very much in the plain, unvarnished present, Itrembled more than ever for the results of that meeting. Not that Ibelieved Jerry would be snobbish enough to scorn our simplicity, butthat there would be no common meeting-ground of congeniality. 

I need not have worried--but I did not know Jerry then so well as I donow. 

Jerry came--and he had not been five minutes in the house before itmight easily have seemed that he had always been there. He _did_ knowabout stars; at least, he talked with Father about them, and so asto hold Father's interest, too. And he knew a lot about innumerablethings in which Mother was interested. He stayed four days; and allthe while he was there, I never so much as thought of ceremoniousdress and dinners, and liveried butlers and footmen; nor did it onceoccur to me that our simple kitchen Nora, and Old John's son at thewheel of our one motorcar, were not beautifully and entirely adequate, so unassumingly and so perfectly did Jerry unmistakably "fit in. "(There are no other words that so exactly express what I mean. ) And inthe end, even his charm and his triumph were so unobtrusively completethat I never thought of being surprised at the prompt capitulation ofboth Father and Mother. 

Jerry had brought the ring. (Jerry always brings his "rings"--andhe never fails to "put them on. ") And he went back to New York withMother's promise that I should visit them in July at their cottage inNewport. 

They seemed like a dream--those four days--after he had gone; and Ishould have been tempted to doubt the whole thing had there not beenthe sparkle of the ring on my finger, and the frequent reference toJerry on the lips of both Father and Mother. 

They loved Jerry, both of them. Father said he was a fine, manly youngfellow; and Mother said he was a dear boy, a very dear boy. Neither ofthem spoke much of his painting. Jerry himself had scarcely mentionedit to them, as I remembered, after he had gone. 

I went to Newport in July. "The cottage, " as I suspected, was twiceas large and twice as pretentious as the New York residence; and itsported twice the number of servants. Once again I was caught in thewhirl of dinners and dances and motoring, with the addition of tennisand bathing. And always, at my side, was Jerry, seemingly living onlyupon my lightest whim and fancy. He wished to paint my portrait; butthere was no time, especially as my visit, in accordance with Mother'sinexorable decision, was of only one week's duration. 

But what a wonderful week that was! I seemed to be under a kind ofspell. It was as if I were in a new world--a world such as no one hadever been in before. Oh, I knew, of course, that others had loved--butnot as we loved. I was sure that no one had ever loved as we loved. And it was so much more wonderful than anything I had ever dreamedof--this love of ours. Yet all my life since my early teens I hadbeen thinking and planning and waiting for it--love. And now it hadcome--the real thing. The others--all the others had been shams andmake-believes and counterfeits. To think that I ever thought thosesilly little episodes with Paul Mayhew and Freddy Small and Mr. HaroldHartshorn were love! Absurd! But now--

And so I walked and moved and breathed in this spell that had beencast upon me; and thought--little fool that I was!--that never hadthere been before, nor could there be again, a love quite so wonderfulas ours. 

At Newport Jerry decided that he wanted to be married right away. Hedidn't want to wait two more endless years until I was graduated. Theidea of wasting all that valuable time when we might be together! Andwhen there was really no reason for it, either--no reason at all!

I smiled to myself, even as I thrilled at his sweet insistence. I waspretty sure I knew two reasons--two very good reasons--why I could notmarry before graduation. One reason was Father; the other reason wasMother. I hinted as much. 

"Ho! Is that all?" He laughed and kissed me. "I'll run down and seethem about it, " he said jauntily. 

I smiled again. I had no more idea that anything he could say would--

But I didn't know Jerry--_then_. 

I had not been home from Newport a week when Jerry kept his promiseand "ran down. " And _he_ had not been there two days before Father andMother admitted that, perhaps, after all, it would not be so bad anidea if I shouldn't graduate, but should be married instead. 

And so I was married. 

(Didn't I tell you that Jerry always brought his rings and put themon?)

And again I say, and so we were married. 

But what did we know of each other?--the real other? True, we haddanced together, been swimming together, dined together, played tennistogether. But what did we really know of each other's whims andprejudices, opinions and personal habits and tastes? I knew, to aword, what Jerry would say about a sunset; and he knew, I fancy, whatI would say about a dreamy waltz song. But we didn't either of us knowwhat the other would say to a dinnerless home with the cook gone. Wewere leaving a good deal to be learned later on; but we didn't thinkof that. Love that is to last must be built upon the realization thattroubles and trials and sorrows are sure to come, and that they mustbe borne together--if one back is not to break under the load. Wewere entering into a contract, not for a week, but, presumedly, for alifetime--and a good deal may come to one in a lifetime--not all of itpleasant. We had been brought up in two distinctly different socialenvironments, but we didn't stop to think of that. We liked the samesunsets, and the same make of car, and the same kind of ice-cream;and we looked into each other's eyes and _thought_ we knew theother--whereas we were really only seeing the mirrored reflection ofourselves. 

