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eleanorj V niDSTRA OUT njTl XY.Jtt.JLyl V JL1 i " i > * O . ' k (Copyright by ElLE SYNOPSIS PREFACE.?'Mary Marie"'explains 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 lew star which was discovered the same light Her name is a compromise, her mother wanted to call her Viola and her gather insisting on Abigail Jane. The 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 XL?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. j CHAPTER IIL?Mary tells of the time spent "out west" where the 'perfectly ell 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 qaha ar>A Aiorv , IV ittVUiCU V UVUM7f WMVft / , 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 house at Andersonvillo. The number of gentlemen who call on her mother leads , -l her to speculate on xthe possibility of a ' new father. She classes the callers as "prospective suitors," finally deciding the choice is to bei 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 "Mary" is expected at Andersonvllle for the -siv months she is to snend with her father. Her mother Is distressed, but has no alternative, and "Marie" departs for Andersonville. 1 CHAPTER IX.?The diary takes a jump of twelve years, during which Marie (always Marie then) has the usual harmless love affairs inseparable rrom girlhood. Then she meets THE man?Gerald Weston, young, wealthy, and already a successful portrait painter. They are deeply in love and the wedding follows quickly. With the coming of the baby, Eunice, things seem to change with Marie , and Gerald, and they in a manner drift TTTL. d.^JO.1 U nueu OUUIVC u u?c jr caw wiu, Marie decides to part from Gerald. In- I tending to break the news to her mother, she is reminded of her own frequently ! unhappy childhood and how her action tn parting from her husband will subject Eunice tc the same humiliationn Her eyes opened, Marie gives up her idea of a separation, and returns to her husband, her duty, and her love. CHAPTER V.?At Andersonville Aunt Jane meets her at the station. Her father is away somewhere, studying an eclipse of the moon. Marie?"Mary" now?instinctively compares Aunt Jane, prim and severe, with her beautiful, dainty mother, much to the former's disadvantage. Aunt Jane disapproves of the. dainty clothes which the child is wearing, and replaces them with "serviceable" serges and thick-coled shoes. Her father arrives home and seems surprised to see her. 1%e r child soon begins to notice that the girls at school seem to avoid her. Her father appears Interested In the lire Mrs. Anderson leads at Boston and asks many questions in a queer manner which pussies Mary. She finds out that her schoolmates do not associate with her on account of her parents being "divorced, and she refuses to attend school. Angry at first, Mr. Anderson, when, he learns the reason for her determination, decides that she need not go. He will hear her r lessons. Ih Aunt Jane's and her father's absence Mary dresses in the pretty clothes ahe brought from Boston and plays the liveliest tunes she knows, on the littleused piano. Then, overcome by her lonesomeness she Indulges in a crying spell v- which her father's unexpected -appearance Interrupts. She sobs out the story of her unhapplness, and In a clumsy way v he comforts her. After that he appears to desire to make her stay more pleasant Her mother writes asking thit Mary be allowed to come to Boston for the beginning of the school term, and Mr. Ander, son consents,_ though from an expression lie lets rail Mary Believes tie is sorry sue is going. CHAPTER VI.?Mary is surprised at the tenderness- her father displays when he puts her on the train for Boston. She discovers "the violinist" making * love to her mother's maid, Theresa, but says nothing. Later, however, she overhears him making a proposal of marriage to her mother, and tells what she saw. "The violinist" is dismissed. An unac* countable change in her mother astonishes her. The child is given to understand she is being taught self-discipline and she has less good times and fewer pretty things to wear. As ?the time for her return to Andersonville approaches, MfS. Anderson equips her In plain dresses and "sensible" shoes?"Mary" k things, the child complains. CHAPTER VII.?At the Andersonville station Mary is met by her father In a new automobile, and finds Instead of the prim and angular Aunt Jane a young and attractive woman who she learns Is "Cousin Grace." Mary writes her mother of the change, and is astonished at the many questions she is called on to answer concerning her father's new housekeeper. Mary decides that he intends to marry "Cousin Grace." In a moment of confidence she asks him If that is not his intention. He tells her it Is not, and Is dumfounded when she Informs him she has written to her mother telling her her idea of the situation. A few days later Mary