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'gmt < mA ELEANOR^ ILLUSTRA RJH.LIVI] lv ^ o v n... Vs-^' (Copyright by ELE A MA I A PREPACK.?'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 Andersonvllle. 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 amoll MnnHft onH wa Q nuxtlAH thAreat 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 IL?Continuing her story, Nurse Sarah makes It plain why the . household seemed a strange one to the child and howher father and mother drifted apart through misunderstanding, each too proud to In any way attempt to smooth over the situation. CHAPTER IIL?Mary tells of the time spent "out west" where the "perfectly all right and genteel and respectable divorce was being arranged for, and her mother's (to her) una countable behavior. By the court's decree the child is to spend six months of the year with her mother and six months with her father. Boston is ; Mother's home, and she and Mary leave Andersonville for that city to spend the first six months. CHAPTER IV.?At Boston Mary be-' comes "Marie." She is delighted with her new home, so different from the gloomy house at Andersonville. 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 re* v celves a letter from "Aunt Abigail Anderson, her former husband's sister, whi is keeping house for him, reminding her "Mary" is expected at Andersonville for r > the six months she is to spend with her father. Her mother is distressed, but has no alternative, and "Marie" departs for Andersonville. jfcvOtf. V .. ' t CHAPTER IX.?The diiry takes a jump of twelve years, during which Marie (always Marie then) has the usual harmless love affairs inseparable trom girl- I v hood. Then she meets THE man?Gerald Weston, young, wealthy, and already a successful portrait painter. They are In Inve and th? WAddlnff1 fnllowa 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 her mother, she is reminded of her own frequently unhappy childhood and how her action I In parting from her husband will subject Eunice the same humiliations. Her eyes opened, Marie gives up her idea, of a separation, and returns to her butoand, her duty, and her love. ' , \ CHAPTER V.-At Andersor.ville Aunt ' Jane meets her at the sta ' <oi. Her fan ther is away somewh^ studying an eclipse of the moou. Marie?"Mary" now?instinctively compares Aunt Jane, prim and severe. *v'.?h her beautiful, dainty ^ mother, much ^ the' former's disadvantage. Aunt -Sane disapproves of the dain JiV ty clothes which the child is wearing, and replaces ,them with "serviceable" serges and thifk-coled shoes. Her father arrives home efnd seems surprised to see her. The child soon begins to notice that the girls at school seem to avoid her. Her father appears interested in the life Mrs. Anderson leads at Boston and asks many questions in a queer manner which puzzles Mary. She finds out that her Y . 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 lessons. In Aunt Jane's and her father's absence Mary dresses In the pretty clothes she brought from Boston and plays the liveliest tunes she knows, on the littleused piano. Then, overcome by her loney . someness, she indulges in a crying spell which her father's unexpected appearance interrupts. She sobs out the story of her unhappiness, and in a clumsy way he comforts her. After that he appears to desire to make her stay more pleasant. Her mother writes asking that Mary be allowed to come to Boston for the begin, ning of the school term, and Mr. Anderson consents, though from an expression he lets fall Mary believes he is sorry she is going. V? that isn't Amnkini? love to each other, I don't know what Is. I'm sure he's going to -propose. Oh, I'm so excited! Oh, yes, I know if he does propose and she*sa*ys yes, he'll be my new father. I' understand that. And, of course, I- can't help wondering how I'll like it. Sometimes I think I won't like it' at all. -Sometimes I almost catch myself wishing that I didn't have to have^any new father or mother. I'd neveF need a new mother, anyway, and I wouldn't need a new father if my father-bj^prder-of-the-court would be asjiice as he was there two or three times in the observatory. But, Jh'ere! After all, I must remember that I'm not the one that's doing the*choosing. It's Mother. And if .she wants~the violinist I mustn't have anything to say. Besides, I really like him > very much, anyway. He's the best of the lot. I'm sure of that. And that's something. And then, of course, I'm g&d to havejsomething to make this a fove story, and best of all I would be glad to have Mother stop being divorced, anyway. Mr. Harlow doesn't come here any more, I guess. Anyway, I haven't seen him here^once since I came back,; and I haven't heard anybody mention his same. Quite