But even with all this to meditate on, it was an awfully long time
coming noon; and they didn't call me down to dinner even then. Aunt
Jane sent up two pieces of bread without any butter and a glass of
water. 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. So
I knew then, of course, that Aunt Jane had told him. I didn't know
but she would wait until night. Father usually spends his hour after
dinner reading in the library and mustn't be disturbed. But evidently
to-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 different
propositions. Fathers have more rights and privileges, of course.
Everybody knows that.

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

"Mary, your aunt tells me you have been disobedient and disrespectful
to 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 and
disobedient 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 Aunt
Jane 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 Father
then.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you did refuse?"

"Yes, sir."

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

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

"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 this
morning?--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; then
he lifted his head and threw back his shoulders as if he was throwing
off a heavy weight.

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

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

"Mary, what in the world does this mean? Why can't you go back? Have
you 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 I
got through. I could see it in his face. And so, now, with his eyes
blazing as he jumped almost out of his chair and exclaimed, "Your
mother!" 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, or
anybody will I go back to that school and associate with folks that
won't associate with me--on account of Mother."

And then I told it--all about the girls, Stella Mayhew, Carrie, and
how 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 the
parties they had to give up if they went with _me_. And I know I was
crying so I could hardly speak before I finished; and Father was on
his feet tramping up and down the room muttering something under his
breath, and looking--oh, I can't begin to tell how he looked. But it
was awful.

"And so that's why I wish," I finished chokingly, "that it would hurry
up 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't
be divorced any longer, would she?"

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

"So your mother is thinking of getting married," he said in a voice so
queer 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 sure
she wouldn't till her year was up, and even then I didn't know which
she'd take, so I couldn't tell for sure anything about it. But I hoped
she'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. He
turned then, and began to walk up and down again, with his hands in
his pockets; and I didn't know whether to go away or to stay, and I
suppose I'd have been there now if Aunt Jane hadn't suddenly appeared
in the library doorway.

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

"Charles!" Aunt Jane raised her voice and spoke again. "I said if Mary
is 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'd
never even _heard_ of my going to school. Then suddenly his face
changed. "Oh, yes, to be sure. Well, er--Mary is not going to school
to-day," he said. Then he looked at his watch, and without another
word strode into the hall, got his hat, and left the house, leaving
Aunt 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 my
own 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 going
to school to-day! I don't believe she's sure yet that she heard
aright--though she didn't try to stop me, or even speak when I left
and came upstairs. But I just know she's keeping up a powerful
thinking.

For that matter, so am I. What _is_ going to happen next? Have I got
to 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 about
Mother. _He_ didn't like that--what those girls said--any better than
I did. I'm sure of that. Why, he looked simply furious. But there
isn'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 not
come anywhere near the truth. I must await--what the night will bring
forth, as they say in really truly novels.

_Four days later_.

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

It was like this.

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

"Charles," she began.

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

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

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

As if anybody could talk to a person who's simply tolerating you for a
minute like that, with his forefinger holding on to what he _wants_ to
tend 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-morrow
morning, I suppose," she said.

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

"You don't mean, Charles, that she is not to go to school at all, any
more," 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 she
doesn't want to go to school! It's the principle of the thing that I'm
objecting to. Do you realize what it will lead to--what it--"

"Jane!" With a jerk Father sat up straight. "I realize some things
that perhaps you do not. But that is neither here nor there. I do not
wish Mary to go to school any more this spring. That is all; and I
think--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 her
time."

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

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

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

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

I didn't say anything. Victors shouldn't boast--and I was a victor, of
course, about the school. But when I thought of what Father had said
about my reciting my lessons to him every day in the library--I wasn't
so 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 to
say. And it was kind of a queer situation, when you came right down to
it. Both of us sitting there and knowing I wasn't going back to school
any 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.) It
would be a funny world, wouldn't it, if we all knew what each other
was 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'm
afraid, 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. We
finished in stern silence; then Aunt Jane went upstairs to her room
and I went up to mine. (You see what a perfectly wildly exciting life
Mary is living! And when I think of how _full_ of good times Mother
wanted 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 well
your lessons, so as not to annoy your father."

"Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite and proper, and went upstairs
obediently; but even Mary didn't know exactly how to study those
lessons.

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

But I needn't have worried. If I could only have known. Little did I
think--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_ thought
folks 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 I
waited till I was sure he'd got settled in the library, then I went
down.

_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 said
nay, nay. And in spite of being Mary just now, I let Marie have her
way.

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_ was
there 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-not
book from behind the glass door. Then I sat down and read till the
supper-bell rang.

Father was five minutes late to supper. I don't know whether he looked
at me or not. I didn't dare to look at him--until Aunt Jane said, in
her 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 I
was looking straight at him when he gave that funny little startled
glance into my eyes. And into his eyes then there crept the funniest,
dearest little understanding twinkle--and I suddenly realized that
Father, _Father_, was laughing with me at a little secret between
_us_. But 't was only for a second. The next moment his eyes were very
grave and looking at Aunt Jane.

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

When he got up from the table he said to me: "I shall expect to see
you 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 in
his pet seat before the fireplace. (Father always sits before the
fireplace, whether there's a fire there or not. And sometimes he looks
_so_ funny sitting there, staring into those gray ashes just as if it
was 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 come
with your books. Yes, I remember."

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

And I had lost him. I knew it the minute he sighed and frowned and
got 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 had
been unmarried to Mother, and who called me "Mary" in an
of-course-you're-my-daughter tone of voice.

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

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

_July first_.

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

Sometimes it wasn't stars and moons, though, that he talked about. It
was Boston, and Mother. Yes, he did. He talked a lot about Mother. As
I look back at it now, I can see that he did. He asked me all over
again what she did, and about the parties and the folks that came to
see her. He asked again about Mr. Harlow, and about the concert, and
the young man who played the violin, and what was his name, and how
old was he, and did I like him. And then, right in the middle of some
question, or rather, right in the middle of some _answer_ I was giving
_him_, he would suddenly remember he was hearing my lessons, and he
would 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 five
whole minutes--before he asked another question about that party, or
the 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 in
Boston, 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 of
disappointment this is! How on earth I'm going to stand being Mary for
three months more I don't know. But I've got to, I suppose. I've been
here May, June, and July; and that leaves August, September, and
October 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_, I
am simply crazy.

If Father wanted me, really wanted me, I wouldn't care a bit. I'd be
willing to be Mary six whole months. Yes, I'd be _glad_ to. But he
doesn't. I'm just here by order of the court. And what can you do when
you'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 and
day 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. I
mean 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 Father
out to the observatory, so I just reveled in piano-playing till I
found almost every time I did it that he had come back, and was in the
library 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, and
now I have to weed an hour, too; and Aunt Jane tried to have me learn
to cook; but Susie (in the kitchen) flatly refused to have me "messing
around," so Aunt Jane had to give that up. Susie's the one person Aunt
Jane's afraid of, you see. She always threatens to leave if anything
goes across her wishes. So Aunt Jane has to be careful. I heard her
tell Mrs. Small next door that good hired girls were awfully scarce in
Andersonville.