goes back to Boston. * CHAPTER VIII.?Mr. Anderson visits Boston to deliver a lecture. Mrs. Anderson and Marie hear him and Marie talks with him. Later that day Marie finds her moiner crying over some oiu uuery m uie attic, and she learns the things were connected with Mrs. Anderson's first meeting with her divorced husband. At a re, ception tendered Professor Anderson Marie leads her father to admit that he regrets the separation, and Marie is sure from her observations that her mother still loves him. She suggests that he call > at the house and she will arrange for her mother to meet him without first knowing who the visitor is. Marie is confident that if they meet, a reconciliation will follow. Her intuition is correct, mutual misunderstandings are explained, *and the two, who have really always loved one another, are remarried. \ "i". , 1 . ' lRYJII ftPORTER TIONSBV MGSTONE. ? V AN OR H. PORTER) rue handsomest, most popular boy in school, and how all the girls were just crazy to be asked to go anywhere with him; and I argued what if Father had seen him with boys he did not like?then that was all the more reason why nice girls like me. when he asked them, should go with him, so as to keep him away from bad boys. And I reminded them again that he was the very handsomest, most popular boy In school; and that there wasn't a girl . I knew who wouldn't be crazy to be In ray shoes. Then I stopped, all out of breath, i and I can imagine just how pleading ; and palpitating I looked. I thought Father was going to refuse right away, but I saw the glance that Mother threw him?the glance that said, "Let me attend to this, dear." I'd seen that glance before. several times, ano i Knew just wnai It meant: so I wasn't surprised to see Father shrug his shoulders and turn away ai Mother said to me: VVery well, dear. Til think It over and let you know tonight" But I was surprised that night to ' have Mother say I could go, for I'd about given up hope, after all that talk at the breakfast table. And she said something else that surprised me, too. She said she'd like to know Paul Mayhew herself; that she always wanted to' know fhe friends of her little girl. And she told me to ask him to call the next evening and play checkers or chess with me. Happy? I could scarcely contain myself for joy. And when the next evening came, bringing Paul, and Mother, all prettily dressed as If he were really, truly company, came Into the room and talked so beautifully to him, I was even more entranced. To be sure, It did bother me a little that Paul laughed so much, and ^o loudly, and that he couldn't seem to find anything to talk about only himself, and what he was doing, and what he wa? going to do. Somef way, he had never seemed like that at school. And I was afraid Mother wouldn't like that. All the evening I was watching and listening with her eyes and her ears everything he did, everything he said. I so wanted Mother to like him! I so wanted Mother to see how really fine and splendid and noble he was. But that evening?Why couldn't he stop talking about the prizes he'd won, and the big racing car he'd just ordered for next summer? There was nothing fine and splendid and noble about that And were his finger nails always so dirty? Why, Mother would think? Mother did not stay in the room all the time; but she was in more or less often to watch the game; and at halfpast nine she brought in some little cakes and lemonade as a surprise. I I thought it was lovely; but I could have shaken Pau^when he pretended to be afraid of it, and asked Mother if there was a stick in it. The idea?Mother! A stick! I just knew Mother wouldn't like that But if she didn't, she never showed a thing in her face. She just smiled, and said no, there wasn't any stick in It; and passed the cakes. When he had gone I remember I didn't like to meet Mother's eyes, and I didn't ask her how she liked Paul May-hew. I kept right on talking fast about something else. Some way, I didn't want Mother to talk then, for fear of what she would say. And Mother, didn't say anything about Paul Mayhew?then. But only a few days later she tgld me to invite him again to the house (this time to a chafing-dish supper), and to ask Carrie Heywood and Fred Small, too. We had a beautiful time, only again Paul Mayhew didn't "show off" at all In the way I wanted him to?though he most emphatically "showed off" in his way! It seemed to me that he bragged even more about himself and his belongings than he had before. And I didn't like at all the way he ate his food. Why. Father didn't eat like that?with such a noisy mouth, and such a rattling of the silverware! And so it went?wise mother that she was! Far from prohibiting me to ] have anything to do with Paul Mayi hew, she let me see all I wanted to ! of htm, particularly in my own home. ) She let me go out with him, properly , chaperoned, and she never, by