a lot of the others are here, and'there are some new ones. But the violinist is here most, and Mother seems to go out with him most to places. That's why I say I think ifs the violinist. I_havenjt heard from Father. *_... * t tRYlll Rlff^ HL PORTER HONS BY NGSTONE f ANOR H. PORTER) N6w just my "writing"that down that way shows that I expected to hear from him, though I don't really see why I should, either. Of course, he nevv has written to me; ' and, of course, I understand that I'm nothing but his daughter by order of the court. But, some way, I did think maybe he'd write me Just a little bit of a note in answer to mine?my bread-and-butter letter, I mean; for, of course, Mother had me write that to him as soon as I got here. I But he hasn't. 1 I wonder how he's getting along, and ' if he misses me any. But, of course, j he doesn't do that If I was a star, now?I TWO DAYS AFTER THANKSGIVING M The violinist has got a rival. Fm sure he has. It's Mr. Easterbrook. j He's old?much as forty?and baldheaded and fat, and has got lots of j money. And he's a very estimable | ! man. (I heard Aunt Hattie say that) j He's awfully jolly, and I like him. He | brings me the^ loveliest boxes of'candy, j and calls me Puss. (I don't like that, | particularly. I'd prefer him to call ! me Miss Anderson.) He's not nearly so good-looking as the violinist. The violinist is lots more thrilling, but I shouldn't wonder if Mr. Easterbrook was more comfortable to live with. The violinist is the kind of a man that makes you want to sit up and take notice, and have your hair and finger nails and shoes just right; but with Mr. Easterbrook you wouldn't # mind a bit sitting in a big chair before the fire with a pair of old slippers on, if your feet were tired. /' Mr. Easterbrook doesn't care for music. He's a broker. He /looks awfully bored when the violinist is playing, and he fidgets with his watchchain, and clears his, throat very loudly just before he speaks every time. His automobile -is bigger and handsomer than the'violinist's. (Aunt Hattie says the violinist's automobile is a hired orve.) And Mr. Easterbrook's flowers that he sends to Mother are handsomer, too, and lots more of them, than the violinist's. Aunt Hattie has , noticed that, too. In fact, I guess there I.isn't anything about Mr. Easterbrook 1 that she doesn't notice. Aunt Hattie likes Mr. Easterbrook lots better than she does the violinist T 1 3 v A?. 4- /-V If A^VkAW AriA 1 uett.ru uer 10.in.xu5 iu jiuxuct vuc u.aj. ONE WEEK LATER There hasn't much happened?only one or two things. But maybe I'd better tell them before I forget it, especially as they have a good deal to do with the love part of the story. And I'm always so glad to get anything of that kind. I've been so afraid this wouldn't be much of a love story, after all. But I guess It will be, all right. Anyhow, I know Mother's part will be. for It's getting more and more exciting?about Mr. Easterbrook and the violinist, I mean. They both want Mother. Anybody can see that now, and, of course, Mother sees it. But which she'll take I don't know. Nobody knows. It's perf/Wl-e nlofn tr> hp SPPTV thoueh. which ^vfc4J F***? ?I one Grandfather and Aunt Hattie want her to take! It's Mr. Easterbrook. And he is awfully nice. He brought me a perfectly beautiful bracelet the other day?but Mother wouldn't let me keep it. So he had to take it back. i don't think he liked it very well, and I didn't like it, either. I wanted that bracelet. But Mother says I'm much too young_to wear much jewelry,. Oh, will the time ever ctme when I'll be old enough to take my proper place in the world? Sometimes it seems as If it never would! Well, as I said, it's plain to be seen who it is that Grandfather and Aunt Hattie favor; but I'm not so sure about Mother. Mother acts funny. Sometimes she won't go with either of them anywhere; then she seems to want to go all the time. And she acts as if she didn't care which she went with, so long as she was just going?somewhere. I think, though, she really likes Hip violinist the best: and I euess | Grandfather and Aunt Hattie think so, too. Something happened Last night Grandfather began to talk at the dinner tafble. He'd heard something he didn't like about the violinist, I guess, and he started in to tell Mother. But they stopped him. Mother and Aunt Hattie looked at him and then at me, and then back to him, in their most see-Who's-here! ? you mustn't-talk-be fore-lifer way. So he shrugged his shoulders and stopped. But' I guess he told thern^n the library afterwards, for I heard them all talking very excitedly, and some loud; and I guess Mother didn't like what they said, and got quite angry, for 1 heard her say.vvvhen she came out through the door, that