And so we were married. 

It was everything that was blissful and delightful, of course, atfirst. We were still eating the ice-cream and admiring the sunsets. Ihad forgotten that there were things other than sunsets and ice-cream, I suspect. I was not twenty-one, remember, and my feet fairly achedto dance. The whole world was a show. Music, lights, laughter--how Iloved them all!

_Marie_, of course. Well, yes, I suspect Marie _was_ in the ascendancyabout that time. But I never thought of it that way. 

Then came the baby, Eunice, my little girl; and with one touch of hertiny, clinging fingers, the whole world of sham--the lights and musicand glare and glitter just faded all away into nothingness, where itbelonged. As if anything counted, with _her_ on the other side of thescales!

I found out then--oh, I found out lots of things. You see, it wasn'tthat way at all with Jerry. The lights and music and the glitter andthe sham didn't fade away a mite, to him, when Eunice came. In fact, sometimes it seemed to me they just grew stronger, if anything. 

He didn't like it because I couldn't go with him any more--to dancesand things, I mean. He said the nurse could take care of Eunice. As ifI'd leave my baby with any nurse that ever lived, for any old dance!The idea! But Jerry went. At first he stayed with me; but the babycried, and Jerry didn't like that. It made him irritable and nervous, until I was _glad_ to have him go. (Who wouldn't be, with his eternalrepetition of "Mollie, _can't_ you stop that baby's crying?" As ifthat wasn't exactly what I was trying to do, as hard as ever I could!)But Jerry didn't see it that way. Jerry never did appreciate what awonderful, glorious thing just being a father is. 

I think it was at about this time that Jerry took up his paintingagain. I guess I have forgotten to mention that all through the firsttwo years of our marriage, before the baby came, he just tended to me. He never painted a single picture. But after Eunice came--

But, after all, what is the use of going over these last miserableyears like this? Eunice is five now. Her father is the most popularportrait painter in the country, I am almost tempted to say that he isthe most popular _man_, as well. All the old charm and magnetism arethere. Sometimes I watch him (for, of course, I _do_ go out with himonce in a while), and always I think of that first day I saw him atcollege. Brilliant, polished, witty--he still dominates every group ofwhich he is a member. Men and women alike bow to his charm. (I'm gladit's not _only_ the women. Jerry isn't a bit of a flirt. I will saythat much for him. At any rate, if he does flirt, he flirts just asdesperately with old Judge Randlett as he does with the newest andprettiest _debutante_: with serene impartiality he bestows upon eachthe same glances, the same wit, the same adorable charm. ) Praise, attention, applause, music, laughter, lights--they are the breath oflife to him. Without them he would--But, there, he never _is_ withoutthem, so I don't know what he would be. 

After all, I suspect that it's just that Jerry still loves theice-cream and the sunsets, and I don't. That's all. To me there'ssomething more to life than that--something higher, deeper, moreworth while. We haven't a taste in common, a thought in unison, anaspiration in harmony. I suspect--in fact I _know_--that I get on hisnerves just as raspingly as he does on mine. For that reason I'm surehe'll be glad--when he gets my letter. 

But, some way, I dread to tell Mother. 

 * * * * *

Well, it's finished. I've been about four days bringing thisautobiography of Mary Marie's to an end. I've enjoyed doing it, in away, though I'll have to admit I can't see as it's made things anyclearer. But, then, it was clear before. There isn't any other way. I've got to write that letter. As I said before, I regret that it mustbe so sorry an ending. 

I suppose to-morrow I'll have to tell Mother. I want to tell her, ofcourse, before I write the letter to Jerry. 

It'll grieve Mother. I know it will. And I'm sorry. Poor Mother!Already she's had so much unhappiness in her life. But she's happynow. She and Father are wonderful together--wonderful. Father is stillPresident of the college. He got out a wonderful book on the "Eclipsesof the Moon" two years ago, and he's publishing another one about the"Eclipses of the Sun" this year. Mother's correcting proof for him. Bless her heart. She loves it. She told me so. 

Well, I shall have to tell her to-morrow, of course. 

