The Bamberg herald. (Bamberg, S.C.) 1891-1972, April 06, 1922, Page 4, Image 4
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MARY
MARIE
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By Eleanor H. Porter
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Illustrations by
% H. Livingstone
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OtNiWhtkrtlNMi H. Pitte
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PREFACE.?*Mary Maria" 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
new star which was discovered the same
night. Her name is a compromise, her
mother wanted to call her viola and her
father insisting on Abigail Jane. The
child quickly learned that'her home was
in some way different from those of her
mail friends, and was puzzled thereat.
Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival
at Asdersonville 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
? V ' Nurse
Sarah's Story.
And this is Nurse Sarah's story.
As I said, I'm going to tell it
straight through as near as I can in
her own words. And I can remember
most of it, I think, for I paid very close
^v-;> attention.
"Well, yes, Miss Mary Marie, things
did begin to change right there an'
then, an' so you could notice it. We
saw it, though maybe your pa an' ma
& di^t at the first
"You see, the first month after the
=, came, it was vacation time, an' he
' could give her all the time she wanted.
An' she wanted it all. An' she took
it An' he was just as glad to give
- it as she was to take it. An' so from
mornin' till night they was together,
1 traipsin' ail over the house an' garden,
an' trampin' off through the woods and'
up on the mountain every other day
with their lunch. "You
see she was city-bred, an' not
used to woods an' flowers growin'
wild; an' she went crazy over them.
He showed her the stars, too, through
x his telescope; but she hadn't a mite of |
use for them, an' let him see it good
an' plain. She told him?I heard her
with my own ears?that his eyes, when
they laughed, was all the tars she
wanted ; ?n' that she'd had stars all
her lor breakfast an' luncheon an'
dinner, anyway, an' all the time bejtween;
an' rhe'd rather have somethin*
else, now?somethin' alive, that
she could love an' live with an' touch
an* play with, like she could the flowers
an' rocks and' grass an' trees.
"Angry? Your pa? Not much he
was! He Just laughed an' caught her
'round the waist an' kissed her, an'
said she herself was the brightest star
nt nil Thon thav ran off hand in hand.
like two kids, too. All through those
first few weeks your pa was just a
great big baby with a new plaything.
Then when college began he turned all
at once Into a full-grown man. An'
just naturally your ma didn't know
what to make of It
"He couldn't explore the attic an'
rig up in the old clothes there any
more, nor romp through the garden,
nor gb lunchin' In the woods, nor none
of the things she wanted him to do. He
didn't h^ve time. An' what made
things worse, one of them comet-tails
was cotnhi' up in the sky, an' your pa
didn't take no rest for watchin' fpr :
it, an' then studyin' of it when it got t
here.
? 1?*+l.n. tklni,) T
" AU your LUU.?pwr unit? * *.
coaldnl think of anything but a d<*l
that was thrown in the corner because !
somdbody'd got tired of her. She was ,
lonesome, a?' no mistake. Anybody'd
be sorry for her, to see her mopln' ;
rcgnd the house, nothin' to do, Oh, j
she read, an' sewe<*with them bright- :
colored silks an' worste4s; but 'course j
there -wasn't no real work for her to ,
do. Ther^was good help in the kftchcto, |
a$' I took what care of your grand- j
ma was needed; an' she always gave i
her orders through me, so I practically
run- the house, an' there wasn't
anything there for her to do.
"An' so your ma just had to mope it
lomt alone. . Oh, I don't mean your pa
Was unkind. He was always nice an'
lRYJI|
RIEF
5 PORTER
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polite, wEen E~e was in "the house,
an' I'm sure he meant to treat her
all right. He said yes, yes, to be sure,
of course she was lonesome, an' he
was sorry,- 'Twas too bad he was
so busy. An' he kissed her an' patted
her. But he always began right away
to talk of the comet; an' ten to one
he didn't disappear Into the observatory
within the next five minutes. Then
your ma would look so grieved an' sorry
an' go off an' cry, an' maybe not
come down to dinner, at all.
"Well then, one day things got so
bad your grandma took a hand. She
was up an' around the house, though
she kept mostly to her own rooms.
But of course she saw how things was
goin'. Besides, ' I told her?some.
'Twas no more than my duty, as I
looked at it. She Just worshiped your
da. an' naturally she'd want things
right for him. So one day she told me
to tell her son's wife to come to her
in her room.