she didn't believe^ word of It, and she thought it was a wicked, cruel shame to Jell stories like that just "because they didn't like a man. This morning she broke an engagement with Mr. Easterbrook to go autoriding and went with the violinist to a morning musicale instead; and after she'd gone Aunt Hattie sighed and looked at Grandfather and shrugged her shoulders, and said she was afraid they'd driven her straight into the arms of the one they wanted to avoid, and that Madge always would take the part of the under dog. T etinnACQ qv tVinncrVir T Tx-/-?nlrln*fr A HIV/ UlV/U^ilL A T? VU1UL1 V understand. But I did, perfectly. They meant that by telling stories about the violinist they'd been hoping to get her to give him up. but instead of that, they'd made her turn to him all the more, just because she was so sorry for him. Funny, isn't it? ONE WEEK LATER Well, I guess now something has happened all right! And let me say right away that I don't like that violinist now, either, any better than Grand father and Aunt Hattfe. And it's not entirely because of what happened last night, either. It's been coming on for a while?ever since I first saw him talking to Theresa in the hall when she let him in one night a week ago. Theresa is awfully pretty, and I guess he thinis so. Anyhow, I heard him telling her so in the hall, and ?he laughed and blushed and looked sideways at him. Then they saw me, and he stiffened up and said, very proper and dignified, "Kindly hand my card to Mrs. Anderson." And Theresa said, "Yes, sir." And she was very proper and dignified, too. Well, four days ago I saw them again. He tried to put his arm around her that time, and the very next day he tried to kiss her, and after a minute she let him. More than once, too. And last night I heard him tell her she was the dearest girl in all the world, and he'd be perfectly happy if he could only marry her. Well, you can Imagine how I felt, when I thought all the time it was Mother he was coming to see! . And now to find out that it was Theresa he wanted all the time, and .h? was only coming to see Mothe;- so he could see Theresa! At first, Ijvc.s angry?just plain angry; and a was frightened, too, for I | couldn't heip worrying about Mother? for fear she would mind, you know, when she found out that it was Theresa that he cared for, after all. I remembered what a lot Mother had been with him, and the pretty dresses and hats she'd put on for him, and all that. And I thought how she'd broken engagements with Mr. Easterbrook to go with him, and it made me angry all over again. And I thought how mean it was of him to use poor Mother as a kind of shield to hide his courting of Theresa! I was aqgry, too, to have my love story all spoiled, when I was getting along so beautifully with Mother and the violinist. I But I'm feeling better now. I've been thinking it over. I don't believe Mother's going to care so very much. I don't believe she'd want a man that would pretend to come courting her,. when all the while he was really courting the hired girl?I mean maid. Besides, there's Mr. Easterbrook left (and one or two others that I haven't said much about, as I didn't think they had much chance.) And so far as the love story for the book is concerned, that isn't spoiled, after all, for It , will hp prpr sn much more exeitina to have ! the violinist fall in love with Theresa than with Mother, for, of course, Theresa isn't in the same station of life at all, and that makes it a-^a mess-alliance. (I don't remember exactly what the word is; but I know it means an alliance that makes a mess of things because the lovers are not equal to each other.) Of course, for the folk whp have to live it, it may not be so nice; but foi^ my story here this makes it all the more romantic and thrilling. So that's all right. f f\P nnnrca eft Par T'm thp fknlr" onft I V/JL WUic^j wv A.M?t ~ ~ ^ ? that knows, for I haven't told it, and , I'm the only one that's seen anything. Of course, I shall warn Mother, if I think it's necessary, so she'll understand it isn't her, but Theresa, that the violinist is really in love with and courting. She won't mind, I'm sure, after she thinks of i^ minute. And won't it be a good jokSon Aunt Hattie and Grandfather when they find out they've been ' fooled all the time, supposing it's Mother, and worrying about it? Oh, I don't know! This Is some love story, after all! TWO DAYS LATER ; What do you suppose has happened now? Why, that wretched violinist is , nothing but a deep-dyed villain! Lis- , ten what he did. He proposed to Mother?actually proposed to her?and after all he'd said to that Theresa girl, ; about his being perfectly happy if he could marry her. And Mother?Mother all the time not knowing! Oh, I'm