The Bamberg herald. (Bamberg, S.C.) 1891-1972, April 13, 1922, Page 4, Image 4
ELEANOR H. PORTER
wi lUOSTRATfONS BY
RJH.LIVINGSTONE.
| ^
r (Copyright by ELEANOR H. PORTER)
SYNOPSIS what happened.
\*7/>Il fi?of lira rrai- Infrt RflCtnn fit
PfcEFACEL-'Maxy M&rle" explains her
B|H|^b&rezit "double personality" and just
gH^H^HKy she is a "cross-current and a contra^^^^'ulction;"
she also tells her reasons for
wilting the diary?later to be a novel. The
* \ diary is commenced at Andersonvilie.
CHAPTER I.?Mary begins with Nurse
N 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
small friends, and was puzzled thereat
Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival
at Andersonvilie 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 IL?Continuing her story,
^ Nurse Sarah makes it plain why the
r 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 III.?Mary tells of the time
spent "out west" where the "perfectly
ail right and genteel and respectable"
. divorce was being arranged for, and her
i. mother's (to her) unacount&ble behavior.
IL- By the court's decree the child is to spend
W Blx months of the year with her mother
IS and six months with her father. Boston
I is Mother's home, ana sne ana juary
leave Andersonville for that city to spend
the first six months.
Well, as I said before, l didn't like
it very well out there, and I doa't believe
Mother did, either. But it's all
over now, and we're back home packl
. ing up to go to Boston.
Everything seems awfully queer.
Maybe because Father isn't here, for
N one thing. He wrote very polite and
7 asked us to come to get our things,
* and he said he was going to New York
on buslnesi for several days, so Mother
need not fear he should annoy her
With his presence. Then, another
thing, Mother's queer. This morning
she was singing away at the top of her
a voice and running all over the house
L picking np things she wanted; and
^seemed so happy. But this afternoon
^ . f- found her down on the floor in the
library crying as if her heart would
7 l>*?eak, with her head in Father's big
7 chair before the fireplace. But she
>^jiimped up the minute I came in and
said, no, no, she didn't want anything.
J She was just tired; that'^ all. And
when I asked her if she was sorry,
... after all, that she was going to Boston
to live, she * said, no, no, no, indeed,
j she guessed she wasn't. She was just
*'as elad as ?lad could be that she was
going only she wished Mo&day would
hurry up anh come so we could be
_ gone. \
' And that's ail. It's a Saturday now,
and we go just day after tomorrow.
. Our trunks are 'most packed, and
Mother says she wishes she'd planned
to go today. I've said good-bye to all
the girls, and promised to write loads
of letters about Boston and everything.
They are almost as excited hs
^ I am; and I've'-promised, "cross my
heart and hbpe to die," that I won't
love those Boston girls better thah I !
do them?specially Carrie Heywood
of course, my dearest friend,
f Nurse Sarah is hovering around
v everywhere, asking to help, and pretending
she's sorry we're going. But
she isn't sorry. She's glad. I know
she . is. She never did appreciate
Mother, and she thinks she'll have everything
her own way now. But she
won't. I could tell Her a thing or two
if I wanted to. But I shan't.
" ' Father's sister, Aunt Jane Anderson,
from St. Jfaui, is coming ip Keep uuuse
for him, partly on account of Father,
and partly on account of me. "If that
child is going to be with her father
six months of the time, she's got to
have some woman there beside a meddling
old nurse and a nosey servant
girl!" They didn't know I heard that.
But I did. And now Aunt Jane is coming.
My! how mad Nurse Sarah would
be if she knew. But she doesn't.
I guess I'll end this chapter here
and begin a fresh one down In Boston.
Oh, I do so wonder what it'll be like?
Boston, Mother's home, Grandpa Desmond,
and all the rest. I'm so excited
I can hardly wait. You see, Mother
never took me home with her but once,
and then I was a very small child. I
don't know why, but I guess Father
didn't want me to go. It's safe to say
he didn't, anyway. He never wants
. me to do anything, hardly. That's why
I suspect him of not wanting me to go
down to Grandpa Desmond's. And
Mother didn't go only once, in ages.
? Now this will be the end. And when
. I begin again it will be in Boston.
Only think of it?really, truly Boston!
CHAPTER IV.
When I Am Marie.
Boston.