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

That leaves only Mother's letters. They are dear, and I love them. I
don't know what I'd do without them. And yet, sometimes I think maybe
they'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't
live 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 getting
awfully stupid. Nothing happens. _Nothing!_ Of course, if 'twas just
a story I could make up things--lots of them--exciting, interesting
things, like having Mother elope with the violinist, and Father shoot
him and fall in love with Mother all over again, or else with somebody
else, and shoot that one's lover. Or maybe somebody'd try to shoot
Father, 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 only
just what happens; and _nothing happens_.

And that's another thing. About the love story--I'm afraid there isn't
going 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 three
months, so I can't say anything about that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father hitched and ahemmed and moved nearer the door all the time she
was talking, and he didn't seem to hear her when she pushed a chair
toward 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 had
gone. (She always calls him poor dear Mr. Darling now, but Susie
says she didn't when he was alive; she called him something quite
different. 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 that
he was very sorry, but she really must excuse him. And he got through
the door while he was talking just as fast as he could himself, so
that 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 Father
never came out at all again.

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

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

And Bridget chuckled and answered back:

"Sure it is! An' I do be thinkin' the Widder Darlin' is a heap fonder
of 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 Susie
and Bridget meant! I'm no child!

But all this doesn't make Father like _them_. I'm not sure but it
makes him dislike them. Anyhow, he won't have anything to do with
them. He always runs away over to the observatory, or somewhere, and
won'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 any
chance of Father's having a love story to help out this book--not
right 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 this
time--I'm going on fifteen. Oh, there have been _beginnings_, lots of
them--only Aunt Jane wouldn't let them go on and be endings, though I
told her good and plain that I thought it perfectly all right; and I
reminded her about the brook and river meeting where I stood, and all
that.

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

Well, Aunt Jane said stuff and nonsense, and that I was much too young
to run around with silly boys. You see, Charlie Smith had walked home
from school with me twice, but I had to stop that. And Fred Small
was getting so he was over here a lot. Aunt Jane stopped _him_. Paul
Mayhew--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! I
wanted the ride, of course, but especially I wanted to go because he
was Mrs. Mayhew's son. I just wanted to show Mrs. Mayhew! But Aunt
Jane wouldn't let me. That's the time she talked specially about
running around with silly boys. But she needn't have. Paul is no silly
boy. 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. I
found out afterward. It was because he was any kind of a man paying
me 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, and
he 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 liked
him. 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 more
shocked than she had been over Charlie Smith and Fred Small, and the
others.

"Mercy, child!" she exclaimed. "Where in the world do you pick
up 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 a
very nice gentleman; and that I had not picked him up. He came to her
own door himself, almost every day.

"My own door!" exclaimed Aunt Jane. And she looked absolutely
frightened. "You mean to tell me that that creature has been coming
here 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 natural
pursuance of his profession of delivering groceries. And I said
that he was not a creature. On the contrary, he was, I was sure, an
estimable young man. He went to her own church and Sunday-School.
Besides, I could vouch for him myself, as I knew him well, having seen
and talked with him almost every day for a long while, when he came to
the house.

But nothing I could say seemed to have the least effect upon her at
all, 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 a
fellow Christian in her own church.

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

Well, of course, that ended that. And there hasn't been any other
since. That's why I say _my_ love story doesn't seem to be getting
along very well. Naturally, when it gets noised around town that your
Aunt Jane won't let you go anywhere with a young man, or let a young
man come to see you, or even walk home with you after the first
time--why, the young men aren't going to do very much toward making
your 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 of
it, and how I couldn't play now, or make any noise, 'cause Father has
taken to hanging around the house so much. Well, listen what happened.

Yesterday Aunt Jane went to spend the day with her best friend. She
said for me not to leave the house, as some member of the family
should be there. She told me to sew an hour, weed an hour, dust the
house 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 Father
wasn't to be home for dinner, so I wouldn't have _that_ excitement. He
was 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't
a breath of air. By noon I was simply crazy with my stuffy,
long-sleeved, high-necked blue gingham dress and my great clumpy
shoes. It seemed all of a sudden as if I couldn't stand it--not
another minute--not a single minute more--to be Mary, I mean. And
suddenly I determined that for a while, just a little while, I'd be
Marie again. Why couldn't I? There wasn't anybody going to be there
but just myself, _all day long_.

I ran then upstairs to the guest-room closet where Aunt Jane had made
me 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, and
the little white slippers and the silk stockings that I loved, and the
blue silk sash, and the little gold locket and chain that Mother gave
me that Aunt Jane wouldn't let me wear. And I dressed up. My, didn't
I dress up? And I just _threw_ those old heavy shoes and black cotton
stockings into the corner, and the blue gingham dress after them
(though Mary went right away and picked the dress up, and hung it in
the 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 flesh
and bones, and how I did dance and sing around the room in those light
little slippers! Then Susie rang the dinner-bell and I went down to
the dining-room feeling like a really truly young lady, I can tell
you.

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

After dinner I went out into the hall and I sang; I sang all over the
house. And I ran upstairs and I ran down; and I jumped all the last
three steps, even if it was so warm. Then I went into the parlor and
played every lively thing that I could think of on the piano. And I
sang 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 to
Lester; 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 the
coffin plate, and the wax cross, and the hair wreath; and the room was
just as still as death. And I knew I wasn't in Boston. I was there in
Andersonville, And there wasn't any Baby Lester there, nor any mother
waiting for me in the next room. And all the fluffy white dresses and
silk stockings in the world wouldn't make me Marie. I was really just
Mary, 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 been
singing a minute before. I was on the floor with my head in my arms on
the 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 been
crying--he had seen it. But I tried very hard to stop now. My first
thought, after my startled realization that he was there, was to
wonder how long he had been there--how much of all that awful singing
and banging he had heard.

"Yes, sir." I tried not to have my voice shake as I said it; but I
couldn'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 just
stammered out something about being sorry I had disturbed him. Then
I edged toward the door to show him that if he would step one side I
would go away at once and not bother him any longer.

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

"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 all
what I was saying: "No, no--but I wish I had, I wish I had; 'cause
then I could go to her, and go away from here!" The minute I'd said
it I _knew_ what I'd said, and how awful it sounded; and I clapped my
fingers to my lips. But 'twas too late. It's always too late, when
you've once said it. So I just waited for him to thunder out his
anger; for, of course, I thought he _would_ thunder in rage and
righteous 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 face
weren't angry at all. They were just sorry, actually sorry. And
somehow, before I knew it, I was crying again, and Father, with his
arm around me--_with his arm around me!_ think of that!--was leading
me to the sofa.

