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'UmA eieanorI r., v MUSTRA ! RH.UVE O I fe.i (Copyright by ELE SYNOPSIS PREFACE.?'Mary Marie" explain* her apparent "double personality" and just why she is a "cross-current and a contradiction;" she also tells her reasons for writing the diary?later to be a noveL The diary is commenced at Andersonville. CHAPTER L?Mary begins with Nurse Sarah's account of her (Mary's) birth, which seemingly interested her father, who is a famous astronomer, less than a new star which was discovered the same night Her name is a compromise, her mother wanted to call her viola and her ? * ' * Vir~.ll T,n. ?Ph, . rmi-nur msiDUUg vu Auifeou ?mi?. child quickly learned that her home was In some way different from those of her small friends, and was puzzled thereat Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival at Andersonville as a bride and how astonished they all were at the sight of the dainty eighteen-year old girl whom the sedate professor had chosen for a wife. CHAPTER II.?Continuing her story, Nurse Sarah makes it plain why the household seemed a strange one to the child and howher father and mother drifted apart through misunderstanding, each too proud to In any way attempt to smooth over the situation. ? CHAPTER IIL?Mary tells of the time spent "out west" where the "perfectly ail right and genteel and respectable divorce was being arranged for, and her mother's (to her) unacountable behavior. By the court's decree the child is to spend six months of the year with her mother and six months with her father. Boston is Mother's home, and she and Mary leave Andersonville for that city to spend the first six months. CHAPTER IV.?At Boston Mary becomes "Marie." She is delighted with her new home, so different from the gloomy m house at Andersonville. The number o? gentlemen who call* on her mother leads her to speculate on the possibility of a new father. She classes the callers as "prospective suitors," finally deciding the choice is to be between "the violinist" and a Mr. Harlow. A conversation she overhears between her mother and Mr. Harlow convinces her that it will not be that gentleman, and "to violinist" seems to be the likely man. Mrs. Anderson receives a letter from "Aunt Abigail Anderson, her former husband's sister, whi is keeping house for him, reminding her that "Mary7? is expected at Andersonville for the six months she is to spend with her father. Her mother is distressed, but has no alternative, and "Marie" departs ? for Andersonville. ' I was pretty sure she didn't like my clothes, either. I've since found out she didn't?but more of that anon. /T Hnot lm-o that mrnrd "nnnn "1 And \f* *VfV / ? I just knew she disapproved of my hat But she didn't say anything? not in words?and after we'd attended to my trunk, we went along to the car* X riage and got in. My stars!,' I didn't suppose horses could go so slow. Why. we were ages just going a block. You see Td forgotten; and without thinking I spoke right out. "My! Horses are slow, aren't they?' I cried. "You see, Grandpa has an auto, and?" "Mary!"?just like that she interrupted?Aunt jane did. (Funny how old folks can do what they won't let you do. Now if I'd interrupted anybody like that!) "You may as well ! , understand at once,' went on Aunr Jane, "that we are not interested in yonr grandfather's auto, or his house, or anything that* is his." (I felt as if I was hearing the catechism in ; church!) "And that the less reference you make to your life in Boston the better we shall be pleased. As I said before, we are not interested. Besides, while under your father's roof, it would seen) to me very poor ta?te, indeed, for you to make constant reference to things you may have beeu doing while not under his roof. The situation is deplorable enough, however you take it, without making it positively unbearable. Ycu will remember, Mary?" Mary said, "lea, Aunt Jane," very polite and proper; but I can tell you v * thaft inside of Mary, Marie was just boiling. Unbearable, indeed! We didn't say anything more all the way home. Naturally, I was not going to, after that speech; and Aunt Jane sal<h nothing. So silence reigned supreme. Then we got home. Things looked i quite natural, only there was a new | maid In the kitchen, and Nurse Sarah wasn't there. Father wasn't - there, j either. And, just as I suspected, 'twas a star that was to blame, only this time the star was the moon?an eclipse; and he'd gone somewnere out "west so he eould see it better. He isn't coming back till next week; and when I think how he made me come on the first day, so as to get in the whole six months, when all the time he did not care enough about it to be here himself, I'm just mad?I mean, the righteously Indignant kind of mad?for I can't help thinking