word : j or manner, hinted that she didn't ad' mire his conceit and braggadocio. And it all came out exactly as I I suspect she had planned from the beginning. When Paul Mayhew asked to : be my escort to the class reception in j June, I declined with thanks, and im! mediately afterward told Fred Small I would go with him. But even when j I told Mother nonchalantly, and with j carefully averted eyes, that I was go> ing to the reception with Fred Small -p-even then her pleasant "Well, that's good!" conveyed only cheery mother interest; nor did a hasty glance into her face discover so much as a lifted j eyebrow to hint. "I thought you'd I % come to your senses sometime!" Wise little mother that she was! In the days and weeks that followed (though nothing was said) I detected, a subtle change in certain matters, however. And as I look badk at It now, I am sure 1 can trace its origin to my "affair" with Paul Mayhew. Evidently Mother had no intention of running the risk of any more courtships; also evidently she intended to know who my friends were. At all events, the old Anderson mansion soon became the rendezvous of all the boys and girls of piy acquaintance. And such good times as we had, with Mother always one of us, and ever proposing something new and interesting! And because boys?not a% boy, but boys?were as free to come to the hnnco cirlc cnnn caompfl to me as commonplace and matter-ofcourse and free from sentimental interest as were the girls. Again, wise little mother! But, of course, even this did not prevent my falling in love with some one older than myself, some one quite outside of my own circle of intimates. My especial attack of this kind came to me when I was barely eighteen, the spring I was being graduated from the Andersonville High school. And the visible embodiment of my adoration was the head master. Mr. Harold Hartshorn, a handsome, clean-shaven, well-set-up man of (I nW Aiil /^ / ? a A 4- V* ? n/\ a Mn /\^ A MA auuuiu juu&ej uiinj-uve .years ui age. rather grave, a little stern, and very dignified. But how I adored him! How I hung upon his every word, his every glance! How I maneuvered to wip from him a few minutes' conversation on a Latin verb or a French translation! How I thrilled if he bestowed upon me one of his infrequent smiles! How I grieved over his stern alOofne'ssI By the end of a month I had evolved this: his stern aloofness meant that he hRj Jreen disappointed in love! his melancholy was loneliness?his hear* was bre?Hng. How I logged to bp' to heali, to cure! How 1 thrilled at the thought of the love and companionship I oould give him somewhere in a roseembowered cottage far from the madding crowd! (He boarded at the Andersonville hotel alone now.) If only he could see it as I saw it. If only by some sign or token he could know of the warm love that was. his but for the asking! Could he not see that no longer need he pine alone and unappreciated in the Andersonville hotel? Why, in just a few weeks I was to be through school. And then? On the night before commencement Mr. Harold Hartshorn ascended our front steps, rang the bell, and called for my father. I knew because I was upstairs in my room over the front door; and I saw him come up the walk and heard him ask for Father. Oh, joy! Oh, happy day! He knew. He had seen it as I saw it He had ? 4-~ 4-Vinaumteelnn thot uiHiie LU gaiu x amci o pcnuiooiuu) wui he might be a duly accredited suitor for my hand! During the next ecstatic ten minutes, with my hand pressed against my wildly beating heart, I planned my wedding dress, selected with care and discrimination my trousseau, furnished the rose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd ? and wondered why Father did not send for me. Then the slam of the screen door downstairs ' sent me to the window, a sickening terror within me. Was he going?without seeing me, his future bride? Impossible! Father and Mr. Harold Hartshorn stood on the front steps below, talking. In another minute Mr. Harold Hartshorn had walked away, and Father had turned back on to the piazza. As soon as I couid control my shaking knees, I went downstairs. Father was in his favorite rocking'chair. I advanced slowly. I did not B1C UOWI1. "Was that Mr. Hartshorn?" I asked, trying to keep the shake out of my voice. "Yes." "Mr. H-Hartshorn," I repeated stupidly. "Yes. He came to see me about the Downer place," nodded Father. "He wants to rent it for next year." t "To rent it?the Downer place!" (The Downer place was no rose-embowered cottage far from the madding crowd! Why, it was big, and brick, and right next to the hotel! I didn't want to live there.) "Yes?for his wife and family. He's going to bring them back with him next year," explained Father. "His. wife and family!" I can imag lne about how I gasped out those four words. ? "Yes. He has five children, I believe, and?" But I had fled to my room. After