Yes, Tm here. I've been here a
^jpeek. But this is the first minute Tve
^^f^a chance to write a word. Tve
busy just being hy^, And so
HB0HHbother. There's a let
H^HB^nsint^^toe. ?at]TU try
m cu, ulol gvv iuwv .?
| four o'clock Monday afternoon, and
Well, First We Got Into Boston at
Four O'clock Monday Afternoon, and
There Was Grandpa Desmond to
Meet Us.
there was Grandpa Desmond to meet
us. He's lovely?tall and dignified,
with grayish hair and merry eyes like
Mother's, only his are behind glassy.
At the station he just kissed Mother
and me and said he was glad to see us,
and led us to the place where Peter
was waiting with the car. (Peter
drives Grandpa's automobile, and he's
lovely, too.)
Mother and Grandpa talked very
fast and very lively all the way home,
and Mother laughed quite a lot. "But
in the r.all she cried a little, and
Grandpa patted her shoulder, and said,
"There there!" and told her how glad
he was to get his little girl back, ano
that they were going to be very happj
now and forget the past. And Mothei
said, yes, yes, indeed, she knew sh
was,* and she was so glad to be there,
and that everything was going to be
just the same, wasn't it? Only?then
all of-a sudden she looked over at me
and began to cry again?only, ol
course, things couldn't be "just the
sho r>hn!r<=*1 hiirrvinsr over tfl
me and putting both arms around me,
and crying harder than ever.
Then Grandpa came and hugged us
both, and patted us, and said, There,
there!" apd pulled off his glasses and
wiped them very fast and very hard.
But it wasn't only a minute or two
before Mother was laughing again, and
saying, "Nonsense!" and "The idea!"
and this was .a pretty way to introduce ;
her little Marie to her new home!
Then she hurried me to the dearest
little room I ever saw, right out, ot
hers, and took off my things. Then
we went all over the house. And itV
Just as lovely as can be?not at all
like Father's in Andersonville.
Oh, Father's is fine and big and
handsome, and all that, of course; but
not like this. His is just a nice place
to eat and sleep in, and go to when it
rains. But this?this you just want
to live in all the time. Here there are
curtains 'way up and sunshine, and
flowers in pots, and magazines, and
cozy nooks with cushions everywhere;
and books that you've just been reading
laid down. (All Father's books
are in bookcases, always, except while
""o'n ? frtn. Vion/^C! hafnor punH \
VUC3 111 JUU1 uaiiuo . V?V*;
Grandpa's other daughter. Mother's
sister, Hattie, lives here and keeps
house for Grandpa. She has a little
boy named Lester, six years old; and
her husband is dead. They were away
for what they called a week-end when
we came, but they got here a little
after we did Monday afternoon; and
they're lovely, too.
The house is a straight-up-and-down
j one With a bad* and front, but no
j sides except the one snug up to you on
the right and left. And there isn't any
yard except a little bit of a square
brick one at the ba<-k where they have
clothes and ash barrels, and a little
grass spot in front at one side of the
steps, not big enough for our old
to take a nap in, hardly. But it's perfectly
lovely inside: and it's the Insides
of houses that really count, just
as it is the insides of people?their
hearts, I mean; whether they're go<?<
and kind or hateful and disagreeable.
1 We have dinner at night here, and
I've been to the theater twice already
in the afternoon. I've got to go to
school next week, Mother says, but
so far I've just been having a good
has "Just seemed as if Mother couldn't
crowd the days full enough. She hasn't
been still a minute.
Lots of her old friends have been to
. see her; and when there hasn't been
anybody else around she's taken Peter
and had him drive us all over Boston
to see things?all kinds of things;
Bunker hill and museums, and moving
pictures, and one play.
But we didn't stay at the play. It
started out all right, but pretty soon a
man and a woman on the stage began
to quarrel. They were married (not
really, but in tfie play, I meap), and I
guess it was some' more of that incompatibility
stuff. Anyhow, as they
began to talk more and more, Mother
began to fidget, and pretty soon I saw
she was gathering up our things; and
the minute the curtain went down"
after the first act. she says:
"Come, dear, we're going home. It?
it isn't very warm here."
As If I didn't know what she was
really leaving for! Do old folks honestly
think they are fooling us all the
time, I wonder? But even if I hadn't
known then, I'd have known it later,
for that evening I heard Mother and
Aunt Hattie talking in the library. j
No, I didn't listen. I heard. And
that's a very different matter. You
listen when you mean to, and that's
sneaking. You hear when you can't j
help yourself, and that you can't be
blamed for. Sometimes It's your good
luck, and sometimes it's your bad
luck?just according to what you hear!