 * * * * *

_To-morrow_--_which has become to-day. _

I wonder if Mother _knew_ what I had come into her little sitting-roomthis morning to say. It seems as if she must have known. And yet--Ihad wondered how I was going to begin, but, before I knew it, I wasright in the middle of it--the subject, I mean. That's why I thoughtperhaps that Mother--

But I'm getting as bad as little Mary Marie of the long ago. I'll trynow to tell what did happen. 

I was wetting my lips, and swallowing, and wondering how I was goingto begin to tell her that I was planning not to go back to Jerry, whenall of a sudden I found myself saying something about little Eunice. And then Mother said:

"Yes, my dear; and that's what comforts me most of anything--becauseyou _are_ so devoted to Eunice. You see, I have feared sometimes--foryou and Jerry; that you might separate. But I know, on account ofEunice, that you never will. "

"But, Mother, that's the very reason--I mean, it would be the reason, "I stammered. Then I stopped. My tongue just wouldn't move, my throatand lips were so dry. 

To think that Mother suspected--_knew already_--about Jerry and me;and yet to say that _on account_ of Eunice I would not do it. Why, itwas _for_ Eunice, largely, that I was _going_ to do it. To let thatchild grow up thinking that dancing and motoring was all of life, and--

But Mother was speaking again. 

"Eunice--yes. You mean that you never would make her go through whatyou went through when you were her age. "

"Why, Mother, I--I--" And then I stopped again. And I was so angry andindignant with myself because I had to stop, when there were so many, many things that I wanted to say, if only my dry lips could articulatethe words. 

Mother drew her breath in with a little catch. She had grown ratherwhite. 

"I wonder if you remember--if you ever think of--your childhood, " shesaid. 

"Why, yes, of--of course--sometimes. " It was my turn to stammer. I wasthinking of that diary that I had just read--and added to. 

Mother drew in her breath again, this time with a catch that wasalmost a sob. And then she began to talk--at first haltingly, withhalf-finished sentences; then hurriedly, with a rush of words thatseemed not able to utter themselves fast enough to keep up with thethoughts behind them. 

She told of her youth and marriage, and of my coming. She told of herlife with Father, and of the mistakes she made. She told much, ofcourse, that was in Mary Marie's diary; but she told, too, oh, so muchmore, until like a panorama the whole thing lay before me. 

Then she spoke of me, and of my childhood, and her voice began toquiver. She told of the Mary and the Marie, and of the dual naturewithin me. (As if I didn't know about that!) But she told me much thatI did not know, and she made things much clearer to me, until I saw--

You can see things so much more clearly when you stand off at adistance like this, you know, than you can when you are close to them!

She broke down and cried when she spoke of the divorce, and of theinfluence it had upon me, and of the false idea of marriage it gaveme. She said it was the worst kind of thing for me--the sort of life Ihad to live. She said I grew pert and precocious and worldly-wise, andfull of servants' talk and ideas. She even spoke of that night at thelittle cafe table when I gloried in the sparkle and spangles and toldher that now we were seeing life--real life. And of how shocked shewas, and of how she saw then what this thing was doing to me. But itwas too late. 

She told more, much more, about the later years, and thereconciliation; then, some way, she brought things around to Jerry andme. Her face flushed up then, and she didn't meet my eyes. She lookeddown at her sewing. She was very busy turning a hem _just so_. 

She said there had been a time, once, when she had worried a littleabout Jerry and me, for fear we would--separate. She said that shebelieved that, for her, that would have been the very blackest momentof her life; for it would be her fault, all her fault. 

I tried to break in here, and say, "No, no, " and that it wasn't herfault; but she shook her head and wouldn't listen, and she liftedher hand, and I had to keep still and let her go on talking. She waslooking straight into my eyes then, and there was such a deep, deephurt in them that I just had to listen. 

She said again that it would be her fault; that if I had done that shewould have known that it was all because of the example she herselfhad set me of childish willfulness and selfish seeking of personalhappiness at the expense of everything and everybody else. And shesaid that that would have been the last straw to break her heart. 

But she declared that she was sure now that she need not worry. Such athing would never be. 

I guess I gasped a little at this. Anyhow, I know I tried to breakin and tell her that we _were_ going to separate, and that that wasexactly what I had come into the room in the first place to say. 

But again she kept right on talking, and I was silenced before I hadeven begun. 

She said how she knew it could never be--on account of Eunice. That Iwould never subject my little girl to the sort of wretchedly dividedlife that I had had to live when I was a child. 

(As she spoke I was suddenly back in the cobwebby attic with littleMary Marie's diary, and I thought--what if it _were_ Eunice--writingthat!)