"An' I did, an' she came. Poor little
thing! I couldn't help bein' sorry
for her. She didn't know a thing
of what was wanted of her, an' she
was so glad an' happy to come. Yon
see, she was lonesome, I suppose.
"'Me? Want me??Mother Anderson?'
she cried. 'Oh, I'm so glad!'
Then she made it worse by runnin' up
the stairs an' bouncin' into the room
like a rubber ball, an' cryin': 'Now,
what shall I do. read to you, or sing
to you, or shall we play games? Td
love to do any of them!' Just like
that, she said it. I, heard her. Then
I went out. of course, an' left them.
But I heard 'most everything that
was said, just the same, for I was
right in the next room dustin,' and
the door wasn't quite shut.
"First your grandmother said real
polite?she was always polite?but in
a cold little voice that made even me
shiver in the other room, that she did
not desire to be read to or sung to,
and that she did not wish to play
games. She had called her daughterin-law
in to have a serious talk with
her: Then she told her, still very
polite, that she was noisy an' childish,
an' undignified, an' that it was
not wily silly, but very wrong for her
to expect to have her husband's entire
attention.; that he had his own work,
an' it was a very Important one. He
was going to be president of the college
some day, like his father before ;
- - * ? i ?i i.. 1- -1? I
mm; an' it was ner piaee iu ueip uuu
in every way she could?help him to
be popular an' weiL-liked Juy all?the
college people an' students; an' he
couldn't be that if she insisted all the
time on keepin' him to herself, or lookin'
sour an' cross 4f she couldn't have
him.
"Of course that ain't all she said;
but I remember this part particular
on account of what happened afterward.
You see?j\>ur ma?she felt
awful bad. She cried a- little, an'
sighed a lot, an* said she'd try, she
really would try to help her husband
in every way she could; an' she
wouldn't ask him another mice, not
once, to stay with her. An' she
wouldn't look sour an' cross, either.
She'd promise she wouldn't. An' she'd
try, she'd try, oh, so hard, to be proper
an' dignified.
"She got up then an' went out of
the room so quiet an' still you wouldn't
know she was movin'. But I heard her
up in her room eryin' half an hour
later, when I stopped a minute at her
door to /see if she was there. An'
she was. !
"But she wasn't cryin' by night.
Not much she was! She'd washed her
face an' dressed herself up as pretty
as could be, an' she never so much
as looked as if she wanted her husband
to stay with her, when he said
right after supper that he guessed
he'd go out to the observatory. An'
'twas that way right along after that.
I know, 'cause I watched. You see,
I knew what she'd said she'd do. Well,
she did it.
"Then, pretty quick after that, she
began to get acquainted in the town.
Folks called, an' there was parties an'
receptions where she met folks, an'
thav hocan to comb here to the house,
'specially them students, an' two or
three of them young, unmarried professors.
An' she began to go out a
lot with them?skatin' an' sleighridin'
an' snowshoein'.
"Like it? ^ Of course she liked It!
Who wouldn't? Why, child, you never
saw such a fuss as they made over
yoir ma in them days. She was all
the. row an' nf' fhiirSf &he liked It.
What woman wouldn't, that was gay
an' lively air' young, an' had been so
lonesome like your ma had* Rut some
other folks didn't like it. ' An' your
pa was one of thep. This?time 'twas
him that made the trouble, I knpw,
'cause I heard what he said o$e day
to hkr in the library.
"Yes, I guess'I was in the next ipom
that day, too?er-rdustln', probably.
Anyway, I heard him tell your ma good
*w
"Yea, I Guess I Was in the Next Room
That Day, Too?er?DustinV
an' plain what he thought of her gal1
Ivan tin' 'round from -mornln' till night
with them young students an' professors,
an' havin' them here, too, such a
lot, till the house was fairly overrun
hom Ha ooM ha wnn ahnHrari
an4 scandalized, an' didn't she have
any regard for his honor an' decency,
if she didn't for herself! An' oh. a
whole lot more.
"Cry? No, your ma didn't ery this
time. I met her in the hall right after
they got through talkin', an' she was
white as a sheet, an' her eyes was like
two blazin' stars. So I know how she
must have looked while she was in the
library. An' I must say she give it
to him good an' plain, straight from
the shoulder. She told him she was
shocked an' scandalized that he could
talk to his v^fe like that; an' didn't
he have any more regard for her honor
an' decency than to accuse her of run
rin' arter any man jivmg?mucn less
a dozen of them' An' then she told
him a lot of what his mother had said
to her, an' she said she had been merely
tryln' to carry out those Instructions.