how poor Mother would have loved those exCra days with her. Aunt Jane said I was to have my old room, and so, as soon as I got here, I wen* right up and took off my hat and coat, and pretty quick they brought up my trunk, and I unpacked it; and I didn't hurry about it, either. I wasn't a bit anxious to get downstairs again to Aunt Jane. Besides, I may as well own up, I was crying? a little. Mother's room was right across the hall, and It looked so lonesome, and I couldn't help remember' In? how different this homecoming was .Jrom the one in Boston, six RlHI K PORTER HONS BY NGSTONE. f V 1 I ANOR H. PORTER) I months ago. Well, at last I had to go down to j dinner?I mean supper?and, by the way, I made another break on that. I j called it dinner right out loud, and never thought?till I saw Aunt Jane's face. "Supper will be ready directly," she said, with cold and icy emphasis. "And may I ask you to remember, Mary, please, that Andersonville has dinner at noon, not at six o'clock." "Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite and proper again. (I shan't say what Marie said inside.) We didn't do anything in the eve? * 3 (y/v frt Bar? of nfnp UUlg UUL ICttU BUU ftv IV VV.U ?. o'clock. I wanted to run over to Oarrle Hey wood's;r but Aunt Jane said no, not till morning. (I wonder why young folks never can do things when they want to do them, but must always wait till morning or night or noon, or some other time!) In the morning I went up to the schoolhouse. I planned it so as to get there at recess, and I saw all the girls except one that was sick, and one that was away. We had a perfectly lovely time, only everybody was talking all at once so that I don't know now what was said. But they seemed glad to see me. I know that. Maybe I'll go to school next week. Aunt Jane says she thinks I ought to, when it's only the first of May. She's going to speak to Father when he comes next week. She was going to speak to him about my clothes; then she decided to attend to those herself, and not bother him. She doesn't like my dresses. She came into my room and asked to see my-things. My! But didn't I hate to show them to her? ]?larie said she wouldn't; but Mary obediently trotted to the closet and brought them out one by one. Aunt Jane turned them around with the tiDS of her fingers, all the time sighing and shaking her head. When Td brought them all out, she shook her head again and said they would not do at all?not in AncTSrsonville; that they were extravagant, and much too elaborate for a young girl; that she would see the dressmaker and arrange that I had some serviceable blue and brown serges at once. Blue and brown serge, indeed ! But, there, what's the use? I'm Mary now. I keep forgetting that; though I don't see how I can forget it?with Aunt | Jane around. But, listen. A funny thing happened this morning. Something came up about Boston, and Aunt Jane asked me a question. Then she asked another and another, and she kept me talking till I guess I talked 'most a whole half-hour about Grandpa Desmond, Aunt Hattie, Mother, and the house, and what we did, and, oh, a whole lot of things. And here, just two days ago, she was telling me that she wasn't interested in Grandpa Desmond, his home, or his daughter, or anything tnat was nis: There's something funny about Aunt Jane. ONE WEEK LATER. Father's come. He cagie yesterday. But I didn't know itt and I came .running downstairs; ending with a little bounce for the last step. And there, right in front of me in the hall was? Father. / I guess he was as much surprised !>as I was. Anyhow, he acted so. He I just stood stock-still and stared, his | face turning all kinds of colors. "You?" he gasped, just above his breath. Then suddenly he seemed to remember. "Why, yes, yes, to be sure. You are here, aren't you? How do you do, Mary?" He came up then and held out his hand, and I thought that was all he was going to do. But, after a funny little hesitation, he stooped and kissed my forehead. Then he turned and went into the library with very quick ?nh t Hirin't sefc him azain till M<UV> A - -w ? ? ? w at the supper-table. At the supper-table he said again, "How do you do, Mary?" Then he seemed to forget all about me. At least he didn't say anything more to ! me;'for three or four times, when I | glanced up, I found him looking at me. ! But just ns soon as I looked back a* ! him h% turned his eyes away ana cleared his throat, arid began to ea< or to talk to Aunt Jane. Arter dinner?I mean supper?he went out to the observatory, just as he always used to. Aunt Jane said | her head ached and she was' going to 1 becL [ said I guessed I would step over to Carrie Hey wood's; but Aunt Jane said, certainly not; that I \rtis much too young to be running around nights in the dark. Nights! And