Well, I was in the window-seat in
the library reading when Mother and
Aunt Hattie came in; and Mother was
saying :
"Of course I came out! Do you suppose
Td have had that child see that
play, after I-realized what it was? As
If she hasn't had enough of such
wretched stuff already in her short
life! Oh, Hattie, Hattie, I want that
child to laugh, to sing, to fairly tingle
with the joy of living every minute j
that she is with me. I know so we1
? ? t-.j ~ - ?in
wnat sne nas nau, anu wnat ?ntr win
have?in that?tomb. You know In
six months she goes back?"
Mother saw me then, I know; for
she stopped right off short, and after
a moment began to talk of something
else, very fast And pretty quick
went out into the hall again.
Dear little Mother! Bless her old
heart! Isn't she the ducky dear to
want me to have all the good timespossible
now so as to make up for the
six months I've got to be with Father?
You see, she knows what It is to live
with Father even better than I do.
Well. .1 guess she doesn't dread it
for me any more than I do for myself.
Still, I'll have the girls there, and I'm
dying to see them again?and I won't
have to stay home much, only nights
and meals, of course, and Father's always
pretty busy with his stars and
comets and things. Besides it's only
for six months, then I can come back
to Boston. I can keep thinking of
o f
mau
But I know now why I've been having
sudi a perfectly beautiful time
all this week, and why Mother has,
been filling every minute so full o
fun and good times. Why, even when
we're at home here, she's always hunting
up little Lester and getting him to
have a romp with us.
But of course next week I've got to
go to school, and it can't be quite so J
jolly then. Well, I guess that's all foi
this time.
ABOUT A MONTH LATER
I didn't make a chapter of that last
It wasn't long enough. And, really, I
don't know as I've got much to add
to It now. There's nothing much happened.
I go to school now, and don't have
so much time for fun. School's pretty
good, and there are two or three girls
'most ns nice as the ones at Anderson
vllle. But not quite. Out of school
Mother keeps things just as lively as
ever, and we have beautiful times.
Mother is having a lovely time with
her own friends, too. Seems as if there
is always some one here when I get
home, and lots of times there are teas
and parties, and people to dinner.
There are gentlemen, too. I suppose
one of them will be Mother's lover by
and by; but of course I don't know
which one yet. I'm"*awfully interested
In them, though. And of course It's
perfectly natural that I should be.
Wouldn't you be interested in the man
that was going to be your new father?
Well, I just guess you would! Anybody
would. Why, most folks have
only one father, you know, and they
have to take that one Just as he Is;
and it's all a matter of chance whether
they get one that's cross or pleasant;
or homely.or fine and grand-looking;
or the common kind you can hug and
kiss and hang round his neck, or the
stand - off - don't-touch-me-I-mustn't-bedisturbed
kind like mine. I mean the
one I did have. But, there! that doesn't
snnnd trichf either- fnr a? ennrsp he's
still my father just the same, only?
.well, he isn't Mother's husband any
more, so I suppose he's only my father
by order of the court, same as I'm his
daughter.
Well, anyhow, he's the father I've
grown up with, and of course I'm used
to him now. And it's an altogether
different matter to think of having a
brand-new father thrust upon you, all
ready-made, as you might say, and of
course I am interested. There's such
a whole lot depends on the father.
Why, only thipk how different things
would have been at home if mj- father
had been different! There were such
a lot of things I had to be careful not
to do?and just as many I had.to be
careful to do?on account of Father.
And so now, when I see all these nice
young gentlemen (only they aren't all
young; some of them are quite old)
coming to the house and talking to
Mother, and hanging over the back of
Jieruchair, and handing her tea and lltm
? fcA-A'-M* r i t A
tie cakesTl can't lielp wondering which,
If any, is going to be her lover and my
new father. And I am also wondering
what I'll have to do on account of him
when I get him, if I get him.
Thebe are quite a lot of them, and
they're all different. They'd make very
different kinds of fathers, I'm sure,
and I'm afraid I wouldn't like some
of them. But. after all, it's Mother
that ought to settle which to have?
not me. She's the one to be pleased.
'Twould be such a pity to have to
change again. Though she could, of
course, same as she did Father, I suppose.