all, ipy recovery was rapid. I was In love with love, you see; not with Mr. Harold Hartshorn. Besides, the next year I went to college. And it was while I was at college that I. met Jerry. Jerry was the brother of my college friend, Helen "Weston. Helen's elder sister was a senior in that same col lege, a?d was graduated at the close of my freshman year. The father, mother and brother came on to the graduation. And that Is where I met Jerry. If It might be called meeting him. He lifted his hat, bowed, said a polite nothing with his lips, and an indifferent "Oh, some friend of Helen's," with his eyes, and turned to a radiant blonde senior at my side. And that was all?for him. But for me ? All that day I watched him whenever opportunity offered; and I suspect that I took care that opportunity offered frequently. I was fascinated. I had never seen any one like him before. Tall, handsome, brilliant, at perfect easet he plainly dominated every Towarc ; Jerry Was an Artist, It Seemed. Jilm every face was tuVned?yet he .'never seemed to know it. (Whatevei T ! .. 1 His rauus, jerry is uui tuutcucu. j will give him credit for that!) To me he did not speak again that day. am not sure.that he even looked at me If he did there must still have beer in his eyes only the "Oh, some frienc of Helen's," that I had' seen at the morning introducticm. ; I did not meet him again for nearlj a year; but that did not mean that 1 did not hear of him. I wonder ii Helen aver noticed how often I used to get her to talk of her home and hei family life; and how interested I wai in her gallery of portraits on the mantel?there were two fine ones of her brother there. Helen was very fond of her brother. I soon found that she loved to talk about him?if she had a good listener Needless to say she had a very good one in me. / Jerry was an artist, it seemed. He was twenty-eight years old, and already he had won no small distinction. Prizes, medals, honorable mention, and a special course abroad ? all these Helen told me about. She told me, too, about the wonderful success he had just had with the portrait of a certain New York society woman. She said that it was just going to "make" Jerry; that he could have anything he wanted now?anything. I saw Jerry myself during the East er vacation of my second year in col lege. Helen invited me to go home wfth her, and Mother wrote that 1 might go^ Helen had been home with rne for the Christmas vacation, anc Mother* and Father liked her verj much. There was no hesitation, there fore, in their consent that I shoulc vis^t Helen at Easter time. So I went Helen lived in New York. Theii home was a Fifth avenue mansion witl nine servants, four automobiles anc two chauffeurs. Naturally such a scale of living was entirely new to me, anc correspondingly fascinating. From the elaborately uniformed footman thai opened the door for me to the awe some French maid who "did" my hair I adored them all, and moved as in c dream of enchantment. Then came ? - 1. Ji Jerry home rrom a weea-enu a iny? and I forgot everything else. I knew from the minnte his eyes looked into mine that whatever I hac been before, I was now certainly n< mere "Oh, some friend of Helen's." 1 was (so his eyes said) "a deucedlj pretty girl, and one well worth cul tivating." Whereupon he began' ai once to do the "cultivating." In less than thirty-six hours I was caught up in the whirlwind x>f his wooing, and would not have escapee It if I could. When I went back to college he helc my promise that if he could gain the consent of Father and Mother, h< might put the engagement ring on mj finger. ^ Back at college, alone in my owi room, I drew a long breath, and begar tn think. It was the first chance I hac had, for even Helen now had become Jfcrry?by reflection. The more I thought, the more fright ened, dismayed, and despairing I be came. In the clear light of calm, sane reasoning,, it was all so absurd, so lm possible! What could I have beer thinking of? I must forget Jerry. I pictured him in Andersonville, ir my own home. I tried to picture hiu talking to Father, to Mother. Absurd, What had jerry to do witi learned treatises on stars, or with the humdrum, everyday life of a stupid small town? For that matter, what had Father and Mother to do wit! dancing and motoring and painting society queens' portraits? Nothing. Plainly, even If Jerry, for the saK( of the daughter, liked. Father anc Mother, Father and Mother certainly would not like Jerry. That was cer tain. Of course I cried myself to sleep that night. That was to he expected Jerry was the world; and the worlc was lost. There was nothing left ex cept, perhaps, a few remnants anc sr-nrr-plv wnrth the counting? excepting, of course. Father and Moth er. But one could not always have one's father and mother. There wotric come a time when? Jerry's letter came the next day? by special delivery. He had