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ipma ^mal eeeanori ILLUSTRA1 f .. RH.UVtt j'; > * 1 >-t 1 (Copyright by ELE/ SYNOPSIS \ I PREFACE.?'Mary Marie" explain* her apparent "double personality" and just j why she is a "cross-current and a contradiction;" she also tells her reasons far : writing the diary?later to be a noveL The diary is commenced at AndersonvUle. j ) 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 small friends, and was puzzled thereat Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival at AndersonvUle as a bride and how : * *1 ? ~ A AW- I wwmnncu uiey ou v??o ??. u? o?ui. w? 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. CHAPTER HL?Mary tells of the time ,spent "out west" where the "perfectly all right and genteel and respectable divorce was being arranged tor, 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 tr- Mother's home, and she and Mary leave Andersonvllle for that city to spend V 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 Andersonvllle. The number of 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 Ander i a l?- t_ on, ner lumier nusutuiu a oiaiei, win ia .. keeping house for him, reminding her that "Mary* is expected at Andersonville for t the six months she is to spend with her father. Her mother is distressed, hut , has no alternative, and "Marie" departs for Andersonville. CHAPTER IX.?The diary takes a jump i of twelve years, during which Marie (always Marie then) has the usual harmless love affairs inseparable rrom girlhood. Then she meets THE man?Gerald iv ' 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 apart. When Eunice is five years old, Marie decides to part from Gerald. Intending to break the news to ber mother, she is reminded of her own frequently unhappy childhood and how her action in parting from her husband will subject Eunice tr, the same humiliations. Her , eves onened. Marie gives up her idea of ! a separation, and returns to her husband, hen duty, and her love. ratner doesn't like ladles. I know he doesn't. He always runs away from them. But they don't run away from i him! Listen. Quite a lot of them call here to see Aunt Jane, and they come lots of . times evenings and late afternoons, and I know now why they do it They come then because they think Father'll be at home at that time ;and they want to see him. I know it now, but I never thought of it till the other day when I heard our hired girl, Susie, talking about it with Bridget, the Smalls' hired girl, \ over the fence when I was weeding the garden one day. Then I knew. It was like this: Xfra Darling had been over the night before as usual, and had stayed an awfully long time talking to Aunt Jane on the front piazza. Father had been there, too, awhile. She stopped him on his way into the house. I was there and I heard her. She said: "Oh, Mr. Anderson, I'm so glad I saw you! I wanted to ask your advice about selling poor dear Mr. 1 Darling's law library." And then she went on to tell him how she'd had an offer, but she wasn't sure whether it was a good one or not. And she told him how highly she prized his opinion, and he was a man of such splendid judgment, and she fait so aldNe now with no strong man's shoulder to lean upon, and she would be so much obliged if he only would tell her whether he considered that offer a good one or not. Father hitched and ahemmed and mo\ed nearer the door all the time she was talking, and he didn't seem to hear her when she pushed a chair ' toward him and asked him to please 1 sit down and tell her what to do; that she was so alone in the world since ; poor dear Mr. Darling had gone. (She 3 always calls him poor dear Mr. Dar- ] ling now, but Susie says she didn't ! 1 when he was alive; she called him something ^quite different. I wonder 1 1 what it was.) ; Well, as I said, Father hitched and ' 1 fidgeted, and said he didn't know, he | 1 was sure; that she'd better take wiser ; 1 counsel than Ms, and that he was very . sorry, but she really must excuse him. 1 And he get through the door while he 1 was kilning just as fast as he could himself, so that she couldn't get in a single word to keep him. Then he ] was gene. . < Mrs. Darling stayed on the piazza , two whole hours longer, but Father 3 never came out at all again. , It was the next morning that Susie ( ?aid Jh's over the back-yard fence to 3 ?? - A I knew him real weil, and liked 1dm. I used to talk to him quite a lot when . he brought the groceries. But did Aunt Jane let me go? She did not. Why,, she seemed almost more shocked than she hacl been over T Charlie Smith and Fred Small, and the 8 others. _ s "Mercy, child.;" SEftiStmecL