As I said, they're all different. There
are only "two that are anywhere near
alike, and they aren't quite the same,
for one's a lawyer and the other's
in a bank. But they both carry canes
rtrt ^ 11 nil "Knf n n n r*n fli
uuu wcai iau sun. uais, tiuu pan men
hair in the middle, and look at you
through the kind of big round eyeglasses
with dark rims that would
make you look awfully homely if they
didn't make you look so stylish. But
I don't think Mother cares very much
for either the lawyer or the bank man,
and I'm glad. I wouldn't like to live
with those glasses every day, even If
they are stylish. I'd much rather have
Father's kind.
Then there's the man that paints
pictures. He's tall and slim, and wears
queer ties and long hair. He's always
standing back and looking at things
with his head on one side, and exclaiming
"Oh!" and "Ah!" with a long
breath. He says Mother's coloring is
wonderful. I heard him. And I didn't
like it very well, either. Why, It
sounded as if she put it on herself out
of a box on her bureau, same as some
other ladies do! Still, he's not so bad,
maybe; though I'm not sure but what
his paints and pictures would be just
as tiresome to live with as Father's
stars, when it came right down to
wanting a husband to live with you
and talk to you every day in the year.
You know you have to think of such
n.Vion If rtnmoe fr, ohnncinff o
UlIIl^O V> iitii it tv^uvg tv u
new father?I mean a new husband.
(I keep forgetting that it's Mother and
not me that's doing the choosing.)
Well, to resume and go on. There's
the violinist. I mustn't forget him.
But, then, nobody could forget him.
He's lovely: so handsome and distinguished-looking
with his perfectly
beautiful dark eyes and white teeth.
And he plays?well, I'm simply crazy.
, over his playing. I only wish Carrie
Heywood cpuld hear him. She thinks
her brother can play. He's a traveling
violinist with a show; and he came
home once to Andersonville. And I
heard him. But he's not the real thing
at all. Not a bit. Why, he might be
anybody, our grocer, or the butcher,
up there playing that violin. His eyes
are little and blue, and his hair is
red and very short. I wish she could
hear our violinist play!
And there's another man that comes
to the parties and teas;?oh. of course
there are others, lots of them, married
men with wives, and unmarried men
with and without sisters. But I mean
another man specially. His name is
Harlow. He's a little man with a
brow? pointed beard and big soft
brown eyes. He's really awfully goodlooking,
too. I don't know what he
does do; but he's married. I know
that. He never brings his wife, though;
but Mother's always asking for her,
clear and distinct, and she always
smiles, and her voice kind of tinkles
like little silver bells. But just the
same he never brings her.
He never takes her anywhere. I
heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother so at
ii'han ha mp She
LUC YCIJf uioh nutu. UV
said they weren't a bit happy together,
and that there'd probably be a divorce
before long. But Mother asked for
her just the same the very next time.
And she's done it ever since.
I think I Tcnow now why she does.
I found out, and I was simply thrilled.
It was so exciting! You see, they.
I were lovers once themselves-?-Mother
j and this Mr. Harlow. Then something
happened and they quarreled. That
! was just before Father came.
Of course Mother didn't tell me this,
nor Aunt Hattie. It was two ladles.
I heard them talking at a tea one day.
I was right behind them, and I couldn't
get away, so I just couldn't help hearI
- ? ? ?^ nn i rl
lUg WilUL tlicj saiu. f
They were looking across the room
at Mother. Mr. Harlow was talking
to her. He was leaning forward in
his chair and talking so earnestly to
Mother; and he looked just as ifvhe
thought there wasn't another soul in
the room b.ut just they two. But
Mother?Mother was just listening to
| be polite to company. Anybody could see
I that. And the very first chance she
got she turned and began to talk to a
lady who was standing near. And she
never so much as looked toward Mr.
Harlow again.
> The ladies in front of me laughed
then, and one of them said, with a little
nod of her head, "I guess Madge
DesAond Anderson can look out for
I herself all right."
I Then they got up and went away
| without seeing me. And all of a sudden
I felt almost sorry, for I wanted
them to see me. I wanted them to see
that I knew my mother could take care
of herself, too, and that I was proud
! of it. If they had turned I'd have said
! so. But they didn't turn.
I shouldn't like Mr. Harlow for a
I .V T l.nstn- T clmillHn'f But then.
lUlUVi. X IVUUH X uuvu.u~. _
there's no danger, of course, even if
he and Mother were lovers once. He's
got a wife now, and even if he got a
divorce, I don't believe Mother would
choose him.
But of course there's no telling
which one she will take. As I said
. before, I don't know. It's too soon,
anyway, to tell. I suspect it isn't any
more proper to hurry up about getting <
mar.Hed again when you've been unmarried
by a divorce than it is when
you've been unmarried by your hus
band's dying. 7 asked Peter one day
how soon folks did get married after
a divorce, but he didn't seem to know.