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

Well, I told him everything (when I got started there was no
stopping)--all about how hard it was to be Mary, and how to-day I had
tried to be Marie for just a little while, to rest me. He interrupted
here, and wanted to know if that was why I looked so different
to-day--more as I had when I first came; and I said yes, that these
were 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 Jane
wouldn't let me; that Mary had to wear brown serge and calfskin boots
that were durable, and that would wear well.

And when I told him how sorry I was about the music and such a noise
as I'd been making, he asked if _that_ was Marie's fault, too; and I
said yes, of course--that Aunt Jane didn't like to have Mary play at
all, except hymns and funeral marches, and Mary didn't know any. And
he 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. Jekyll
and Mr. Hyde. (I forgot to say I've read it now. I found it in
Father's library.) Of course not _just_ like it, only one of me was
going to be bad, and one good, I was afraid, if I didn't look out. I
told him how Marie always wanted to kick up rugs, and move the chairs
out of their sockets in the carpet, and leave books around handy, and
such things. And so to-day it seemed as if I'd just got to have a
vacation from Mary's hot gingham dresses and clumpy shoes. And I told
him how lonesome I was without anybody, not _anybody_; and I told
about Charlie Smith and Paul Mayhew and Mr. Claude Livingstone,
and how Aunt Jane wouldn't let me have them, either, even if I was
standing where the brook and river meet.

Father gave another funny little grunt here, and got up suddenly and
walked over to the window. I thought at first he was angry; but he
wasn't. He was even more gentle when he came back and sat down again,
and he seemed interested, very much interested in everything I told
him. But I stopped just in time from saying again how I wished I could
go 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 the
music--that he didn't mind it at all. He'd been in several times and
heard it. And I thought almost, by the way he spoke, that he'd come in
on purpose to hear it; but I guess that was a mistake. He just put it
that 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. I
heard Aunt Jane's voice on the piazza saying good-bye to the lady that
had brought her home; so, of course, I had to run and hang Marie in
the closet and get out Mary from the corner before she saw me. And I
did.

By dinner-time I had on the gingham dress and the hot clumpy shoes
again; and I had washed my face in cold water so I had got most of the
tear 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 tried
to 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 was
glad, very glad. And Aunt Jane was so disgusted, and accused him
of being even more absent-minded than usual, which was entirely
unnecessary, she said.

But even that didn't move Father a mite. He just said, yes, yes, very
likely; and went on scowling to himself and stirring his coffee after
he'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 to
the library. I _hoped_ he would. There were lots more things I'd like
to have said to him. But he didn't. He never said a word. He just kept
scowling, and got up from the table and went off by himself. But he
didn't go out to the observatory, as he most generally does. He went
into the library and shut the door.

He was there when the telephone message came at eight o'clock. And
what do you think? He'd _forgotten_ he was going to speak before the
College 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--what
I'd told him. But I knew, of course, right away that it couldn't be
that. He'd never forget his stars for _me_! Probably he was just
reading up about some other stars, or had forgotten how late it was,
or something. (Father's always forgetting things.) But, anyway, when
Aunt Jane called him he got his hat and hurried off without so much
as one word to me, who was standing near, or to Aunt Jane, who was
following him all through the hall, and telling him in her most
I'm-amazed-at-you voice how shockingly absent-minded he was getting to
be.

_One week later._

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

The very next morning he came down to breakfast with such a funny look
on his face. He said good-morning to me three times, and all through
breakfast he kept looking over at me with a kind of scowl that was not
cross at all--just puzzled.

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

"Well, Mary, what shall we do to-day?" Just like that he said it, as
if 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 I
stammered and flushed up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good! Very well, then, we'll walk. I'm not Carrie or Charlie, but I
believe 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 so
fast I couldn't half keep up with him; then, when he saw how I was
hurrying, he'd slow down, 'way down, and look so worried--till he'd
forget and go striding off again, way ahead of me.

We went up on the hill through the Benton woods, and it was perfectly
lovely 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 the
way 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 is
August!), and did I have a good breakfast, and how old was I, and did
I enjoy my studies--which shows how little he was really thinking what
he was saying. He knows school closed ages ago. Wasn't he teaching me
himself the last of it, too? All around us were flowers and birds, and
oh, 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 me
laugh 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; and
by and by we came home.

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

But he's asked me to do other things. The next day after the walk he
asked me to play to him. Yes, he _asked_ me to; and he went into the
parlor and sat down on one of the chairs and listened while I played
three 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 he
was very polite and said, "Thank you, Mary," and, "That that was very
nice"; then he stood up and said, "Thank you" again and went away into
the 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 I
think Father did, too. He wasn't stiff and polite one bit. Oh, I don't
mean that he was _impolite_ or rude. It's just that he wasn't stiff
as if I was company. And he was so happy with his stars and his
telescope, 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 for
me 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'd
had such a lovely time together the night before. But he wasn't. He
just said, "Good-morning, Mary," and began to read his paper. And he
read his paper all through breakfast without saying another word to
me. Then he got up and went into the library, and I never saw him
again all day except at dinner-time and supper-time, and _then_ he
didn't talk to me.

But after supper he took me out again to see the stars, and he was
just as nice and friendly as could be. Not a bit like a man that's
only 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 say
he's been so queer. One minute he'll be just as nice and folksy as you
could ask anybody to be, and the very next he's looking right through
you as if he didn't see you at all, and you wonder and wonder what's
the matter, and if you've done anything to displease him.

Sometimes he seems almost glad and happy, and then he'll look so sorry
and 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 has
happened. I can't hardly believe it yet myself. Yet it's so. My trunk
is 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 come
home for the opening of school in September. She said she understood
quite well that she had no _right_ to ask this, and, of course, if
they saw fit, they were entirely within their rights to refuse to
allow me to go until the allotted time. But that she could not help
asking it for my sake, on account of the benefit to be derived from
being there at the opening of the school year.

Of course, I didn't know Mother was going to write this. But she knew
all about the school here, and how I came out, and everything. I've
always told Mother everything that has happened. Oh, of course, I
haven't written "every few minutes," as she asked me to. (That was a
joke, anyway, of course.) But I have written every few days, and, as I
said 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, of
course. But Aunt Jane didn't tell me. She opened it, read it, kind of
flushed up, and said, "Humph! The idea!" under her breath, and put the
letter in her pocket.

Marie wanted to make a scene and insist on knowing what was in her own
mother's letter; but Mary contented herself with looking superb and
haughty and disdainful, and marching out of the room without giving
Aunt Jane the satisfaction of even being asked what was in that
letter.

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

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

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

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

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

Then Aunt Jane cleared her throat and spoke.

"You will not let her go, of course, Charles; but naturally I had to
read 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 hugged
him. (Oh, how I wish he was the kind of a father you could do that
to!)