r rSEP tPORTER riONS JGSTONE. >o r LNOR H. PORTER) "Sure It is I An' I do be thiokln' thfc Widder Dariin' is a heap fonder of Miss Jane now than she would have been had poor dear Mr. Dariin' lived I" And she chuckled again, and so did Susie. And then, all of a sudden, I knew. It was Father Mrs. Darling wanted. They came here to see him. < They wanted to "marry him. As if I j didn't know what Susie and Bridget j meant! I'm no child I j But all this doesn't make Father j like thein. I'm not sure but it makes him dislike them. Anyhow, he won't j have anything* to do with them. He < always runs away over to the observa- j tory, or somewhere, and won't see { them; and I've heard him say things J about, them to Aunt Jane, too?words t that sound all right, but that don't mean what they say, and everybody j knows they don't. So, as I said before, I don't see any chance of Father's having a love story to help out this book ?not right away, anyhow. As for my love story?I don't see any chance of that's beginning, either. Yet, seems as if there ought to be the beginning of it by this time?I'm going on fifteen. Oh, there have been beginnings,^ lots of them?only Aunt Jane wouldn't let them go on and be endings, though I told her good and plain that I thought it perfectly all right; and I reminded her about the brook and river meeting where I stood, and all. that. But I couldn't make her see it at ail. She said, "Stuff and nonsense"? and when Aunt Jane says both stuff * and nonsense I know there's nothing doing. (Oh, dear, that's slang! Aunt Jane says she does wish I would - - - ?i eliminate tne siang rrom my vocaou- << lary. Well, I wish she'd eliminate some of the long words from hers. 1 Marie said that?not Mary.) * Well, Aunt Jane said stuff and non- * sense, and that I was much too young 1 to run around with silly boys. You ^ see, Charlie Smith had walked home from school with me twice, but I had t to stop that And Fred Small was get- * ting so he was over here a lot. Aunt s Jane stopped him. Paul Mayhew? t fces, Paul Mayhew, Stella's brother!? i came home with me, too, and asked s me to go with him auto-riding. My, I * - - ' ? t j a iv. t how l did warn; 10 go; jl wauieu uic i ? ride, of course, but especially I wanted I to go because he was Mrs. Mayhew's j I s<m. I Just wanted to show Mrs. May-! i hew! But Aunt Jfene wouldn't let me. ^ That's the time she talked specially ^ about running around1 with silly boys. 1 Paul Is No Silly Boy. He's Old Enough * to Get a License to Drive His Own 8 C Car. t Butyshe needn't have. Paul is no silly r boy. He's old enough to get a license 1 to drive his own car. But it wasn't just because he was young that Aunt Jane refused. I c found out afterward. It was because he was any kind of a man paying me ? attention. I found that out through I Mr. Claude Livingstone. My. Living stone brings our groceries. He's a real c young gentleman?tall, black mus- * taehe, and lovely dark eyes. He goes t to our church, aud he asked me to go t to the Sunday-school picnic with him. t I was so pleased, And I supposed, of course, Aunt Jane would let me go f with him. He's no silly boy! Besides. Bridget: "It does heat all how popular this house Is vitli the ladies?after college hour* !'* And Bridget chuckled and answered back: "Where in the world do you pick up these people?" And she brought out that "these people" so disagreeably! Why, you'd think Mr. Livingstone was a foreign Japanese, or something. T ^aIJ U *-V* /\n /iitinf lr ond tirifli 1 IU1U 1ICI H1CH 4UICHJ, uuu Tiim dignity, and with no temper (showing), that Mr. Livingstone was not a foreign Japanese, but was a very nice gentleman; and that I had not picked him up. He came to her.own door himself, almost every day. "My own door!" exclaimed Aunt Jane. And she looked absolutely frightened. "You mean to .tell me that that creature has been coming here to see you, and I not know it?" I told her then?again quietly and with dignity, and without temper (showing)?that he had been coming, not to see me, but in the natural pursuance of his profession of delivering groceries. And I said that he was . not a creature. On the contrary, he was, I was sure, an estimable young man. He went to her own church and Sunday school. Besides, I could vouch for him myself, as I knew him well, aavlng seen and talked with him alnost every day for a long while, when :fe came to the house. But nothing I could say seemed to lave the least effect upon her at all, >nly to make her angrier and angrier, f anything. In fact I think she showed a great deal of temper for a Christian woman about a fellow Ohria:ian In her own