so glad I was there to rescue her! I don't i*ean at the proposal?I didn't ] hear that. But afterward. It was like this: They had been out automobillng? Mother and the violinist. I was in my favorite window-seat, reading, when they came home and walked into the library. They never looked my way at all, but just walked toward the fireplace. And there he took hold of both her hands and said: "Why must you wait, darling? Why can't you give me my answer now, and make me the happiest man in all the world?" "Yes, yes, I know," answered Mother; and I-knew by her voice that she was all shaky and trembly. "But if I could only be sure?sure of myself." "But, dearest, you're -sure of me!" cried the violinist. "You know how I I s ?i i i lillliNld'WitK. ! d / 1 i 1 ?Ik ! ^ ^ ^I I ' "Why Must You Wait, Darting?" g; love you. You know you're the only woman I have ever loved, or ever could ^ love!" j Yes, just like that he said it?that J awful lie?and. to my mother. My stars! "Do you suppose I waited to ^ hear any more? I guess not! .. I fairly tumbled off my seat, and ^ my book dropped with a bang, as I ran forward. Dear, dear, but how they did jump?b^th of thefi! And I guess they were t arprlsed. i never thought how't was going to affect them?my breaking in like that. But ^ didn't y wait?not a minute. I just started right In and began to talk. And I talked hard and fast, and lots of It 8 I don't know now what I shid, but ^ t a I know I asked him what he meant by * saying such an awful lie to my mother, b when he'd just said the same thing, b exactly 'most, to Theresa, and he'd hugged her and kissed her, and every- * thing. I'd seen him. And? r But I didn't get a chance to say half I wanted to. I was going on to tell him what I thought of him; hut Moth- s er gasped out, "Marie! Marie! Stop!" e And then I stopped. I had to, of a course. Then she said that would do, fl and I might go to my room. And I ^ went And that's all I know about it b except that she came up, after a little, b and said for me not to talk any more *( about it to her, or to any one else; a and to nlpase trv to foruret it I tried to tell her what I'd seen, and what Td heard that wicked, deep- A dyed villain say; but she wouldn't let me. She shook her head, and said, s< "Hush, hush, dear"; and that no good ^ could come of talking of it, and she cl wanted me to forget it. She was very sweet and very gentle, and she smiled; d but there were stern corners to her f< mouth, even when the smile was there. y? And I guess she told him what was w what. Anyhow, I know they had quite o a talk before she came up to me, for f< I was watching at the window for him d< to go; and whdh he did go he looked very red and cross and he stalked tl away with a never-will-I-darken-this- B door-again kind of step, Just as far as w T /*aii1/1 oaa lrr? I f-/ JL ^UUIU CCC liilll* y I don't know, of course, what will e' happen next, nor whether he'll ever 11 come back for Theresa; but I shouldn't A think even she would want him, after S this, if she foun<J out n' And now, where's my love story com- J, ing in, I should like to know? TWO DAYS AFTER CHRISTMAS a g Another wonderful thing has happened. I've had a letter from Father ^ ?from Father!?a letter?me! It came this morning. Mother t( brought it in to me. She looked queer ^ ?a little. There were two red spots in her cheeks, and her eyes were very bright ^ "I think you have a letter here from ^ ?your father," she said, handing It a, eut. it She hesitated before the "your fa- a ther" Just as she always does. And a] 't isn't hardly ever that she mentions g( his name, anyway. But when she does, sj Bne always stops a iuany uiue minute q1 before it, just as she did today. s< I could see she was wondering what could be in it. But I guess she wasn't I wondering any more than I was, only ?1 I was gladder to get it than she was, I I suppose. Anyhow, when she saw how glad I was, and how I jumped for ai the letter, she drew back, and looked w somehow as If she'd been hurt, and a! Bald: di "I did not know, Marie, that a letter t? from?your father would mean so c< much to y.ou." I don't know what I did say to that I guess I didn't say anything. I'd a!- w ready begun to read the letter, and I d1 was in such a hurry to find out what he'd said. I'll copy it here. It wasn't long, le It was like this: ft "My Dear Mary: * ^ "Some way Christmas has made me think of you. I wish I had sent you some gift. Yet I have not" the slightest m idea what would please you. To tell B the truth, I tried to find something? ju hut had to eive it ud. to "I am wondering if you had a good th time, and what you did. After all, I'm fu pretty sure you did "have a good time, cc for you are Marie now. You see, I w have not forgotten how tired you got cc of being?Mary. Well, well, I do not he know as I can blame you. tii "And now that I ha^e asked what ai you did for Christmas, I suspect it is at no more than a fair turnabout to tell I' you what I did. I suppose_I_had ajery gc ood time. Tour Aunt Jane says 1 id. I heard her telling one of the eighbors that last night. She had a ery fine dinner, and she invited Mrs.