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

"I'm not giving in at all, Jane," said Father, very quietly again. "I
am 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 like
that, right out--that he _wanted_ me to go. You see, I'd begun to
think 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 more
of that anon. I'll go on with what happened at the table. And, as I
said, I did feel bad to have him speak like that. And I can remember
now 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 well
understand that you would want her to go--for _your_ sake. But I
thought that, under the circumstances, you would manage somehow to put
up with the noise and--"

"Jane!" Just like that he interrupted, and he thundered, too, so that
Aunt Jane actually jumped. And I guess I did, too. He had sprung to
his feet. "Jane, let us close this matter once for all. I am not
letting 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, I
should--keep her here always."

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

But only for a minute did _I_ stare. It came to me then what he had
said--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, indistinct
voice. I was sure I had heard it, and I suddenly realized what it
meant. So I ran after him; and that time, if I had found him, I think
I _would_ have hugged him. But I didn't find him. He must have gone
quite away from the house. He wasn't even out to the observatory. I
went out to see.

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

The next day he was more as he has been since we had that talk in the
parlor. And he _has_ been different since then, you know. He really
has. He has talked quite a lot with me, as I have said, and I think
he's been trying, part of the time, to find something I'll be
interested in. Honestly, I think he's been trying to make up
for Carrie Heywood and Stella Mayhew and Charlie Smith and Mr.
Livingstone. I think that's why he took me to walk that day in the
woods, and why he took me out to the observatory to see the stars
quite a number of times. Twice he's asked me to play to him, and once
he asked me if Mary wasn't about ready to dress up in Marie's clothes
again. But he was joking then, I knew, for Aunt Jane was right there
in the house. Besides, I saw the twinkle in his eyes that I've seen
there 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, if
it didn't seem too wildly absurd for anything, I should say he was
actually 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 like
to keep me always. But I don't think he really meant it. He hasn't
acted a mite like that since, and I guess he said it just to hush up
Aunt Jane, and make her stop arguing the matter.

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

CHAPTER VI

WHEN I AM BOTH TOGETHER

BOSTON AGAIN.

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

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

You see, it was this way: I'd been sort of hoping, I know, that at
the last, when I came to really go, Father would get back the
understanding smile and the twinkle, and show that he really _did_
care for me, and was sorry to have me go. But, dear me! Why, he
never was so stern and solemn, and
you're-my-daughter-only-by-the-order-of-the-court sort of way as he
was that morning.

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

He went to the station with me; but he didn't talk there much, only to
ask 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 it
could be! But that only goes to show how absent-minded he was, and how
little he was really thinking of _me_!

Well, of course, he got my ticket and checked my trunk, and did all
those proper, necessary things; then we sat down to wait for the
train. But did he stay with me and talk to me and tell me how glad he
had been to have me with him, and how sorry he was to have me go, and
all the other nice, polite things 'most everybody thinks they've got
to say when a visitor goes away? He did not. He asked me again if I
was sure I had not left anything, and was I warmly clad; then he took
out 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 if
he was thinking of something. So I guess he was just pretending to
read, so he wouldn't have to talk to me.

But he didn't even do that long, for he got up and went over and
looked at a map hanging on the wall opposite, and at a big time-table
near the other corner. Then he looked at his watch again with a
won'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 all
those people--to show so plainly that he was just longing to have me
go? 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't
come for ages. It was ten minutes late.

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

Well, as I said, he went. But he wasn't much better on the train than
he 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. But
at the junction--at the junction a funny thing happened. He put me on
the train, just as Mother had done, and spoke to the conductor. (How
I 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 my
seat (Father, I mean; not the conductor), all of a sudden he leaned
over 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, though
it must have been five whole minutes before that train went.

I had a nice trip down to Boston, though nothing much happened. This
conductor 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 young
gentleman to loan me magazines or buy candy for me. But it wasn't a
very 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, Aunt
Hattie, and even Baby Lester. He knew me, and remembered me. He'd
grown a lot, too. And they said I had, and that I looked very nice. (I
forgot to say that, of course, I had put on the Marie clothes to come
home in--though I honestly think Aunt Jane wanted to send me home in
Mary's blue gingham and calfskin shoes. As if I'd have appeared in
Boston in _that_ rig!)

My, but it was good to get into an automobile again and just _go_! And
it was so good to have folks around you dressed in something besides
don't-care black alpaca and stiff collars. And I said so. And Mother
seemed 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 all
over again how good it seemed to be Marie again, and have her and
Boston, and automobiles, and pretty dresses and folks and noise again.

She didn't say anything about Father then; but later, when we were up
in my pretty room alone, and I was taking off my things, she made me
tell 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_ rather
stay with him than with her.

Then she asked me a lot of questions about what I did there, and Aunt
Jane, and how she looked, and Father, and was he as fond of stars as
ever (though she must have known 'most everything, 'cause I'd already
written it, but she asked me just the same). And she seemed real
interested 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 by
just being around when they called. And when she asked what I meant, I
told her about Mrs. Darling, and the rest, and how they came evenings
and Sundays, and how Father didn't like them, but would flee to the
observatory. And she laughed and looked funny, for a minute. But right
away she changed and looked very sober, with the kind of expression
she has when she stands up in church and says the Apostles' Creed on
Sunday; only this time she said she was very sorry, she was sure; that
she hoped my father would find some estimable woman who would make a
good 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 hope
there's _some_ one. I don't want this novel to all fizzle out without
there being _any_ one to make it a love story! Besides, as I said
before, I'm particularly anxious that Mother shall find somebody to
marry 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; but
there just hasn't been a minute's time.

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

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

I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother one day that it was going to take
about the whole six months to break Mary Marie of those outlandish
country ways of hers. (So, you see, it isn't all honey and pie even
for 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 very
well--what Aunt Hattie said about my outlandish ways. I didn't hear
all Mother said, but I knew by the way she looked and acted, and the
little 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 concerts
and plays, and riding in his automobile. And she always puts on her
prettiest dresses, and she's very particular about her shoes, and her
hats, that they're becoming, and all that. Oh, I'm so excited! And I'm
having such a good time watching them! Oh, I don't mean watching them
in a disagreeable way, so that they _see_ it; and, of course, I don't
listen--not the sneak kind of listening. But, of course, I have to get
all I can--for the book, you know; and, of course, if I just happen
to be in the window-seat corner in the library and hear things
accidentally, why, that's all right.

And I have heard things.

He says her eyes are lovely. He likes her best in blue. He's very
lonely, 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 to
have him for a friend; and he said he prized her friendship above
everything else in the world. And he looks at her, and follows her
around the room with his eyes; and she blushes up real pink and pretty
lots 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 new
father. I understand that. And, of course, I can't help wondering how
I'll like it. Sometimes I think I won't like it at all. Sometimes I
almost catch myself wishing that I didn't have to have any new father
or mother. I'd _never_ need a new mother, anyway, and I wouldn't need
a new father if my father-by-order-of-the-court would be as nice as he
was there two or three times in the observatory.

But, there! After all, I must remember that I'm not the one that's
doing the choosing. It's Mother. And if she wants the violinist I
mustn'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's
something. And then, of course, I'm glad to have something to make
this a love story, and best of all I would be glad to have Mother stop
being divorced, anyway.