church. But she wouldn't let me go to the picnic; and not only that, but I think she changed grocers, for Mr. Livingstone hasn't been here for a long time, md when I asked Susie where he waa she looked funny, and said we weren't getting our groceries where Mr. Livngstone worked any longer. Well, of course, that ended that Ind there hasn't been any other since, rhat's why I say my love story doesn't eem to be getting along very welL Naturally, when it gets noised around :own that your Aunt Jane won't let. rou go anywhere with a young man, >r let a young man come to see you, )r even walk home with you after the 3rst time?why, the young men aren't joing to do very muoh toward making Four daily life into a love story. rwo WEEKS LATER. A queer thing happened last night, it was like this: I think I said before what an awfully stupid time Mary is having of it, md how I couldn't play now, or make inv noise, 'cause Father has taken to langing around the house so much. iVell, listen what happened: v Yesterday Aunt Jane went to spend he day with her best friend. She said for me not to leave the house, as some member of the family should be here. She told me to sew an hour, veed an hour, dust the house downstairs and upstairs, and read some imjroving book an hour. The rest of he time I might amuse myself. I Amuse myself! A jolly time I could lave all by myself! Even Father vasn't to be home for dinner, so I vouldn't have that excitement He vas out of town, and was not to come lome till six o'clock. It was an awfully hot day. The sun ; ust beat down, and there wasn't a >reath of air. By noon I was simply ?razy with my stuffy, long-sleeved, J ligh-necked bine gingham dress and 1 ny great clumpy shoes. It seemed all 1 )f a sudden as If I couldn't stand it? 1 lot another minute?not a single mln- 1 ite more?to be Mary, I mean. And iuddenly I determined that for a while, ust a little while, I'd be Marie again. 5 rVhy couldn't I? There wasn't any>ody going to be there but just my- ' self, all day long. 1 I ran then upstairs to the guest- 1 oom closet where Aunt Jane had made ( ne put all my Marie dresses and { hings when the Mary ones came. ^ >Vell, I got out the very fluffiest, softest white dress there was there, and ( lie little white slippers ana the shk tockings that I loved, and the blue ;ilk sash, aad the little gold locket tnd chain that Mother gave me that lunt Jane wouldn't let me wear. And dressed up. My, didn't I dress up? Lnd I just threw those old heavy shoes md black cotton stockings into the orner, and the blue gingham dress ifter them (though Mary went rifi[ht iway and picked the dress up, and mng it in the closet, of course); but had the fun of throwing it, anyway. Oh, how good those Marie tilings did 1 eel to Mary's hot, dried flesh and ( ones, and how I did dance and sing iround the room in those light little | dippers! Then Susie rang the dinner- J ell and I went down to the dining- 1 oom feeling like a really truly young 1 ady, I can tell you. 1 Susie stared, of course, and said, 'My, how fine we are today!" But I lidn't mind Susie. * After dinner I went out into the hall md I sang all over the house. Then ^ ! went into the parlor and played wery lively thing that I could think ^ >f on the piano. And I sang there, oo-7Silly little songs that Marie used o sing to Lester. And I tried to j. hink I was really down there to Bos- t on, singing to Lester; and.that Moth- y ir was rigni in me ue.\i ruuiu wxiuu^ or me. t Then I stopped and turned around in the piano stool, and the room was ^ ust as still as death. And I knew 1 wasn't in Boston. I was. there in ? Indersonville. And there wasn't any ^ ^?i T thor-a nftr nnv mother >aoj lic^ici mti-vi "vi ^ waiting for* me in the next room. And ^ ill the fluffy white dresses and silk ^ tockings in the world wouldn't make ne_ Marie. was really just Mary, ^ and I had got to have three whole months mope of it. , And then is when I began to cry. | And I cried just as hard as I'd been singing a minute before. I was on : the iioor with my head in my arms on : the piano stool when Father's voice came to me from the doorway. "Mary, Mary, what in the world does this mean?" I jumped up and stood "at attention," the way you have to, of course, ? when fathers speak to you. I couldn't 1 help showing I had been crying?he had seen it. But I tried very hard to stop now. My first thought, after my I startled realization that he was there, was to wonder how long he had been i there?how much of all that awful singing and banging he had heard. "Yes. sir." I tided not to have my voice shake as I said it; but I couldn't quite help that. "What is the meaning of this, Mary? Why are you crying?" I shook my head. I didn't, wtunt to' tell him, of course; so I just stammered out something about being sorry I had disturbed him. Then I edged toward the door to show him that if he would step one side I would go away at once and not bother him any longer." But he didn't step one side. Hq ' * ?