* )arling and Miss Snow and Miss Sanorn to eat it with utf. She said she idn't want me fo feel lonesome. But ou can feel real lonesome in a crowd ometimes. Did you know that, Mary? "But I left them to their chatter aftr dinner and went out to the observaory. I think I must have fallen asleep n the couch there, for it was quite ark when I awoke. But I didn't mind hat, for there were some observations wanted to take. It was a beautifully lear night, so I stayed there till neary morning. "How about it? I suppose Marie lays the piano every day, now. doesn't he? The piano here hasn't been ouehed since you went away. Oh, es, it was touched once. Your aunt layed hymns on it for a missionary leeting. "Well, what did yon do Christmas? I appose you write and tell "Your Father*" Td been reading the letter out loud, nd yrhen I got through Mother was aclng up and down the room. For minute she didn't say anything; then be whirled 'round suddenly and faced le, and said, just as if something lnIde of her was making her say it: "I notice ther^is no mention of our ihoffieFTm that letter, Marie. I uppose?your father has quite forgoten that there Is such a person in the rorld as?I." But I told her no, oh, no, and that was sure he remembered her, for he onA fA oolr ma nnae-flAne oh/knt ouu iu aoa uiv v^u^ouvuo viivu ai/vuv rtiat she did, and the violinist and all. "The violinist!" cried Mother, whirlag around on me again. (She'd beun to walk up and down once more.) You don't mean to say you ever told ur father about him!" "Oh, no, not everything," I explained, rying to show how patient I was, so he would be patient, too. (But It idn't work.) "I couldn't tell him verything because everything hadn't appened then. But I told about his eing here, and about the others, too; ut, of course, I said I didn't know rhich you'd take, and?" "You told him you didn't know which 'd take!" gasped Mother. Just like that she interrupted, and he looked so shocked. Then she bean to walk again, up and down, up nd down. Then, all of a sudden, she ung herself on the couch and began 3 cry and sob as if her heart* would reak. And when I tried to comfort er, I only seemed to make it worse, jr she threw her arms around me d cried: "Oh, my darling, my darling, don't ou see how dreadful It is, how dreadll it is?" And then is when she began to talk >me more about being married, and nmarried as we were. She held me lose again and began to sob and cry." "Oh, my darling, don't you see how readful it all is?how unnatural it is ir us to live?this way? And for ou?you poor child!?what could be orse for you? And here I am, jealus?jealous of your own father, for ?ar you'll love him better than you o me! "Oh, I know I ought not to say all lis to you?I know I ought not to. .ut I can't?Help it. I want you! i ant you every minute; but I have ) give you up?six whole months of rery year I have to give you up to im. And he's your father, Marie, nd he's a good man. I know he's a ood man. I know it all the better ow since I've seen?other men. And ought to tell you to love him. But m so afraid?you'll love him better lan you do me, and want to leave? ie. And I can't give you up J I can't Ive you up!" Then I tried to tell her, of course, lat she wouldn't have to give me up, ad that I loved her a whole lot betir than I did Father. But even that Ldn't comfort her, 'cause she said I ght to love him. That he was lone)me and needed me. He needed me ist as much as she needed me, and laybe more. And then she, went on ?ain about how unnatural and awful was fro live the way we were living, nd she called herself a wicked worna that she'd ever allowed things to et to such a pass. And she said ir le could only* have her life to live irer again she'd do so differently?oh, ) differently. Then she began to cry again, and couldn't do a thing with her; and, C course, that worked me all up and began to cry. She stopped then, right off short, ad wiped her eyes fiercely with ber et ball of a handkerchief. And she sked what was she thinking of, and Idn't she know any better than, to ilk like this to me. Then she said, )me, we'd go for a ride. And we did. And all the rest of that day Mother as so eay and lively you'd think she idn't know how to cry. Now, wasn't that funny? Of course, I shall answer Fathers tter right away, but I haven't the tintest idea what to say. f NE WEEK yLATE3 