She said I was the most devoted mother she had ever known; that I was_too_ devoted, she feared sometimes, for I made Eunice _all_ my world, to the exclusion of Jerry and everything and everybody else. But thatshe was very sure, because I _was_ so devoted, and loved Eunice sodearly, that I would never deprive her of a father's love and care. 

I shivered a little, and looked quickly into Mother's face. But shewas not looking at me. I was thinking of how Jerry had kissed andkissed Eunice a month ago, when we came away, as if he just couldn'tlet her go. Jerry _is_ fond of Eunice, now that she's old enough toknow something, and Eunice adores her father. I knew that part wasgoing to be hard. And now to have Mother put it like that--

I began to talk then of Jerry. I just felt that I'd got to saysomething. That Mother must listen. That she didn't understand. I toldher how Jerry loved lights and music and dancing, and crowdsbowing down and worshiping him all the time. And she said yes, sheremembered; that _he'd been that way when I married him_. 

She spoke so sort of queerly that again I glanced at her; but shestill was looking down at the hem she was turning. 

I went on then to explain that _I_ didn't like such things; that _I_believed that there were deeper and higher things, and things moreworth while. And she said yes, she was glad, and that that was goingto be my saving grace; for, of course, I realized that there couldn'tbe anything deeper or higher or more worth while than keeping the hometogether, and putting up with annoyances, for the ultimate good ofall, especially of Eunice. 

She went right on then quickly, before I could say anything. She saidthat, of course, I understood that I was still Mary and Marie, evenif Jerry did call me Mollie; and that if Marie had married a man thatwasn't always congenial with Mary, she was very sure Mary had enoughstamina and good sense to make the best of it; and she was very sure, also, that if Mary would only make a little effort to be once in awhile the Marie he had married, things might be a lot easier--forMary. 

Of course, I laughed at that. I had to. And Mother laughed, too. Butwe understood. We both understood. I had never thought of it before, but I _had_ been Marie when I married Jerry. _I_ loved lights andmusic and dancing and gay crowds just exactly as well as he did. Andit wasn't his fault that I suddenly turned into Mary when the babycame, and wanted him to stay at home before the fire every eveningwith his dressing-gown and slippers. No wonder he was surprised. Hehadn't married Mary--he never knew Mary at all. But, do you know? I'dnever thought of that before--until Mother said what she did. Why, probably Jerry was just as much disappointed to find his Marie turnedinto a Mary as I--

But Mother was talking again. 

She said that she thought Jerry was a wonderful man, in some ways;that she never saw a man with such charm and magnetism, or one whocould so readily adapt himself to different persons and circumstances. And she said she was very sure if Mary could only show a little moreinterest in pictures (especially portraits), and learn to discusslights and shadows and perspectives, that nothing would be lost, andthat something might be gained; that there was nothing, anyway, like acommunity of interest or of hobbies to bring two people together; andthat it was safer, to say the least, when it was the wife that sharedthe community of interest than when it was some other woman, though, of course, she knew as well as I knew that Jerry never would--Shedidn't finish her sentence, and because she didn't finish it, it mademe think all the more. And I wondered if she left it unfinished--onpurpose. 

Then, in a minute, she was talking again. 

She was speaking of Eunice. She said once more that because of her, she knew that she need never fear any serious trouble between Jerryand me, for, after all, it's the child that always pays for themother's mistakes and short-sightedness, just as it is the soldierthat pays for his commanding officer's blunders. That's why she feltthat I had had to pay for her mistakes, and why she knew that I'dnever compel my little girl to pay for mine. She said that the motherlives in the heart of the child long after the mother is gone, andthat was why the mother always had to be--so careful. 

Then, before I knew it, she was talking briskly and brightly aboutsomething entirely different; and two minutes later I found myselfalone outside of her room. And I hadn't told her. 

But I wasn't even thinking of that. I was thinking of Eunice, and ofthat round, childish scrawl of a diary upstairs in the attic trunk. And I was picturing Eunice, in the years to come, writing _her_ diary;and I thought, what if she should have to--

I went upstairs then and read that diary again. And all the while Iwas reading I thought of Eunice. And when it was finished I knew thatI'd never tell Mother, that I'd never write to Jerry--not the letterthat I was going to write. I knew that--

 * * * * *

They brought Jerry's letter to me at just that point. What a wonderfulletter that man can write--when he wants to!

He says he's lonesome and homesick, and that the house is like a tombwithout Eunice and me, and when _am_ I coming home?

 * * * * *

I wrote him to-night that I was going--to-morrow. 

THE END