it was j only seven o'clock, and not dark at , all I But of course I couldn't go. Aunt Jane went upstairs, and I was left alone. I didn't feel a bit like reading; besides, there wasn't a book or a magazine anywhere asking you to reach They just shrieked, "Touch me not I" behind'the glass doors In the library. I hate sewing. I mean Marie hates It. Aunt Jane says Mary's got to learn. For a time I just walked around the different rooms downstairs, looking at the chairs and tables and rugs all Just so, as if they'd been measured with a yardstick. Marie jerked up a shade and pushed a chair crooked and kicked a rug up at one corner; but Mary put them all back properly?so there wasn't any fun in that for long. After a while I opened the parlor door and peeked in. They used to keep it often when Mother was here; but Aunt Jane doesn't use it. I knew where the electric push button was, though, and I turned on the light. Before I got the light on, the chairs and sofas loomed up like ghosts in their linen covers. And when the light did come on, I saw that all the old shiver places were there. Not one was missing. Great Grandfather Anderson's coffin piate on black velvet, <-V?? nrov Ar/wa onH flrttpore thot hoH UlC naA \,i vgo auu nv?? VA O iuuv uuu been used at three Anderson funerals, the hair wreath made of all the hair of seventeen dead Andersons and five live ones?no, no, I don't mean all the hair, but hair from all seventeen and five. Nurse Sarah used to tell me about It. Well^ as I said, all the shiver places were there, and I shivered again as I looked at them; then I crossed over to Mother's old piano, opened it, and touched the keys. I love to play, i There wasn't any music there, but I don't need music for lots of my pieces. | I know them by heart?only they're all gay and lively, and twinkly-toe dancy. Marie music. I don't know a one that would be proper for Mary to play. But I was just tingling to play something, and I remembered that Father j was In the observatory, and Aunt Jane upstairs In the other part of the house j | where she couldn't possibly hear. So I began to play. I played the very slowest piece I had, and I played softly at first; but I know I forgot, and I know I hadn't played two ni^eefl JHHWilk , II ^ I Was Having the Best Time Ever, and Making Ail the Noise I Wanted To. before I was having the best time ever, and making all the noise I wanted to. Then all of a sudden I had a funny feeling as if somebody somewhere was watching me; but I just couldn't turn around. I stopped playing, though, at the end of that piece, and then I looked; but there wasn't anybody in sight. But the wax cross was there, and the coffin plate, and that awful hair wreath; and suddenly I felt as if the room was just full, of folks with great staring eyes. I fairly shook with shivers, but I managed to shut the piano and get over to the door where the light was. Then, a minute later, out in the big silent hall, I crept on tiptoe toward the stairs. I knew then, all of a sudden, why I'd felt somebody was listening. There was. Across the hall in the library in the big chair before the fire sat?Father! And for 'most a whole half-hour I had been banging away at that piano on marches and dance music! My! But I held my breath and stopped short, I can tell you. But he didn't move nor turn, and a minute later I was safely by the door and halfway up the stairs. I stayed in my room the rest of that > * - -li? ? _?J evening; ana ior uie seuuuu ume smio I've been here I cried myself to sleep. ANOTHER WEEK LAJTER Well, I've got them?those brown and blue serge dresses and the calf-1 skin boots. My, but I hope they're stiff and homely enough?all of them! And hot, too. Aunt Jane did say today that she didn't know but what she'd made a mistake not to get gingham dresses. But. then, she'd have to get 'th?> gingham later, anyway, she said; then I'd have both. Well, they can't be worse than the serge. That's sure. I hate the sergcThey're awfully homely. Still, I don't know but it's just as well. Certainly it's lots easier to be Mary in a brown serge and clumpy boots than it is in the soft, fluffy things Marie used to wear. Tou couldn't be Marie in these things. Honestly, I'm feeling real Maryish these days. I wonder if that's why the girls seem so queer at school. They are queer. Three times lately I've come up to a crowd of girls and heard them stop talking right off short. They colored _u?,jtoo; and pretty quick they beu gan to slip away, one Tjy "one, till there wasn't anybody left but Just me, just as they used to do in Boston. But of course It can't be for the same reason here, for they've known all along about the divorce and haven't minded it at all. I heard this morning that Stella Mayhew had a party last night. But I didn't get invited. Of