She was tryln' to make her
husband an' her husband's wife an'
her husband's home popular with the
college folks, so she could help him
to be president, if he wanted to be.
But he answered back, cold an' chilly,
that he thanked her,- of course, but
he didn't care for any more of that
kind of assistance; an' if she would
give a little more time to her home an'
her housekeepln', as she ought to, he\
would be considerably better pleased.
An' she said, very well, she would
see that he had no further cause to
complain. An' the next minute I met
her in the hall, as I just said, her head
high and her eyes blazln'.
"An' things did change then, a lot,
I'll own. Right away she began to refuse
to go out with the students an'
young professors, an' she sent down
word she wasn't to home when they
called. And pretty quick, of -course,
they stopped comin'.
"Housekeepin'? Attend to that?
Well, y-yes, she did try to at first, a
little; but of course your grandma
had always given the orders?through
me, I mean; an' there really wasn't
anything your ma could do. An' I
told her so, plain. Her ways were
new an' different an' queer, an' we
liked ours better, anyway. So she
didn't bother us much that way very
long. Besides, she wasn't feelin' very
well, anyway, an' for the next few
months she stayed in her room a lot,
an' we didn't see much of her. Then
by an' by you came, an'?well, I guess
that's all?too much, you little chatterbox
!"
CHAPTER III
The Break Is Made.
And that's the way Nurse Sarah
finished her story, only she shrugged
her shoulders again, and looked back,
first one way, then another. As for
her calling me "chatterbox"?she always
calls me that when she's been
doing all the talking.
As near as I can remember, I have
told Nurse Sarah's story exactly as she
told it to me, in her own words. But
of course I know I didn't get it right
all the time, and I know I've left out
quite a Jot. But, anyway, it's told a
whole lot more than I could have told
why they got married in the first place,
and it brings my story right up to the
point where I was born; and I've already
told about naming me, and what
a time they bad over that.
Of oourse what's happened since,
up to now, I don't know all about, for
I was crdy * child for the first few
years. Now I'm almost a youag lady:
"standing with reluctant feet where
the brook and river, meet." (I read
that last night. I think it's perfectly
beautiful. So kind of sad and sweet.
It makes me want to cry every, time
I think of it.) But even if I don't
know air of what's happened sin'ce
I was born, I know a good deal, for
IVe seen quite a lot, and I've made
Nurse tell me a lot more.
I know that ever slncp I can remejnber
I've had tb keep as still as a mouse
the minute Father comes into the
house; and' I know that I never could
imagine the kind of a mother that
Nurse tells about, if It wasn't that
sometimes when Father hhs gone off
on a trip, Mother and I have romped
all over the^house, and had the most
beautiful time. I know that .Father
says that Mother Is always trying to
' make me a "Marie,T' and nothing else";
and that Mother says she knows
Father'Il never be happy until he's
made me into a stupid little "Mary,"
with never an atom of life of my
own. And, do you know? it does seem
sometimes, as if Mary and Marie were
fighting inside of me, and I wonder
which is going to beat. Funny, isn't
it?
Father is president of the college
now, and I don't know how many stars
and comets and things he's discovered
since the night the star and I
were born together. But I know he's
very famous, and that he's written up
in the papers and magazines, and is
in the big fat red "Who's Who" in
the library, and has lots of noted men
come to see him.
Nurse says that Grandma Anderson
died very soon after I was born, but4j
that it didn't make any particular dif- j
ference in the housekeeping; for things
went right on just as they had done,
with her giving the orders as before;
that she'd given them all alone anyway,
mostly, the last year Grandma
Anderson lived, and she knew just
how Father liked things. She said j
Mother tried once or twice to take the
reins herself, and once Nurse let her,
just to see what would happen. But
things got in an awful muddle right
away, so that even Father noticed it
and said things. \After that Mother
never tried again, I guess. Anyhow,
cho'c nftvcr trlAd it filnrp T pfln remem
W**v KJ MVf V* W* v ^-w ? ? ?
her. She's always stayed most of the
time up in her rooms in the east wing,
except during meals, or when she
went out with me, or went to the
things she and Father had to go to
together. For they did go to lots of
things, Nurse says.