I answered It?Father's letter, * ean?yesterday, and it's gone now. ut I had an awful time over It. I , ist didn't know what in the world 1 say. I'd start out all right, and I'd link I was going to get aiong beautiilly. Then, all of a sudden, it would ime over me, what I was doing? riting a letter to my father! And I >uld imagine just how he'd look when i got it, all stern and dignified, sitng in h'is chair with his paper-cutter; id I'd imagine his eyes looking down id reading what I wrote. And when thought of that, my pen just wouldn't >. JThe idea of my writing anything my father would want to rend"! And so I'd try to think of things that 4 I could write?hi? things?big things that would interest hi? men: About the President and our-country-'tis-ofthee. and the state of the weather and the crops. And so I'd begin: "Dear Father: I take my pen in hand to inform you that?" Then I'd stop and think and think, and chew my^ pen-handle. Then Td , put down something. But it was aw i ci - ru ful, and I knew It was awiui. so ia have to tear It up and begin again. Three times I did that; then I began to cry. It did seem as if I never could write that letter. Once I thought of asking Mother what to say, and getting her to help me. Then I remembered how she cried and took on and said things when the letter canre, and talked about how dreadful and un- ' natural It all was, and how she was jealous for fear I'd love Father better than I did her. And I was afraid she'd do It again, and so I didn't like to ask her. And so I didn't do It. < Then, after a time, I got out his letter and read it again. And all of a sudden I felt all warm and happy, just as I did when I first got it; and ? - t-* some way i was DacK wun mm ui uie observatory and he was telling me all \ about the stars. And I forgot all about being afraid of him. And I just remembered that he'd asked me to tell him what I did on Christmas day; and I knew right off that that would ? be easy. Why, just the easiest thing in the world! And so I got out a fresh sheet of paper and dipped my pen in the ink and began again. t And this time I didn't have a bit i of trouble. I told him all about the tree I had Christmas eve, and the presents, and the little colored lights, on/i fho fnr? wo had sineinc and nlav tt"U tuv AUU *? V ?V?V 0 s v ing games. And then how, on Christ- ' mas morning, there was a lovely new snow on the ground, and Mr. Easterbrook came with a perfectly lovely sleigh and two horses to take Mother and me to ride, and what a splendid time we had, and how lovely Mother looked with her red cheeks and bright eyes, and how, when we got home, Mr. Easterbrook said we looked more like sisters than mother and daughter, and wasn't that nice of him. Of course, I told a/little more about Mr. Easterbrook, too, so Father'd know who he was?a new friend of Mother's that Td never known till I came back this time, and how he was very rich and a mnst pstimahle man. That Aunt Hattie said so. Then I told him that In the afternoon another gentleman came 'and took us to a perfectly beautiful concert. And I finished up by telling about the Christmas party In the evening, and how lovely the house looked, and Mother, and that they said I looked nice, too. ? And that was all. And when I had got It done, I saw that I had written a long letter, a great long letter. And I was almost afraid It was too long, till I remembered that Father had So I Sent It Off. yasked me for it; he had asked me t# j tell him all about what I did on Christmas day. So I sent it off. MARCH Tes. I know it's been quite a while, but there hasn't been a thing to say? " nothing new or eiciting, I mean. There's just school, and the usual thL gs, only Mr. Easterbrook doesn't come any more. (Of course, the vio- i linist hasn't come since that day he proposed.) I don'^ know whether Mr. Easterbrook proposed or not. I only know that all of a sudden he stopped -3 coming. I don't know the reason. I den't overhear so much as I u^ed to, anyway. Not but that I'm in the 1 library window-seat just the same; but I 'most everybody that comes in looks ] there right off; and, of course, when ] mey see me they don't hardly ever go on with what they are saying. So J It just naturally ioiiows mat 1 oont: f overhear thii^s as I used to. Not that there's much to hear, , 1 though. Really, there just isn't anything going on, and things aren't half! I so lively as they used to be when MrJ j Easterbrook was here, and all the] I rest. They've all stopped coiiung, now,] 'most. I've about given up ever having a love story of Mother's to put in. ? And mine, too. Here I am flfteea* next month, going on sixteen. (Whj^ that _brook and river met long agoj)1! : " < (To be continued next week.) ' ? * i W 5