Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page. It is also available as plain text as well as XML.

fjM^ eleanorI IlLDSTRA] RH.LTVD> |, . r< ^ (Copyright by ELEA SYNOPSIS PREFACE!?'Mary Mario" explains her apparent "double personality" and Just ; why she Is a "cross-current and a contradiction;" she also tells her reasons for j 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 r to some way different from those of her I small friends, and was puzzled thereat. Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival at Andersonvllle as a bride and how astonished they all were at the sight of the dainty eighteen-year old girl whom the sedate professor had chosen for a wife. CHAPTER II.?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. yV?- './* -. CHAPTER HL?Mary tells of the nent "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 sue 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 becomes "Marie." She is delighted with her new home, so different from the gloomy I 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 i 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 celves a letter .from "Aunt Abigail Anderson, her former husband's sister, whi is keeping house for him, reminding her that , **Mary" is expected at Andersonville for the six months she is to spend with her father. Her mother is distressed, but has no alternative, and "Marie" departs tor Andersonville. CHAPTER IX.?The diary takes a Jump of twelve years, during which Marie (always Marie then J- has the usual harmless love affairs inseparable rrom girlJ v' \ hood. Then she meets THE man?Gerald 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 her mother, she is reminded of her own frequently unhappy childhood and how her action In parting from her husband will subject Eunico to the same humiliations. Her eyes opened, Marie gives up her idea of a separation, and returns to her husband, her duty, and her love. CHAPTER V.?At Andersonville Aunt V?/\? VIA afoiiAyt TJA* _ tfauc ALICCV.O nci cui uiu ouiiivu. nci ia.'; 4 ther is away somewhere, studying: an eclipse of the moon. Marie?"Mary" new?instinctively compares Aunt Jane, ' prim and severe, with her beautiful, dainty mother, much to the former's disadvantage. Aunt Jane disapproves of the dainty clothes which the child is wearing, and replaces them with "serviceable" serges and thick-coled shoes. Her father arrives home and 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 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 Marv dresses in the pretty clothes she brought from Boston and plays the liveliest tunes she knows, on the littleused piano. Then, overcome by her lonesomeness. 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 cpmforts her. After that he appears to desire to make her stay more pleasant N Her mother writes asking that Mary be , allowed to come to Boston for the beginning of th& school term, and Mr. Anderson consents, though from an expression he lets fall Mary believes he is sorry she is going. CHAPTER VI.?Mary is surprised at the tenderness her father displays when he puts Her on the train for Boston. She discovers "the violinist" making love to her mother's maid, Theresa, but says nothing. Later, however, she overhears him making a proposal of marriage to her mother, and tells what she saw. "The violinist" is dismissed. An unaccountable change in her mother astonishes her. The child Is given to understand she is being taught self-discipline and she has less good times and fewer Sretty things to wear. As the time for er return to Andersonville approaches. Mrs. Anderson equips her in plain dresses and "sensible" shoes?"Mary" thp rhild comDlains. NowT wasn't it funny he should have remembered that there was a violinist? But, of course, I told him no, it wasn't the violinist It was another . one that took Mother to ride, the one I told him about in the Christmas letter; and he was very rich, and had two perfectly beautiful cars; and I was going on to tell more?how he didn't take Mother now?but I didn't get a chance, for Father interrupted, and said, "Tes, yes, to be sure." And he showed he wasn't interested, for all the little smile wrinkles were gone, and he looked stern and dignified, more like he used to. And he went on to say that, as we had almost reached home, he had better explain right away \nnt Jane was no longer living there; that his cousin from the West, Mrs. Whitney, was* keeping house for him now. She was a very nice lady, and he hoped I would like her. And I might call her "Cousin Grace." And before I could even draw breath to ask any questions, we wore home; and a real pretty lady, with a lightVue dress on, was helping me out of SIP y J DflDTCD 1. 