gone straight home from the .station and be gun to write to me. (How like Jerrj that was?particularly the special delivers: s&re?f? 1)_ The. most of his let ' ter, aside from the usual lover's rhapsodies, had to do with plans for the summer?what we would do together at the Westons' summer cottage in | Newport. He said he should run up to Andersonville early ? very early; just as soon as I was hack from college, in fact, so that he might meet Father and Mother, and put that ring on my finger. And while I read the letter, I just knew he would do It. Why, I could even see the sparkle of the ring on my finger. But in five minutes after the letter was folded and put away, I knew, with equal certitude?that he wouldn't. I had been at home exactly eight hours when a telegram from Jerry asked permission to come at once. : As gently as I could I broke the news to Father ann Mother. He was | Helen's brother. They must nave i heard me mention him. I knew him well, very well, indeed. In fact, the purpose of this visit was to ask them for the hand of their daughter. Father frowned and scolded, and said, "Tut, tut!" and that I was nothing but a child. But Mother smiled and shook her head, even while she sighed, and reminded him that I was twenty?two whole years older than she was- when she married him; though in the same breath she admitted that I was young, and she certainly hoped Td be willing to wait before I married, even if the young man - was all that they could ask him to be. Father was still a little rebellious, I [ think, but Mother?bless her dear svmpatneuc nean;?suuu cuuviutreu hira that they must at least consent to see this Gerald Weston. So I sent 1 the wire inviting him to come. Jerry came?and he had not been J five minutes in the house before It might easily have seemed that he had r always been there. He did know about t stars; nt least, he talked with Father about them, and so as to hold Father's I Interest too. And he knew a lot about Innumerable things in which Mother 1 was Interested. He stayed four dayt; and all the while he was there, I never ' so much as thought ot ceremonious dress and dinners, and liveried butlers and footmen; nor did it once occur to me that our simple kitchen Nora, and Old John's son at the wheel I of our one motorcar, were not beautifully and entirely adequate, so unas sumingly and so perfectly did Jerry unmistakably "fit in." (There are no other words that so exactly express 1 what I mean.) And in the end, even ! his charm and his triumph were so un, obtrusively complete that I never I thought of being surprised at the i prompt capitulation of both Father I and Mother. ; Jerry had brought the ring. (Jerry I always brings his "rings"?and he never fails to "put them on.") And. he went back to New York with - Mother's promise that I should visit s them in July at their cottage in New[ port. ' They seemed like a dream?those I four days?after he had gone; and I r ^jpuld have been tempted to doubt the whole thing had there not been I the sparkle of the ring on my finger, . and the frequent reference to Jerry on the lips of both Father and Mother. 1 They loved Jerry, both of them. I Father said he was a fine, manly i young fellow; and Mother said he was 1 a dear boy, a very dear boy. Neither - of them spoke much of his painting, t Jerry himself had scarcely mentioned it to them, as I remember, after he had gone. 1 I went to Newport in July. "The cot1 tage," as I suspected, was twice/ as large and twice as pretentious as the New York residence; and it sported ' twice the number of servants. Once 1 again I was caught in the whirl of din) ners and dances and motoring, with r the addition of tennis and bathing. 7 And always, at my side, was Jerry, " seemingly living only upon my lightest ^ whim and fancy. He wished to paint my portrait; but there was no time, es3 pecially as my visit, in accordance with 3 Mother's inexorable decision, was of ' only one week's duration. Rut arhot a wonderful week that * was! I seemed to be under a kind,of * spell. It was as if I were In a new i world?a world such as no one had r . ever been in before. Oh, I knew, of course, that others had loved?but not 1 as we loved. I was sure that no one 1 had ever loved as we loved. And it 1 was so much more wonderful than J anything I had ever dreamed of?this love of ours. Yet all my life since my ' early teens I had been thinking and - planning and waiting for It?love. And * now it had come?the real thing. The ?oil tho nthorc had heen shams a nn w*iv ? and make-believes and counterfeits. At Newport Jerry decided that Jie i wanted to be married rizht away. He i didn't want to wait two more endless t years until I was graduated. The idea 4 of wasting all that valuable time when we might be together! And when t' there was really no reason for it, J either?no reason at all! r I smiled to myself, even as I thrilled at his sweet insistence. I was pretty , sure I knew two reasons?two very I good reasons?why I could not marry , before graduation. One reason was Father; the other reason was Mother. I Jtiinted as much, j "Ho! Is that all?" He laughed and kissed me. "I'll run down and see ' '*- KA aoiH ^anntilr | ! LUfcMJJ ciUUUl 11, lie .