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

Quite a lot of the others are here, and there are some new ones. But
the violinist is here most, and Mother seems to go out with him most
to 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 hear
from 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'm
nothing but his daughter by order of the court. But, some way, I did
think maybe he'd write me just a little bit of a note in answer to
mine--my bread-and-butter letter, I mean; for of course, Mother had me
write 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 of
course, 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 of
money. 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 boxes
of candy, and calls me Puss. (I don't like _that_, particularly. I'd
prefer him to call me Miss Anderson.) He's not nearly so good-looking
as the violinist. The violinist is lots more thrilling, but I
shouldn'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 and
take 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 big
chair before the fire with a pair of old slippers on, if your feet
were tired.

Mr. Easterbrook doesn't care for music. He's a broker. He looks
awfully bored when the violinist is playing, and he fidgets with his
watch-chain, and clears his throat very loudly just before he
speaks every time. His automobile is bigger and handsomer than the
violinist's. (Aunt Hattie says the violinist's automobile is a hired
one.) And Mr. Easterbrook's flowers that he sends to Mother are
handsomer, too, and lots more of them, than the violinist's. Aunt
Hattie has noticed that, too. In fact, I guess there isn't anything
about Mr. Easterbrook that she doesn't notice.

Aunt Hattie likes Mr. Easterbrook lots better than she does the
violinist. I heard her talking to Mother one day. She said that any
one that would look twice at a lazy, shiftless fiddler with probably
not a dollar laid by for a rainy day, when all the while there was
just waiting to be picked an estimable gentleman of independent
fortune and stable position like Mr. Easterbrook--well, she had her
opinion of her; that's all. She meant Mother, of course. _I_ knew
that. I'm no child.

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

"I understand, of course, what you mean, Hattie; but even if I
acknowledged that this very estimable, unimpeachable gentleman was
waiting to be picked (which I do not), I should have to remind you
that I've already had one experience with an estimable, unimpeachable
gentleman of independent fortune and stable position, and I do not
care 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. "But
let me tell you this, Hattie. I'd rather live on bread and water in
a log cabin with the man I loved than in a palace with an estimable,
unimpeachable gentleman who gave me the shivers every time he came
into the room."

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

"Of course, you would, Mother!" I cried. "And, anyhow, if you did
marry 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 anything
more. 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 the
did-you-ever-hear-such-a-dreadful-thing? way that old folks do when
young folks have displeased them. And them they both went right out of
the room, talking about the unfortunate effect on a child's mind, and
perverted morals, and Mother reproaching Aunt Hattie for talking about
those things before that child (meaning me, of course). Then they got
too far down the hall for me to hear any more. But I don't see why
they needed to have made such a fuss. It wasn't any secret that Mother
got 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 of
him--my husband, I mean.) Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Mayhew and her crowd
don't seem to think divorces are very nice; but there needn't anybody
try to make me think that anything my mother does isn't perfectly nice
and 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'd
better tell them before I forget it, especially as they have a good
deal to do with the love part of the story. And I'm always so glad to
get anything of that kind. I've been so afraid this wouldn't be much
of 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 more
exciting--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's
perfectly plain to be seen, though, which one Grandfather and Aunt
Hattie want her to take! It's Mr. Easterbrook.

And he is awfully nice. He brought me a perfectly beautiful bracelet
the other day--but Mother wouldn't let me keep it. So he had to take
it 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 young
to wear much jewelry. Oh, will the time ever come when I'll be old
enough to take my proper place in the world? Sometimes it seems as if
it never would!

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

Something happened last night. Grandfather began to talk at the
dinner-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 to
him, 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 them
all talking very excitedly, and some loud; and I guess Mother didn't
like what they said, and got quite angry, for I heard her say, when
she 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 that
just because they didn't like a man.

This morning she broke an engagement with Mr. Easterbrook to go
auto-riding and went with the violinist to a morning musicale instead;
and after she'd gone Aunt Hattie sighed and looked at Grandfather and
shrugged her shoulders, and said she was afraid they'd driven her
straight into the arms of the one they wanted to avoid, and that Madge
always _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 been
hoping to get her to give him up, but instead of that, they'd made her
turn 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 say
right away that _I_ don't like that violinist now, either, any better
than Grandfather and Aunt Hattie. And it's not entirely because of
what happened last night, either. It's been coming on for quite a
while--ever since I first saw him talking to Theresa in the hall when
she let him in one night a week ago.

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

Well, that was the beginning. I can see now that it was, though, I
never thought of its meaning anything then, only that he thought
Theresa was a pretty girl, just as we all do.

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

Well, you can imagine how I felt, when I thought all the time it was
Mother he was coming to see! And now to find out that it was Theresa
he wanted all the time, and he was only coming to see Mother so he
could 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 the
pretty dresses and hats she'd put on for him, and all that. And I
thought how she'd broken engagements with Mr. Easterbrook to go with
him, and it made me angry all over again. And I thought how _mean_ it
was of him to use poor Mother as a kind of shield to hide his courting
of Theresa! I was angry, too, to have my love story all spoiled, when
I was getting along so beautifully with Mother and the violinist.

But I'm feeling better now. I've been thinking it over. I don't
believe 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 the
while he was really courting the hired girl--I mean maid. Besides,
there's Mr. Easterbrook left (and one or two others that I haven't
said much about, as I didn't think they had much chance). And so far
as 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 the
violinist 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 it
a--a mess-alliance. (I don't remember exactly what that word is; but
I know it means an alliance that makes a mess of things because the
lovers are not equal to each other.) Of course, for the folks who have
to live it, it may not be so nice; but for my story here this makes it
all 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 warn
Mother, 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't
it be a good joke on Aunt Hattie and Grandfather when they find out
they've been fooled all the time, supposing it's Mother, and worrying
about 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! Listen
what he did. He proposed to Mother--actually proposed to her--and
after all he'd said to that Theresa girl, about his being perfectly
happy if he could marry _her_. And Mother--Mother all the time not
knowing! Oh, I'm so glad I was there to rescue her! I don't mean at
the proposal--I didn't hear that. But afterward.

It was like this.

They had been out automobiling--Mother and the violinist. He came for
her at three o'clock. He said it was a beautiful warm day, and maybe
the 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 and
walked into the library. They never looked my way at all, but just
walked toward the fireplace. And there he took hold of both her hands
and said:

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

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

"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, or
ever could love!"

Yes, just like that he said it--that awful lie--and to my mother. My
stars! 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 I
ran forward. Dear, dear, but how they did jump--both of them! And I
guess they _were_ surprised. I never thought how 'twas going to affect
them--my breaking in like that. But I didn't wait--not a minute. And
I didn't apologize, or say "Excuse me," or any of those things that
I suppose I ought to have done. I just started right in and began to
talk. 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 by
saying such an awful lie to my mother, when he'd just said the same
thing, 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 to
tell 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 talk
any more about it, to her, or to any one else; and to please try to
forget 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 talking
of it, and she wanted me to forget it. She was very sweet and very
gentle, 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 I
was watching at the window for him to go; and when he did go he
looked very red and cross, and he stalked away with a
never-will-I-darken-this-door-again kind of a step, just as far as I
could see him.

