The Bamberg herald. (Bamberg, S.C.) 1891-1972, June 01, 1922, Page 6, Image 6
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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.)
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