It seems that for a long time they
didn't want folks to know there was
going to be a divorce. So before folks
they tried to be Just as usual. But
Nurse Sarah said she knew there was
going to be one long ago. The first
I ever heard of it was Nurse telling
Nora, toe gin we naa in rue Kircnen
then; and the minute I got a chance I
asked Nurse what It was?a divorce.
My, I can remember now how scared
she looked, and how she clapped her
hand over my mouth. She wouldn't
tell me?not a word. And that's the
first time I ever saw her give that
quick little look over each shoulder.
She's done it lots of times since.
As I said, she wouldn't tell me, so
I had to ask some one else. I wasn't
going to let it go by and not find out
?not when Nurse Sarah looked so
scared, and when it was something
my father and mother were going to
have some day.
I didn't like to ask Mother. Some
way, I had a feeling, from the way
Nurse Sarah looked, that it was something
Mother wasn't going to like. And
I thought if maybe she didn't know
yet she was going to have it, that
certainly I didn't want to be the one
to tell her. So I didn't ask Mother
what a divorce was.
I didn't even think of asking Father,
of course. I never ask Father
questions. Nurse says I did ask him
once wfcy he didn't love me like other
papas loved their little girls. But I
was very little then, and I don't remember
it at all. But Nurse said Father
didn't like it very well, and maybe
I did remember that part, without really
knowing it. Anyhow, I never think
of' asking Father questions.
I asked the doctor first. I thought
maybe 'twas some kind of a disease,
and if he knew it was coming, he
could give them some sort of a medicine
to keep it away?like being vaccinated
so's not to have smallpox,
you know. And I told him so.
He gave a funny little laugh, that
somehow dWn't sound like a laugh at
all. Then he grew very, very sober,
and said:
'Tm sorry, little girl, but I'm afraid
I haven't got any medicine that will
prevent?a divorce. If I did have,
there'd be no eating or drinking or
sleeping for me, I'm thinking?I'd be
so busy answering my calls."
"Then it is a disease!" I cried.
And I can remember Just how frightened
I felt. "But isn't there any doctor
anywhere that can stop it?"
He shook his head and. gave that
queer little laugh again.
"I'm afraid not," he sighed. "As
for it's being a disease?there are
people that call it a disease, and there
are others who call it a cure; and
there are still others who say it's a
remedy worse than the disease it tries
to cure. But, there, you baby! What
am I saying? Come, come, my dear,
just forget it. It's nothing you should
bother your little head over now. Wait
till you're older."
Till I'm older, indeed! How I hate
to have folks talk to me like that!
And they do?they do It all the time.
As if I was a child now, when I'm
almost standing there where the brook
and river meet!
Dili- 4-hcit- it/oo inct thp klnri of talk
UUL luai ?f UU jwww ~ ? ?
I got, everywhere, nearly every time
I asked any one what a divorce was.
Som? lacghed, and some sighed. Some
looked real worried 'cause I'd . asked
It, and one got mad. (That was the
dressmaker. I found out afte#ward
that she'd had a divorce already, so
probably she thought I asked the question
on purpose to plague her.) But
nobody would ahswer me?realiy answer
me sensibly, so I'd know what It
meant; and 'most everybody said,
"Run away, child," or "You shouldn't
talk^ of such things," or, "Wait, my
dear, till you're older"; and all that.
* ? *- - - V- l i, T
yn, now 1 nate such Lain nucu ?
really want to know something! How
do they expect *us to get our education
If they won't answer our questions?
I don't know which made me angriest?I
mean angrier. (I'm speakirig
of two things, so I must, I suppose.
I hate grammar!) To have theqj g^lk
Hke thfct?not answer * me, you know
?or have them do_as Mr. Jones, the
storekeeper, did, and the men there
with him.
It was one day when I was in there
buying some white thread for Nurse
Sarah, and it was a little, while after
I had asked the doctor if a divorce
was a disease. Somebody had said
something that made me think you
could buy divorces, and I had suddenly
determined to ask Mr. Jones if he had
them for sale. (Of course all this
sounds very silly to me now, for I
know that a divorce is very simple
and very common. It's Just like a
marriage certificate, only it unmarrles
you instead of marrying you;
hut I didn't know it then. And if I'm
going to tell this story I've got to
tell It just as It happened, of course.)