I don't know, of course, what will happen next, nor whether he'll ever
come back for Theresa; but I shouldn't think even _she_ would want
him, 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 from
Father--from _Father_--a _letter_--ME!

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

"I think you have a letter here from--your father," she said, handing
it 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 she
does, she always stops a funny little minute before it, just as she
did to-day.

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

"To think such a thing could happen--to _me_! And when for a minute I
was 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 the
worth of a real man. There's Mr. Easterbrook, now--"

But Mother wouldn't even listen then. She pooh-poohed and tossed her
head, and said, "Mr. Easterbrook, indeed!" and put her hands to her
ears, 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, she
goes with him some, but not enough to make it a bit interesting--for
this novel, I mean--nor with any of the others, either. In fact, I'm
afraid there isn't much chance now of Mother's having a love story to
make this book right. Only the other day I heard her tell Grandfather
and Aunt Hattie that _all_ men were a delusion and a snare. Oh, she
laughed as she said it. But she was in earnest, just the same. I could
see that. And she doesn't seem to care much for any of the different
men that come to see her. She seems to ever so much rather stay with
me. In fact, she stays with me a lot these days--almost all the time
I'm out of school, indeed. And she talks with me--oh, she talks with
me about lots of things. (I love to have her talk with me. You know
there'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, and
I said I was so glad that when you didn't like being married, or got
tired of your husband, you could get _un_married, just as she did, and
go 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 I
mustn't talk like that, and that you _couldn't_ go back and be the
same. 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 you
couldn't really be the same any more than you could put the dress you
were wearing back on the shelf in the store, and expect it to turn
back into a fine long web of cloth all folded up nice and tidy, as it
was in the first place. And, of course, you couldn't do that--after
the cloth was all cut up into a dress!

She said more things, too; and after Father's letter came she said
still 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 was
wondering what could be in it. But I guess she wasn't wondering any
more than _I_ was, only I was gladder to get it than she was, I
suppose. Anyhow, when she saw _how_ glad I was, and how I jumped for
the 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 so
much 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 to
find 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 Mother
was 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 if
something inside of her was _making_ her say it:

"I notice there is no mention of your mother in that letter, Marie. I
suppose--your father has quite forgotten that there is such a person
in 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 the
violinist and all.

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

"Oh, no, not everything," I explained, trying to show how patient I
was, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn't work.) "I couldn't
tell him everything because everything hadn't happened then. But I
told 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 she
didn't look much better when I explained very carefully what I did
say, even though I assured her over and over again that Father was
interested, 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 on
the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. And
when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for she
threw her arms around me and cried:

"Oh, my darling, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, how
dreadful 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 and
cry.

"Oh, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it all is--how unnatural
it is for us to live--this way? And for you--you poor child!--what
could be worse for you? And here I am, jealous--jealous of your own
father, 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 have
to give you up--six whole months of every year I have to give you up
to him. And he's your father, Marie. And he's a good man. I know he's
a 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 love
him better than you do me, and want to leave--me. And I can't give you
up! I can't give you up!"

Then I tried to tell her, of course, that she wouldn't have to give
me up, and that I loved her a whole lot better than I did Father. But
even 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 as
she needed me, and maybe more. And then she went on again about how
unnatural and awful it was to live the way we were living. And she
called herself a wicked woman that she'd ever allowed things to get to
such a pass. And she said if she could only have her life to live over
again she'd do so differently--oh, so differently.

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

She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely with
her wet ball of a handkerchief. And she asked what was she thinking
of, and didn't she know any better than to talk like this to me. Then
she 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 think
she didn't know how to cry.

Now, wasn't that funny?

Of course, I shall answer Father's letter right away, but I haven't
the 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 world
to say. I'd start out all right, and I'd think I was going to get
along beautifully. Then, all of a sudden, it would come over me, what
I was doing--_writing a letter to my father_! And I could imagine just
how he'd look when he got it, all stern and dignified, sitting in
his chair in the library, and opening the letter _just so_ with his
paper-cutter; and I'd imagine his eyes looking down and reading what I
wrote. And when I thought of that, my pen just wouldn't go. The idea
of _my_ writing anything my father would want to read!

And so I'd try to think of things that I could write--big things--big
things that would interest big men: about the President, and
our-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'd
put down _something_. But it was awful, and I knew it was awful. So
I'd have to tear it up and begin again. Three times I did that; then I
began to cry. It did seem as if I never could write that letter. Once
I 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 the
letter 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 did
her. And I was afraid she'd do it again, and so I didn't like to ask
her. And so I didn't do it.

Then, after a time, I got out his letter and read it again. And all of
a 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 telling
me 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 on
Christmas Day; and I knew right off that that would be easy. Why, just
the easiest thing in the world! And so I got out a fresh sheet of
paper 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 the
tree I had Christmas Eve, and the presents, and the little colored
lights, and the fun we had singing and playing games. And then how, on
Christmas morning, there was a lovely new snow on the ground, and Mr.
Easterbrook came with a perfectly lovely sleigh and two horses to take
Mother and me to ride, and what a splendid time we had, and how lovely
Mother looked with her red cheeks and bright eyes, and how, when we
got home, Mr. Easterbrook said we looked more like sisters than mother
and daughter, and wasn't that nice of him. Of course, I told a little
more about Mr. Easterbrook, too, so Father'd know who he was--a new
friend 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 Hattie
said so.

Then I told him that in the afternoon another gentleman came and took
us to a perfectly beautiful concert. And I finished up by telling
about the Christmas party in the evening, and how lovely the house
looked, 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 written
a long letter, a great long letter. And I was almost afraid it was
too 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 to
say--nothing new or exciting, I mean. There's just school, and the
usual things; only Mr. Easterbrook doesn't come any more. (Of course,
the violinist hasn't come since that day he proposed.) I don't know
whether Mr. Easterbrook proposed or not. I only know that all of a
sudden 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 the
library window-seat just the same; but 'most everybody that comes in
looks there right off, now; and, of course, when they see me they
don't hardly ever go on with what they are saying. So it just
naturally follows that I don't overhear things as I used to.

Not that there's much to hear, though. Really, there just isn't
anything going on, and things aren't half so lively as they used to be
when Mr. Easterbrook was here, and all the rest. They've all stopped
coming, now, 'most. I've about given up ever having a love story of
Mother'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 almost
as bad as Aunt Jane was about my receiving proper attentions from
young men. Oh, she lets me go to places, a little, with the boys at
school; but I always have to be chaperoned. And whenever are they
going to have a chance to say anything really _thrilling_ with Mother
or Aunt Hattie right at my elbow? Echo answers never! So I've about
given up _that's_ amounting to anything, either.