^uiu . j I smiled again. I had no more idea 1 i that anything he could say would? iBut I didn't know Jerry?then. I had not been home from Newport i ' a week when Jerry kept his promise 1 and "ran down." And he had not been there two days before Father and Mother admitted that, perhaps, after > all, it would not be so bad an idea if - I shouldn't graduate, but should be r married instead. And so I was married., (Didn't I tell you that Jerry always - \ ? At Newport Jirry Decided That Ha Wanted to Be Married Right Away. j . i S " brought rings and put them on?) And again I say, and so we were married. But what did we know of each other??the real other? True, we had danced together, been swimming together, dined together, played tennis together. But what did we really know of each other's whims and prejudices, opinions and personal habits and tastes? I knew, to a word, what Jerry would say about a sunset; and he knew, I fancy, what I would say about a dreamy waltz\ song. But we didn't either of us know what the other wonld ?av to a dinnerless home with the cook gone. * We were leaving a good deal to be learned later en; but we didn't think of that Love that . is to last must be built upon the realization that troubles and trials and sorrows are sura to come, and that they must be borne together?if one back is not to break under the load. We were entering into a contract, not for a week, but, presumably, for a lifetime ?and a good deal may come to one in a lifetime?not all of it pleasant We had been brought up in two distinctly different social environments, but we didn't stop to think of that We /v AAwtz-k cmnoAfo or>H tHst QPTT1A ^y'. I|HCU kliC oauic cuiu um. m...? make of car, and the same kind of icecream; and we looked into each other's eyes and thought we knew each other?whereas we were really only seeing the mirrored reflection of ourselves. And so we were married. It was everything that was blissful and delightful, of course, at first We were still e^ing the ice-cream and admiring the sunsets. I had forgotten that there were things other than sunsets and ice-cream, I suspect I was not twenty-one, remember, and my feet fairly ached to dance. The whole world was a show. Music, lights, laughter?how I loved them alll Then came the baby, Eunice, my little girl; and with one touch of her tiny, clinging fingers, the whole world >?"* H?rV?+c anH mnsif and UJL suai iic iigubo uuvt - .. flare and glitter just faded all away into nothingness, where it belonged. As if anything counted, with her on the other side of the scales! I found out then?oh, I found out lots of things. You see, it wasn't that way at all with Jerry. The lights and music and the glitter and the sham didn't fade away a mite, to him, when Eunice came. In fact, sometimes it seemed to me they just grew stronger, if anything. t He didn't like it because I couldn't go with him any more?to dances and things, I mean. He said the nurse could take care of Eunice. As if Td leave my baby with any nurse that ever lived, for any old dance! The idea! But Jerry went. At first he stayed with me; but the baby cried, and Jerry didn't like that It made narrnn* until I WU8 111114 uuu MV* f V, ? glad to have him go. I think it was about this time that Jerry took up his painting again. I guess I have forgotten to mention that all through the first two years of our marriage, before the baby came, he just tended to toe. He never paintad a single pictuife. Bdt after Eunice came? But, after all, what to the use of # going over these last miserable years TTnnJne Ifi HOW. Her 11AC IU10 * MUftMVV father is the most popular portrait painter in the country. I am almoat tempted to say that he is the most popular man, as well. All the eld charm and magnetism are there. Sometimes I watch him (for, of course, I do go out with him once in a while), and always I think of that first day I saw him at college. Brilliant, polished, witty?he still dominates every group of which he is a member. Men and women alike bow to his charm. I After all, I suspect that it's just that T -4.H1 i?IT]B* JBrrj sun iuvcs uic vhiu sets, and I don't. That's all. To me ^ there's something more to life than that?something higher, deeper, more worth while. We haven't a taste in common, a thought in unison, an aspiration in harmony. I suspect?In fact I know?that 1 get on his nerves just as rasplngly as he does on mine. For that reason I'm sure he'll be gla*? when he gets my letter. \ But, some way, I dread to tell , 3 Mother. Well, it's finished., I've been about * "V % (Continued on page 7, column 3.),