* -t- A. - Mj. ^ _ asKea more questions, one ngni tute/another. "Are you sick, Mary?" *. I shook my head. "Did you hurt yourself?" I shook my head again. ' "It isn't?your mother?you haven't had bad news from her?" And then I blurted it out without thinking?without thinking at all what I was saying: "No.^no?but 1 wish I had, I wish I had; 'cause then I could go to her, and go away from here!" The minute I'd said it I knew what I'd said, and how awful it sounded; and I clapped my fingers to my lips. But't was too late. It's always too late, when you've once said it So I just waited for him to thunder out his anger; for, of course, I thought he would thunder in rage and righteous k indignation. But he didn't Instead, very quietly and gently he said: "Are you so unhappy, then, Mary? here?" And I looked at him, and his eyes and his mouth and his whole face weren't angry at alt They were just sorry, actually sorry. And somehow, before I knew it, I was crying again, and Father, with his arm around me? with his arm around me! think of that!?was leading me to the sofa. And I cried and cjied there, with my head on the arm of ?he sofa, till Td made a big tear spot on the linen cover; and I wondered if ft would dry up before Aunt Jane saw it, or if it woul,d change color or leak through to the red plush underneath, or some other dreadful thing. And then, some way, I found myself telling it all over a.- n.xl -1 J T iu r auier?huuui i>j.ury uuu iuanc, * | mean, just as if he was Mother, or some one I loved?I mean, some one I loved and wasn't afraid of; for of course I love Father. Of course I do! Well, I told him everything (when I got started there was no stopping)? all about how hard it was to be Mary, and how today I had tried to be Marie for just a little while, to rest me. He Interrupted here, and wanted to know If that was why I looked so different i today?more as I had o when I first came; and I said yes, that these were < Marie things that Mary couldn't wear. And when he asked, "Why, pray?" in < a voice almost cross, I told him, of course, that Aunt Jane wouldn't let i me; that Mary had to wear brown serge and calfskin boots that were auraDie, ana mat wouia wear weu. And when I told him how sorry I < was about the music and such a noise as I'd been making, he asked if that i was Marie's fault, too; and I said yes, af course?that Aunt Jane didn't like ] to have Mary play at all, except i aymns and funeral marches, and Mary lidn't know any. And he grunted a I jueer little grunt, and said, "Well, ; well, upon my soul, upon my soul!" 1 rhen he said, "Go* on." And I did go >n. ' I told him how I was afraid It was ?oing to be just like Dr. Jekyll and VIr. Hyde. (I forgot to say I've read t now. I found it in Father's library,) 3f course not just like it, only one of ne was going to be bad, and one good, [ was afraid, if I didn't look out I .old him how Marie always wanted to tick up rugs, and move the chairs out )f their sockets in the carpet, and eave books around handy, and such ;hings. And so today it seemed as if i'd just got to have a vacation from Gary's hot gingham dresses and ilumsy shoes. And I told him bow onesome I was without anybody, not inybody; and I told about Charlie Smith and Paul Mayhew and Mr. ' - ri?i 1. J V. ~ , Jiauae .L/lVlllgsium;, ujuu uvit auui < lane wouldn't let me have them, jither, even if I was standing where he brook and river meet. Father gave another funny little p*unt here, and got up suddenly and valked 'over to the window. I thought it first he was angry; but he wasn't 3e was even more gentle when he :ame back and. sat down again, and te seemed intefifsted/very much interested in everything I told him. But I 1 itopped just in time from saying again low I wished I cohld go back to Boson; but I'm not sure bat he knew I vas going to say It. But he was very nice and kind and t old me not to worry about the music -that he didn't mind it at all. He'd T )een in several times and heard it. ? Uid I thought almost, by the way he f ;poke, that he'd come hi on purpose to j iear it; but I guess that was a mis- j ake. He just put it that way so I , wouldn't worry over it?about, its >othering him, I mean. 1 He was goingito say more, maybe; 1 >ut_I don't know. *Uiad to run. I 1 heard Aunt Jane's voice on the piazza ! saying good-by