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

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

But, then, Mother's queer in lots of ways now. For instance: One
week ago she gave me a perfectly lovely box of chocolates--a whole
two-pound box all at once; and I've never had more than a half-pound
at once before. But just as I was thinking how for once I was going to
have a real feast, and all I wanted to eat--what do you think she told
me? 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 me
such a big box for, then, if that was all I could have, she said it
was to teach me self-discipline. That self-discipline was one of the
most wonderful things in the world. That if she'd only been taught it
when 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 very
own, just so as to teach me to deny myself and take only three pieces
every day.

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

_One week later._

It's come--Father's letter. It came last night. Oh, it was short, and
it 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 just
that 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 did
before. And then, besides, he must have forgotten his stars long
enough 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 had
better stay here till it finished.

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

But I wrote. I had to write three letters, though, before I got one
that Mother said would do to send. The first one sounded so _glad_ I
was staying that Mother said she was afraid he would feel hurt, and
that would be too bad--when he'd been so kind. And the second one
sounded as if I was so _sorry_ not to go to Andersonville the first of
April that Mother said that would never do in the world. He'd think
I didn't _want_ to stay in Boston. But the third letter I managed to
make just glad enough to stay, and just sorry enough not to go. So
that 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 moan
about being jealous this time. And she didn't. She was real excited
and happy over it.

_April_.

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

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

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

Now, listen to this:

Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect
darling 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 have
got it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin with
dots 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. In
fact, 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 and
said:

"I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But it
was 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 getting
to be vain, and too fond of dress."

I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that
self-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. She
told Aunt Hattie--I heard her--that she thought every girl should
know how to cook and to keep house; and that if she had learned those
things 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's
got a new cook, and she's worse than Olga used to be--about not
wanting folks messing around, I mean. So Aunt Hattie said right off
that we couldn't do it there. I am learning at a Domestic Science
School, and Mother is going with me. I didn't mind so much when she
said she'd go, too. And, really, it is quite a lot of fun--really it
is. But it _is_ queer--Mother and I going to school together to learn
how to make bread and cake and boil potatoes! And, of course, Aunt
Hattie 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 queerer
and queerer, and she _is_ getting to be like Aunt Jane. Why, only this
morning she hushed me up from laughing so loud, and stopped my
romping up and down the stairs with Lester. She said it was noisy and
unladylike--and only just a little while ago she just loved to have me
laugh 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, only
she wished to remind me that very soon I was going back to my father
in Andersonville, and that I ought to begin now to learn to be more
quiet, 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 under
her arm. She said it was a very wonderful work on astronomy, and she
was sure I would find it interesting. She said she was going to read
it aloud to me an hour a day. And then, when I got to Andersonville
and 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 and
kind as to let me stay here almost three whole months of his six, so
I could keep on with my school. And that she was very sure this would
please him and make him happy.

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

It seems so funny to hear her talk such a lot about Father as she
does, when before she never used to mention him--only to say how
afraid she was that I would love him better than I did her, and to
make me say over and over again that I didn't. And I said so one day
to 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. Then
she 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. And
now, since your father has been so kind and generous in giving you up
to me so much of his time, I--I've grown ashamed; and I'm trying to
make you forget what I said--about your loving me more than him. That
wasn't right, dear. Mother was wrong. She shouldn't try to influence
you against your father. He is a good man; and there are none too many
good 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 of
the violinist. I'm no child.

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

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

But, alas!

Listen. Would you believe it? Just that same evening Mother stopped me
again 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 hated
Mary, and that Mother _was_ getting to be just like Aunt Jane. And
yet, 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 ready
to go to Andersonville. I leave to-morrow morning. But not as I left
last year. Oh, no. It is very, very different. Why, this year I'm
really _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 be
Mary there and Mary here, too, when can I ever be _Marie_? Oh, I know
I _said_ I'd be willing to be Mary half, and maybe more than half, the
time. 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, and
be 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 said
she wanted to look over my dresses and things; and I could see, by the
way she frowned and bit her lip and tapped her foot on the floor, that
she wasn't suited. And I was glad; for, of course, I always like to
have 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 rose
before me, and even the pink beaded silk came into my mind--though I
didn't really have much hopes of that.

Well, we went shopping on Saturday, but--did we get the pink silk? We
did not. We did get--you'd never guess what. We got two new gingham
dresses, 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--the
kind 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 you
call them. Aren't you going to be Mary just next week? Of course, you
are! And didn't you tell me last year, as soon as you got there, Miss
Anderson objected to your clothing and bought new for you? Well, I am
trying 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 tiresomely
sensible that even Aunt Jane will love them, I know. And to-morrow
I'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 said
good-bye. She came to the junction with me just as she had before, and
put me on the other train.

"Now, remember, dear, you're to try very hard to be a joy and a
comfort 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't
tell me this time to be sure and not love Father better than I did
her. I noticed that. But, of course, I didn't say anything, though I
might 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 like
Mary; and I made up my mind that I would _be_ Mary, too, just as well
as I knew how to be, so that even Aunt Jane couldn't find any fault
with me. And I'd try to please Father, and make him not mind my being
there, even if I couldn't make him love me. And as I got to thinking
of it, I was _glad_ that I had on the Mary things, so I wouldn't have
to make any change. Then I could show Aunt Jane that I was really
going to be Mary, right along from the start, when she met me at
the station. And I would show Father, too, if he was at home. And I
couldn't help hoping he _would_ be home this time, and not off to look
at 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 out
quick. I was so excited! But right away I thought of Aunt Jane and
that she might see me; so I slowed down to a walk, and I let quite a
lot of other folks get ahead of me, as I was sure Mary ought to. You
see, I was determined to be a good little Mary from the very start, so
that even Aunt Jane couldn't find a word of fault--not even with my
actions. I knew she couldn't with my clothes!

Well, I stepped down from the cars and looked over to where the
carriages 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 how
my heart sort of felt sick inside of me when I thought that even Aunt
Jane had forgotten, and that there wasn't anybody to meet me.

There was a beautiful big green automobile there, and I thought how
I wished _that_ had come to meet me; and I was just wondering what I
should do, when all of a sudden somebody spoke my name. And who do you
think 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 and
splendid, and I felt so proud to be walking along the platform with
him and letting folks see that he'd come to meet me! But I couldn't
say anything--not anything, the way I wanted to; and all I could do
was to stammer out:

"Why, where's Aunt Jane?"

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

I don't know whether Father liked it, or minded it. I couldn't tell by
his face. He just kind of smiled, and looked queer, and said that Aunt
Jane--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 because
Aunt Jane couldn't, so he had to. And I could have cried, all the
while he was fixing it up about my trunk.

He turned then and led the way straight over to where the carriages
were, 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 a
chauffeur's cap and uniform. And, what do you think? He was helping me
into that beautiful big green car before I knew it.