Well, I asked Mr. Jones If you could
buy divorces, and if he had them for
Well, I Asked Mr. Jones If You Could
Buy Divorces, and If He Had Them
for Sale. *
sale; and you ought to have heard
those men laugh. There were six of
them sitting around the stove behind
[ me. I
"Oh, yea, my little maid" (above all
things I abhor to be called a little
maid!) one of them cried. "You can
buy tnem ir you ve goi mtmejr cuvugu,
but I don't reckon our friend Jones
here has got them for sale."
Then they all laughed again, and
winked at each other. (That's another
disgusting thing?winks when you ask
a perfectly civil question! But what
can you do? Stand it, that's all.
There's such a lot of things we poor
women have to stand!) Then they
quieted down and looked very sober
?the kind of sober you know is faced
with laughs in the back?and began
to tell me what a divorce really was.
I can't remember them all, but I can
some of them. Of course I understand
now that these men were trying to
be smart, and were talking for each
other, not for me. And I knew it
then?a little. We know a lot more
^llra 4-Klnlr nr^i
tilings sometimes mau iuiuo kumu nv
do. Well, as near as I can remember
It was like this: ;
j "A divorce is a knife that cuts a
knot that hadn't ought to ever been
tied," said one.
"A divorce is a jump in the dark,"
said another.
"No, it ain't It's a jump from the
frying pan into the fire," piped up Mr.
Jones.
"A divorce is the comedy of the rich
and the tragedy of the poor," said a
little man who wore glasses.
"Divorce is a nice smushy poultice
that may help but won't heal," cut in
a new voice.
"Divorce is a guidepost marked,
'H^l to Heaven,' but lots of folks miss
the way, just the same, I notice,"
spoke up somebody with a chuckle.
"Divorce is a coward's retreat from
the battle of life." Captain Harris said
this. He spoke slow and decided. Captain
Harris is old and rich, and not
married. He's the hotel's star boarder,
and what he says, goes, 'most always.
" JlJ-'?- T non rampm
J3UI 1L U1U11 L tiUO ULLH,. i vw. .
ber just how old Mr. Carlton snapped
out the next.
"Speak from your own experience,
Tom Harris, an' I'm thlnkln' you ain't
fit ter judge. I tell you divorce is
what three fourths of the husbands an'
wives in the world wish was waitin'
for 'em at home this very night. But
it ain't there." I knew, of course, he
was thinking of his wife. She's some
cross, I guess, and has two warts on
her nose.
There was more, quite a lot more,
said. But I've forgotten the rest. Besides,
they weren't talking to me then.
anyway. So I picked up my thread
and slipped out of the store, glad to
escape. But, as I said before, I didn't
find runny like them.
Of course I know now?what divorce
Is, T mean. And it's all settled. They
granted us some kind of a decree or'
degree, and we're going to Boston next
Monday.
It's been awful, though?this last
year. First we had to g* to that horrid
place out west, and stay ages and
ages. And I hated it. Mother did, tooc
I know she did. I went to-school, and
there were quite a lot of girls my age,
and some bojas; but I didn't care much
for them. J couldn't even have the fun
of surpri&ng them with the divorce we
were going to have. I found they were
going tOihave cme, foo?every last one
of them. 'And when everybody has a
thing, you know there's no particular
fui> in having it yourself. Besides,
they were very unkind arM disagreeable,
and bragged a lot about their
divorces. They said mine was tame,
! and "had no sort of snap to lt,? when
they found Mother didn't have a lover
waiting in the next town, or Father
hadn't run off with his stenographer,
or nobody had shot anybody, or anything.
That made me mad, and I let them
see it, good and plain. I told them our
divorce was perfectly all right and
genteel and respectable; that Nurse
Sarah said it was. Ours was going to
be incompatibility, for one thing,
which meant that you got on each
other's nerves, and just naturally
didn't care for each other any more.
But they only laughed, and said even
more disagreeable things, so that I
didn't want to go to school any longer,
and I told Mother so, and the reason,
too, of course.
But, dear me, I wished right off that
I hadn't. I supposed she was going to
be superb and haughty and disdainful,
and sav things that wonld nut those
girls where they belonged. But, my
stars! How could I know that she
was going to burst into such a storm
of sobs and clasp me to her bosom, and
get my face all wet and cry out: "Oh,
my baby, my baby?to think I have subjected
you to this, my baby, my baby!"