to the lady that had i brought her home; so, of course, I had to run and hang Marie in the closet and get out Mary from the corner be- ' fore she saw me. And I did. By dinner-time I had on the ging- I ham dress and the hot clumsy shoes again; and I had washed my face in cold water so I had got most of the tear spots off. I didn't want Aunt Jane to see them and ask questions, of course. And I guess she didn't. Anyway, she didn't say anything. Father didn't say anything, either, but he acted queer. Aunt Jane tried to tell him something about the missionary meeting and the heathen, and a great famine that was raging. At first he didn^t say anything; then he said, oh, yes, to be sure, how very interesting, and he was glad, very glad. And Aunt Jane was so disgusted, and accused him of being even more absent-minded than usual, which was entirely unnecessary, she said. But even that didn't move Father a mite. He just said, yes, yes, very likely; and went on scowling to himself and stirring his coffee after he'd drank !t all up?I mean, stirring where It had been iu the cup. I didn't know but after supper he'd KnonV tn mo onrt nalr mo to CrtTtie to the library. I hoped he would. There were lots more things I'd like to have said to him. BuOie didn't. He never said a word. He just kept scowling, and got up from the table and went off by himself. But he didn't go out to the observatory, as he most generally does. He went into the library and shut the door. He was there when the telephone message came at eight o'clock. And what do you think?, He'd forgotten lie was going to speak before the College Astronomy club that evening I Forgotten his old stars for once. I don't know why. I did think, for a minute, 'twas 'cause of me?what I'd told him. But I kn$w, of course, right away-that it couldn't be that He'd never forgot his stars for me! Prob u.uiy lie was just icauiug up auvut some other stars, or had forgotten how late It was, or something. (Father's always forgetting things.) But, anyway, when Aunt Jane called him he got his hat and hurried off without 8? much as one word to me, who was standing near, or to Aunt Jane, who was following him all through the hall, and telling him in her most I'mamaized-at-you voice how shockingly absent-minded he was getting to be. ' ONE WEEK LATER. i Father's been awfully queer this , whole week through. I can't make j him out at all. Sometimes I think he's ( glad I told him all those things in the ( parlor that day I dressed up in Marie's j things, and sometimes I think he's sop- , ry and wished I hadn't ] The very next morning he came ] down to breakfast with such a funny , look on his face. He said good-morn- , Inor tn ma fhroo Hmea anH fill thronch breakfast be kept looking over at me With a kind of scowl that was not cross at all?just puzzled. After breakfast he didn't go out to the observatory, not even into the library. He fidgeted around the dining room till Aunt Jane went out into the kitchen to give her orders to Susie; then he burst out, all of a sudden: "Well, Mary, what shall we do today?" Just like that he said it, as if we'd been doing things together every day of our lives. VD-do?" I asked; and I know I showed how surprised I was by the way I stammered and flushed up. "Certainly, do," he answered, impatient and scowling. "What shall we do?" I "Why, Father, I?I don't know," I stammered again. f "Come, come, of course you know!" j he cried. "You know what you want j to do, don't you?" ( I shook my head. I was so aston- r [shed I couldn't even think. And when f pou can't think you certainly can't ^ talk. t "Nonsense, Mary," scowled Father. ^ "Of course you know what you want to do! What are you in the habit of j ioing with your young friends?your a Carries and Charlies, sand all the rest?" - | I guess X just stood and stared and iidn't say anything; for after a min- y ate he cried: "Well?well?welt? I*m svaiting." "Why, we?we walk?and talk?and 1 alay games," I began; but right away * ? j le interrupted. "Good! Very well, then, we'll walk, * ['m not Carrie or Charlie, but I be- 1 ieve I can walk and talk?perhaps iven play games. Who knows? Come, jet your hat." * And I got my hat, and we went. trrkni- a #nnntr fnnnrr moll* fVtof S X>UL w lidL A iuuuj, tuuuj nam mai. ivae! He meant to make It a good c >ne, I know he did. And he tried. 