Anyway, all he said was to stammer:
"Er?yes, miss?no. miss, I mean,
I don't know, miss."
Peter is awfully funny. But he's
nice. I like him, only I can't find out
much by him. He's very good-looking,
though he's quite old. He's almost
thirty. He told me. I asked him. He
takes me back and forth to school every
day, so I see quite a lot of him.
And, really, he's about the only one I
can ask questions of here, anyway.
Tlierb isn't anybody like Nurse Sarah
used to be./Olga, the cook, talks so
funny I eafi't understand a word she
says, hardly. Besides, the only two
times I've been down to the kitchen
Aunt Hattie sent for me, and she
told me the last time, not to go any
more. She didn't say why. Aunt Hattie
never says why not to do things.
She just says, "Don't." Sometimes It
seems to me as if my whole life had
been mad^ up of "don'ts." If they'd
only tell us part of the time things
to "do," maybe we wouldn't have so
much time to do the 'don'ts." (That
OAiin /I a Pimnv Kut t cnipsa folks'!! know
OV/UUUO lUUiijf V **v A 0
what I mean.)
Well, what was I saying? Oh, I
know?about asking questions. As I
said, there isn't anybody like Nurse
Sarah here. I can't understand Olga.
and Theresa, the other maid, is just
about as bad. Aunt Hattie's lovely,
but I can't ask questions of her. She
isn't the kind.. Besides, Lester's always
there, too; and you can't-discuss
family affairs before children. Of
course there's Mother and Grandpa
Desmond. But questions like when
ifs proper for Mother to have lovers
I can't ask of them, of course. So
there's no one but Peter left to ask.
Peter's all right and very nice, but he
doesn't seem to know anything that
I want to know. So he doesn't amount
to so very much, after all.
I'm not sure, anyway, that Mother'U
want to get married again. From little
things she says I rather guess she
doesn't think much of marriage, anyway.
One day I heard her say to
Aunt Hattie that it was a very pretty
theory that marriages were made in
heaven, but that the real facts of the
case were that they were made on
earth. And another day I heard her
say that one trouble with marriage
was that the husband and wife didn't
know how to play together and to rest
together. And lots of times I've heard
her say little things to Aunt Hattie
that showed how unhappy Yier marriage
had been.
But last night a funny thing happened.
We were all in the library
reading aft^r dinner, and Grandpa
looked up from his paper and said
something about a woman that was
sentenced to be hanged and how a
whole lot of men were writing letters
protesting against having a woman
hanged; but there were only one or
two letters from women. And Grandpa
said that only went to prove how
much more lacking in a sense of fitness
of things women were than men.
And he was just going to say more
when Aunt Hattie bristled up and
tossed her chin, and said, real Indignantly
:
"A sense ?f fitness of things. Indeed!
Oil, yes, that's all very well
to say. There are plenty of men, no
doubt, who are shocked beyond anything
at the idea of hanging a woman;
but those same men will think nothing
of going straight home and making
life for some other woman so absolutely
miserable that she'd think
hanging would be a luckyt escape from
something worse."
"Harriet!" exclaimed Grandpa in a
shocked voice.
"Well, I mean it!" declared Aunt
Hattie emphatically. "Look at poor
Madge here, and that wretch of a husband
of hers!"
And just here is where the funny
thing happened. Mother bristled up?
Mother!?and even more than Aunt
Hattie had. She turned red and then
white, and her eyes blazed.
"That will do, Hattie, please, in my
presence, sne said, very coia, nae ice.
"That Will Do, Hattie, Please, in My
Presence," She Said, Very Cold, Like
Ice.
"Dr. Anderson is not a wretch at all.
He is an honorable, scholarly gentleman.
Without doubt he meant to be
k4nd and considerate. He simply did
not understand me. We weren't suited
to each other. That's all."
And she got up and swept out of the
v - .
room.
Now, wasn't that funny? But I
Just loved it, all the same, I always
love Mother when she's superb and
haughty and disdainful.
Well, after she had gone Aunt Hattie
looked at Grandpa and Grandpa
looked at Aunt " Hattie. Grandpa
shrugged his shoulders, and gave his
hands a funny little flourish; and Aunt
Hattie lifted her eyebrows and said:
"Well, what do you know about
that?" (Aunt Hattie forgot I was in
the room, I know, or she'd never in tha
world have used slang like that!)