And I couldn't say a thing to comfort
her, or make her stop, even when
I told her over and over again that I
wasn't a baby. I was almost a young
lady; and I wasn't being subjected to
anything bad. I liked it?only I didn't
like to have those girls brag so, when
our divorce was away ahead of theirs,
anyway.
But she only cried more and more,
and held me tighter and tighter, rocking
back and forth in her chair. Sh#
took me out of school, though, and had
a lady come to teach me all by myself,
so I didn't have to hear those girls
brag any more, anyway. That was
better. But she wasn't any happier
herself. I could see that.
There were lots vof other ladies there
? beautiful ladies ? only she didn't
seem to like them any better than I . '
did the girls, l wonaerea 11 umyue
they bragged, too, and I asked her;
but she only began to cry again, and
moan, "What have I (fone, what have
I done?"?and I had to try all over
again to comfort her. But I couldn't
She got so she just stayed in her
room lots and lots. I tried to make
her put on her pretty clothes, and do
ais the other ladies did, and go out and
walk and sit on the big piazzas, and
dance, and eat at the pretty little
tables. She did, some, when we first
came, and took me, and I just loved
it. They were such beautiful ladies,
with their bright eyes, and their red
cheeks and jolly ways; and their
dresses were so perfectly lovely, all
silks and satins and sparkly spangles,
and diamonds and rubies and emeralds,
\nd silk stockings, and Mttle bits
of golc and silver slippers. . !
And once I saw two of them smoking.
They had the cutest little ciga- *
r?lies ViU^UiCi saiu Uicj nwv/ B
holders, and I knew then that I was
seeing life?real life; not the stupid
kind you get back in a country town \
like Andersonville. And I said so to * J
Mother; and I was going to ask her
if Boston was litoe that. But I didn't
get the chance. ' She jumped up so ?
quick I thought something had hurt
her, and cried, "Good Heavens, Baby I"
(How I hate to be called "Baby" I)
Then she just threw some money on
to the table to pay the bill and hurried
me away.
It was after that that she began to
stay in her room so much, and not
take me anywhere except for walks
at the other end of the town where
11 . anH atnnfd and no
11 V?iM au tuiu ? ?T
music or lights or anything. And
though I teased and teased to go back
to the pretty, Jolly places, she wouldn't
ever take me; not once.
Then by and by, one day we met a
little black-haired woman with white
cheeks and very big sad-eyes. There
weren't any spangly dresses and gold
slippers about her, I can tell you!, She
was crying on a bench in the park,
and Mother told me to stay back and
watch the swans while she went up
and spoke to her. (Why do old folks /
always make us watch swans or read
books or look into store windows or
run and play all the time? Don't they
suppose we understand perfectly well
m
what it means?that they're going to
say something they don't want us to ^
hea>3) .Well, Mother and the lady on
the bench talked and talked ever so
long, and then Mother called me up,
and the lady cried a little over me,
and said, "Now, perhaps, if I'd had a
little girl like that?!" Then she
stopped and cried some more.
We saw this lady real often after
that She was nice and pretty and
weet, and I liked her; but she was T
always awfully sad, and I don't believe *
it was half so good for Mother to be
with her as it would have been for hei
a* k* with those lolly, laughing ladies
that were always having such good
times. B^t I couldn't make Mother
sec it that way at all. There are
times when it seems as if mother just
couldn't see things the way I do. Honestly,
it' ,-eems sometimes almost as ii
she was the cross-current and contradiction
instead (ft ma. It does.
M
(To he continued next week.)
NOTICE OF APPLICATION FOR f
FINAL DISCHARGE. ml
VT-Xi-"- J - "-nVitr crirrar, fViof fha 3P J
iMJLlUC IS XIG1 cu; i i uu wuv vuw
undersigned Administrator of the
estate of Mrs. Elise B. Walker, de- v-J
ceased, will on Thursday, April 6th, ^
1922,file his final return and accounting
in the Probate Court of Bamberg
county, and at said time make application
to said court for his Letters
Dismissory and Final Discharge as v-sjj
Administrator of said estate.
G. FRANK BAMBERG, >M,
4-6-n Administrator. ,
Bamberg, S. March 10th, 1922. j
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