8 He tried real hard. But he walked * ;o fast I couldn't half keep up with r llm; then, when he saw how I was * lurrying, he'd slow down, 'way down, c md look so worried?till he'd forget J md go striding off again, 'way ahead . >f me. We went up on the hill through the g Senton woods, and it was perfectly a ovely up there. He didn't say much c it first. Then, all of a sudden, he beran to talk, about anything and every- p Mncr AnH T tnwr hv the W3V he "1U6, ? ? L, !id It, that he'd .iust happened to n hink he'd pot to talk. c And hew he talked! He asked me ^ vas I warmly clad (and here it Is e August!), and did.I have a good break:ast, and how old was I, and did I en- ^ oy r?y studies?which shows how litIe he was really thinking what he was n laying. He knows schoot closed age? j ago., Wasn't he teaching me blmsell J] the last of it, too? All around us were Sowers and birds, and oh, so many, He Didn't Say Much at First many lovely things. T5ut "Ee never saM a word about them. He Just talked? because he'd got to talk. I knew it, and it made me laugh Inside, though an me wnne it maae me son or want to cry, too. Funny, wasn't It? After a time he didn't talk any mere, but just walked on and on; and by and by we came home. Of course, it wasn't awfully jolly? that walk wasn't; and I guess Father didn't think it was either. Anyhow, he hasn't asked me to go again this week, and he looked tired and worried and sort of discouraged when he got back from that one. But he's asked me to do other things. Thei next day after the walk he* asked me to play to him. Yes, he asked me to; and he went into the parlor and sat down on one of the chairs and listened while I played three pieces. Of course, I didn't play loud ones, nor very fast ones, and I was so scared I'm afraid I didn't play them very well. But he was very polite and said, "Thank you, Mary," and, "That was very nice"; then he stood up and said, "Thank you" again and weui away miu uie uuioi/, vciy y?r lite, but stiff, like company. The next evening he took me out to the observatory to see the stars. That was lovely. Honestly I had a perfectly beautiful time, and I think Father did, too. He wasn't stiff and polite / one bit Oh, I don't mean that lie waa Impolite or rude. It's Just that he wasn't stiff as if I was company. And , lie was so happy with his stars and liis telescope, and so glad to show them to me?oh, I had a beautiful ^ time, and I told him so; and he looked real pleased. But Aunt Jane came for me before I'd had half enough, and I liad to go to bed. The next morning I thought he'd be y iifferent, somehow, because we'd had such a lovely time together the night tiefore. But he wasn't He Just said. 'Good morning, Mary," ana Degan to read his paper. And he read his paper all through breakfast without saying another word to me. Then he got ip and went into the library, and I lever saw him again all day except it dinner-time and supper-time, and then he didn't talk to me. But after supper he took me out \ igain to see the stars, and he was lust as nice and friendly as could tfe. Mot a bit like a man thai's only a lather by order of the court But the lext day?! TOell?and that's the way it's been ill the week. And that's why I say * le's been so queer. One minute hell >e just as nice and folksy as yon tould ask anybody to be, and the very lext he's looking right through you is if he didn't see you at all, and you wonder and wonder what's the mat:er, and if you've done anything to iisplease him. Sometimes he seems almost glad and lappy, and then he'll look so sorry md sad! y ? ? - "? M 4.1 I just can't understand my iauier it all. ANOTHER WEEK LATER. I'm so excited I don't know what to lo. The most wonderful thing "has lappened. I can't hardly believe it } ret rfiyself. Yet it's so. My trunk Is til packed, and I'm to go home tomeiv ow. Tomorrow! This Is the way it happened: _? Mother wrote Aunt Jane and asked f I might not be allowed to come lome for the opening of school in September. She said- she understood fuite well that she had vno right to isk this. and. of course, if they saw it, they were entirely within their Ights to refuse te aliow me to go unII the allotted time. But that she ould not help asking It for my sake, m account of the benefit to be'derived rom being there at the opening of he school year. Of course, I didn't know Mother was | oing to write this. - But she knew 11 about the school here, and how I ame out, and everything. I've always old Mother everything that has hapened. Oh, of course, I haven't written "every few minutes," as she asked le to. (That was a joke, anyway, of ourse.) But I have written every few ays, and, as I said before, I told her verything. Well, when the letter came I took it 9 Aunt Jane myself; and I was crazy d know what was in it, for I recog- pi Ized the writing, of course. But Aunt ane didn't tell me. She opened it, :? ead it, kind of flushed up, and said, I (To be continued next