"And after all the things she's said
about how unhappy she was!" finished
Aunt name.
Grandpa didn't say anything, but
Just gave his funny little shrug again.
And it was kind of queer, when you
come to think of it?about Mother, I
mean, wasn't It?
ONE MONTH LATER
Well, I've been here another whole
month, and it's growing nicer all the
time, I Just love it here. I love the
sunshine everywhere, and the curtains
up to iet it in. And the flowers in the
rooms, and the little fern-dish on the
dining-room table, the books and magazines
Just lying around ready to be
picked up; Baby Lester laughing and
singing all over the house, and lovely
ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room
having music and tea and
little cakes when I come home from
school in the afternoon. And I love
it not to have to look up and watch
and listen for fear Father's coming in
and I'll be making a noise. And beat
of all I love Mother with her dancing
eyes and her laugh, and her Just being
happy, with no going in and finding
her crying or looking long and fixedly
at nothing, and then turning to
rae with a great big sigh, and a "Well,
dear?" that just makes you want to
go and cry because it's so hurt and
heart-broken. Oh, I do just lore it
all!
And Mother is happy, I'm sure she
is. Somebt y is doing something for
her every moment?seems so. They
are so glad to get her back again. I
know they are. I heard two ladies
talking one day, and they said they
were. They called her "Poor Madge,'*
and "Dear Madge," and they said it
was a shame that she shofcld have
had such a wretched experience, and
that they for one should try to do everything
they could to make her for
get.
And that's what they all seem to be
trying to do?to make her forget
There isn't a day goes by but that
somebody sends flowers or books or
candy, or ifivites her somewhere, or
takes her to ride or to the theater,
or comes to see her, so that Mother
is in just one whirl of good times from m
morning till night. Why, she'd just
have to forget. She doesn't have any
time to remember. I think she is forgetting,
too. Oh, of course she gets
tired, and sometimes rainy days or
twilight^ I find her on the sofa in her
room not reading or anything, and her
face looks 'most as it used to sometimes
after they'd been having one of .
their incompatibility times. But I
don't find her that way very often,
and It doesn't last long. So I really
think she is forgetting.
About the prospective suitors?I
foand that "prospective suitor" In a
story a week ago, and I just love it
It means you probably will want to
marry her, you know. I use it all the
time now.?in my mind?when Fm
thinking about those gentlemen that
come here (the unmarried ones). I
forgot and used it out loud one day
to Aunt Hattie; but I shan't again.
She said, "Mercy!" and threw up her
hands and looked over to Grandpa the
way she does when I've said something
she thinks is perfectly awful.
But I was firm and dignified?but
very polite and pleasant?and I said
that I didn't see why she should act
like that, for of course they were prospective
suitors, the unmarried ones,
anyway, and even some of the married
ones, maybe, like Mr. Harlow, for or
course they could get divorces, and?
"Marie!" interrupted Aunt Hattie
thenv before I could say another word,
or go on to explain that of course
Mother couldn't be expected to stay
unmarried always, though I was very
sure she wouldn't get married again
until it was perfectly proper and genteel
for her to take unto herself another
husband.
But Aunt Hattie wouldn't even listen.
And jshe threw up her hands and said,
"Marie!" again with the emphasis on
the last part of the name the way I
simply loathe. And she told me never,
never to let her hear me make such a
speech as that again. And I said I
would be very careful not to. And
you may be sure I ahall. I don't want
to go through a scene like that again!
She told Mother about it, though, I
think. Anyhow, they were talking very
busily together when they came into
the library after dinner that night,
jmu JlOLHtri IWUCU suit Vi uuoucu ouu
plagued, and I heard her say, "Per- 9
haps the child- does read too many M
novels, Hattie." i*
And Aunt Hattie answered, "Of * I
course she does !" Then she said some- ||
thing else which I didn't catch, only H
the words "silly" and "romantid" and 9
"pre-co-shus." (I don't know what that gj
last means, but I put it down the way 9
It sounded, and I'm going to look it _
Then they turned and saw me, and IS
they didn't say anything more. But H
the next morning the perfectly lovely JS
story I was reading, that Theresa let ffiH
me^take, called "The Hidden Secret," |B
I couldn't find anywhere. And when
I asked Mother if she'd seen it, she
said she'd given it back to Theresa, @9
and that I mustn't ask for it again. fag
That I wasn't old enough yet to read
such stories. _ __ UK
(To be continued next week.) nl