course, you can't always ask everybody to your parties, but this was a real big party, and I haven't found a girl in school, yet, that wasn't invited?but me. But I guess it wasn't anything, after all. Stella is a new girl that has come here to live since I went away. Her folks are rich, and she's very popular, and of course she has loads of friends she had to invite; and she doesn't know me very well. Probably that was It. And maybe I just imagine it about the other girls, too. Perhaps it's the brown serge dress. Still, it can't be that, for this is the first day I've worn it. But, as I said, I feel Maryish already. I haven't dared to touch the piano since that night a week ago, only once when Aunt Jane was at a missionary meeting, and I knew Father was over to the college. But didn't I have a good time then? I just guess I did! Aunt Jane doesn't .care for music. Besides, it's noisy, she says, and would be likely to disturb Father. So I'm not to keep on with my music lessons here. She's going to teach me to sew Instead. She says sewing is much more sensible and useful. Sensible and useful! I wonder how many times I've heard those words j since I've been here. And durable, too. And nourishing. That's another word. Honestly, Marie is getting awfully tired of Mary's sensible sewing and dusting, and her durable clumpy shoes and stuffy dresses, and her nourishing oatmeal and whole-wheat bread. But there, what can you do? Fm trying to remember that it's different, anyway, and that I said I liked something different. I don't see much of Father. Still, thqre'k something kind of queer about it, after all. He only speaks to me about twice a day?just "Good-morning, Mary," and "Good-night." And ho far as most of his actions are con- j cerned you wouldn't think by them that he knew I was in the house. Yet, over and over again at the table, and at times when I didn't even know he was 'round, I've found him watching me, and with such a queer, funny look in his eyes. Then, very quickly always, he looks right away. ' But last night he didn't. And that's j especially what I wanted to write about today. And this is the way it hnnnpnort It was after supper, and I had gone Into the library. Either had gone out to the observatory as usual, and Aunt Jane had gone upstairs to her room as usual, and as usual I was wandering 'round looking for something to do. I wanted to play on the piano, but I didn't daire to?not with all those dead-hair and wax-flower folks in the parlor watching me, and the chance of Father's coming in as he did before. I was standing in the window staring out at nothing?it wasn't quite dark yet?when again I had that queer feeling that somebody was looking at me. I turned?and there was Father. He had come in and was sitting In the big chair by the table. But this time he didn't look right away as usual and give me a chance to slip quietly out of the room, as I always had before. Instead he said: < * "What are you doing there, Mary?" "N-nothing!" Father frowned and hitched in his chair. Father always hitches in his chair when he's irritated and nervous. "You can't be doing nothing. Nobody but a dead man does nothing?and we aren't so sure about him What are vou doing. Mary?" "Just l-looking out the window." "Come here. I want to talk , to you." "Yes, Father." I went, of course, at once, and sat down in the chair near him. He hitched again in his seat. "Why don't you do something?read, sew, knit?" he demanded. "Why do I always find you moping around, doing nothing?" Just like that he said it; and when he had just told me? "Why, Father!" I cried; and I know that I showed how surprised I was.: "I thought you just said I couldn't do nothing?that nobody could!" "Eh? What! Tut, tut!" He seemed very angry at first; then suddenly he looked sharply into my face. Next, If you'll believe it, he laughed?the queer little chuckle under his breath that I've heard him give two or three times when there was something he thought was funny. "Humph!" he grunted. Then he gave me another sharp look out of his eyes, and said: "I donlt think you meant that to be so imnertinent as it sounded, "1~-" ? ?? Mary, so we'll let it pass?this time. I'll put my question this way: Don't you ever knit or read or sew?" "I do sew every day in Aunt Jane's room, ten minutes hemming, ten minutes seaming, and ten minutes basting patchwork squares together. I don't know how to knit." "E??v about reading# Don't you car^or reading?" "Why, of course I do. I lov# it!" I cried. "And I do read lots?at home." "At?home?" I knew, then, of course, that I'd made another awful break. There wasn't any smile around Father's eyes now, and his lips came together hard and thin over that last word. (To be continued next week.) 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