"Why, Father, Father!" I cried. "You don't mean"--I just couldn't
finish; 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 did
say more. I just raved and raved over that car until Father's eyes
crinkled 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 I
thought it was the prettiest one I ever saw, and 'way ahead of even
Mr. Easterbrook's.

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

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

And before I could even draw breath to ask any questions, we were
home; and a real pretty lady, with a light-blue dress on, was helping
me 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 I
was really I, and if this was Andersonville? Even now I'm not sure but
it's a dream, and I shall wake up and find I've gone to sleep on the
cars, and that the train is just drawing into the station, and that
John and the horses, and Aunt Jane in her I-don't-care-how-it-looks
black dress are there to meet me.

_One week later_.

It isn't a dream. It's all really, truly true--everything: Father
coming to meet me, the lovely automobile, and the pretty lady in the
light-blue dress, who kissed me. And when I went downstairs the next
morning I found out it was real, 'specially the pretty lady; for she
kissed me again, and said she hoped I'd be happy there. And she never
said one word about dusting one hour and studying one hour and weeding
one hour. (Of course, she couldn't say anything about my clothes, for
I was already in a Mary blue-gingham dress.) She just told me to amuse
myself any way I liked, and said, if I wanted to, I might run over to
see 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. _In
Andersonville_! Why, I couldn't believe my ears. Of course, I was wild
and crazy with delight--but it was all so different. Why, I began to
think almost that I was Marie, and not Mary at all.

And it's been that way the whole week through. I've had a beautiful
time. I've been so excited! And Mother is excited, too. Of course, I
wrote her and told her all about it right away. And she wrote right
back and wanted to know everything--everything I could tell her; all
the little things. And she was so interested in Cousin Grace, and
wanted 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 she
pretty, and was Father around the house more now, and did I see a lot
of him? She thought from something I said that I did.

I've just been writing her again, and I could tell her more now, of
course, than I could in that first letter. I've been here a whole
week, 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, so
it wasn't any wonder she hadn't ever heard of her. She was the wife
of Father's third cousin who went to South America six years ago and
caught the fever and died there. So this Mrs. Whitney isn't really any
relation of his at all. But he'd always known her, even before she
married his cousin; and so, when her husband died, and she didn't have
any home, he asked her to come here.

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

I told Mother that she (Cousin Grace) was quite old, but not so old
as Aunt Jane. (I asked Nellie, and Nellie said she guessed she was
thirty-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 her
around better than he did his own sister Jane, for he sometimes stays
around quite a lot now--after meals, and in the evening, I mean. And
that's what I told Mother. Oh, of course, he still likes his stars the
best of anything, but not quite as well as he used to, maybe--not to
give _all_ his time to them.

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

So you see, really, I'm here only a little bit of a while, as it is
now, 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_ sorry
about that. But there just isn't anything, so I'm afraid the book
never will be a love story, anyway.

Of course, I'm not with Mother now, so I don't know whether there's
anything there, or not; but I don't think there will be. And as for
Father--I've pretty nearly given him up. Anyhow, there never used to
be any signs of hope for me there. As for myself--well, I've about
given that up, too. I don't believe they're going to give me any
chance to have anybody till I'm real old--probably not till I'm
twenty-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 Cousin
Grace that makes it so. Anyhow, she's just as different as different
can 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 be
Mary. I try to move quietly, speak gently, and laugh softly, just as
Mother told me to. But before I know it I'm acting natural again--just
like Marie, you know.

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

And so I think all this is why I keep forgetting to be Mary. But, of
course, I understand that Father expects me to be Mary, and so I try
to remember--only I can't. Why, I couldn't even show him how much I
knew about the stars. I tried to the other night. I went out to the
observatory where he was, and asked him questions about the stars.
I tried to seem interested, and was going to tell him how I'd been
studying about them, but he just laughed kind of funny, and said not
to bother my pretty head about such things, but to come in and play to
him 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, and
Father, and everything. And it _is_ Cousin Grace, and it _is_ a love
story.

_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 I
didn't--not until I heard Nellie and her beau talking about it. Nellie
said she wasn't the only one in the house that was going to get
married. 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 as
blind as a bat.

My, but wasn't I excited? I just guess I was. And, of course, I saw
then that I had been blind as a bat. But I began to open my eyes
after that, and watch--not disagreeably, you know, but just glad and
interested, 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 to
Cousin 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 seemed
to know we were there--Cousin Grace and I.

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

That he went with us to the Sunday-School picnic. (I never saw Father
at 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't
remember; but they were all unmistakable, very unmistakable. And I
wondered, when I saw it all, that I _had_ been as blind as a bat
before.

Of course, I was glad--glad he's going to marry her, I mean. I was
glad for everybody; for Father and Cousin Grace, for they would be
happy, of course, and he wouldn't be lonesome any more. And I was glad
for Mother because I knew she'd be glad that he'd at last found the
good, kind woman to make a home for him. And, of course, I was glad
for 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 love
story sure. That is, I'm pretty sure. Of course, it may not be so; but
I think it is.

When I wrote Mother I told her all about it--the signs and symptoms, I
mean, and how different and thawed-out Father was; and I asked if she
didn't think it was so, too. But she didn't answer that part. She
didn't write much, anyway. It was an awfully snippy letter; but she
said she had a headache and didn't feel at all well. So that was the
reason, 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 found
an estimable woman to make a home for him, and she hoped they'd be
happy. Then she went on talking about something else. And she didn't
write much more, anyway, about anything.

_August_.

Well, of all the topsy-turvy worlds, this is the topsy-turviest, I am
sure. 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-current
and a contradiction, with a father that wants me to be one thing and
a mother that wants me to be another! It was bad enough before, when
Father wanted me to be Mary, and Mother wanted me to be Marie. But
now--

Well, to begin at the beginning.

It's all over--the love story, I mean, and I know now why it's been so
hard 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 to
be Mary, and Father's going to want me to be Marie, how am I going to
know what anybody wants, ever? Besides, it was getting to be such a
beautiful 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, and
I. 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 have
any of that incompatibility stuff come into it. Well, just then
she got up and went into the house for something--Cousin Grace, I
mean--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 him
out 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 said
it fast, so as to get in all I could before he interrupted; for he had
interrupted right at the first with an exclamation; and I knew he was
going to say more right away, just as soon as he got a chance. And I
didn't want him to get a chance till I'd said what _I_ wanted to. But
I 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 so
cool and calm that it would make him calm and cool, too. (But it
didn'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 like
that!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There, there, child!" He spoke, stern and almost cross now. "This
absurd, nonsensical idea has gone quite far enough. Let us think no
more about it."

"It isn't absurd and nonsensical!" I cried. And I could hardly say the
words, I was choking up so. "Everybody said you were going to, and I
wrote 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 a
home for you."

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

"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; and
I determined right then and there to make him, if I could. When I
remembered 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, and
spoke so sharply. But in spite of the jump I still held on to my
subject, firm and decided.

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

"Oh, she did." He sat back in his chair again, sort of limp-like. But
I 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 Mother