1 V/1Y1JU1V * "IONS BY (GSTONE. f" .NOR H. PORTER) the car, and "Kissing me as she did so. Now, do you wonder that I have been rubbing my eyes and wondering if I was really I, and if this was Anderson ville? ONE WEEK LATER It isn't a dream. It's all really, truly true?everything: Father coming to meet me, the lovely automobile, and the pretty lady in the light-blue dress, who kissed me. And when I went downstairs the next morning I found out it was real, .'specially' the pretty lady; for she kissed me again, and said she hoped I'd be happy there. And she told me to amuse myself any way I liked, and said, if I wanted to, I might run over to see some of the girls, but not to make any ftlans for the afternoon, for she was going to take me to ride. Now, what do you think of that? Go to see the girls in the morning, and take a ride?an automobile ride! -?in the afternoon. In Andersonville! Why, I couldn't believe my ears. Of course, I was wild and crazy with delight?but it was all so different Why, I began to think almost that I was Marie, and not Mary at all. And it's been that way the whole week through. I've had a beautiful time. I've been so excited! And Mother is excited, too. Of course, I wrote her and told her all about it right away. And she wrote right back and wanted to know everything?everything I could tell her; all the little things. And she was so interested in Cousin Grace, and wanted to know all about her; said she never heard of her before, and was she Father's own cousin, and how old she was, and was she pretty, and was Father around the house more now, and did I see a lot of him? She thought from something I said that I did. I've just been writing her again, and I could tell her more now, of course, than I could in that first letter. Tve been here a whole week,- and, of course, I know more about things, and have done more. I told her that Cousin Grace wasn't really Father's cousin at all, so it ^ I And She Is Pretty, and Everybody Loves Her. wasn't any wonder she hadn't ever heard of her. She was the wife of Father's third cousin who went to South America six years ago and caught the fever and died there. So this Mrs. Whitney isn't really any relation of his at all. But he'd always known her, even before she married his cousin; and so, when her husband died, and she didn't have any home, he asked her to come here. I don't know why Aunt Jane went away, but she's been gone 'most four monthg now, they say here. Nellie told me. Nellie is the maid?I mean hired girl?here now. (I will keep forgetting that I'm Mary now and must use the Mary .words here.) 1 told Mother that she (Cousin Grace) was quite old. but not so old as Aunt Jane. And she is pretty, and everybody loves her. J. think even Father likes to have her around better than he did his own sister Jane, for he sometimes stays around quite a lot now?after meals, and in the evening, I mean. And that's what I told Mother. Of course, he still likes his stars ~ .-. -. . t-J.j.KT Knt nr.t nnifp as nit: ut:>i ux uu,> uui ^ ? well as he used to, maybe?not to give all his time to them. I forgot to say that Father is going to let me go back to school again this year ahead of his time, just as he did last year. So you see, really, I'm here only a little bit of a while, as^ it is now, and it's no wonder 1 "keep forgetting I am Mary. ONE WEEK LATER Things are awfully funny here this time. I wonder if it's all Cousin Grace that makes it so. Anyhow, she's just as different as different can be from Aunt Jane. And things are different, everywhere. Whjr, I forget half the time that I'm Mary. Honestly, I do. I try to be Mary. I try to move quietly, speak orcnflT- an/l lnno-h sftftiv. itlSt as Moth bVUL1J ? ? V ? er told me to. But before I know It I'm acting natural again?just like Marie, you know. And I believe it is Cousin Grace. She never looks at you in Aunt Jane's I'm-amazed-at-you way. And she laughs herself a lot, and sings and plays, too ?real pretty lively things; not just hymn tunes. And the house is different There are four geraniums in the dining room window, and the parlor is open every day. The wax flowers are there, but the hair wreath and the coffin plate are gone. Cousin Grace doesn't dress like Aunt Jane, either. She wears pretty white and blue dresses, and ner hair is curly and fluffy. I think all this Is why I keep forgetting to be Mary. But, of course, I understand that Father expects me to be Mary, and so I try to remember. TWO WEEKS LATER * "" " J " -ll -./NTT. AT'nTrfVtIncr i unaersianu xi an iiw*?^iuj why the house is different, and Father, and everything. And it is Cousin Grace, and it is a love story. Father is in love with her. Now I guess I shall have something for this book I It seems funny now that I didn't think of it at first But I didn't?not until I heard Nellie and her beau talking about it Nellie said she wasn't the only one in the house that was going to get married. And when he asked her what she meant, she said it was Dr. Anderson and Mrs. Whitney. That anybody could see it that wasn't as blind as a bat My, but wasn't I excited? I just guesss I was. And. of course, I saw that I had been blind as a bat But I began to open my eyes after that, and watch?not disagreeably, you know, but just glad and interested, and on account of <:he book. And I saw: That Father stayed in the house a ' A. W ^ flOA/l f A lot more uiau uc uocu lv. That he smiled more. That he actually asked Cousin Grace and me to play for him several times. That he went with us to the Sunday school picnic. (I never saw Father at a picnic before, and I don't believe he ever saw himself at one.) That?oh, I don't know, but a whole lot of little things that I can't remember; but they were all unmistakable, very unmistakable. And I wondered, when I saw it all, that I had been as blind as a bat before. When I wrote Mother 1 told her all about it?the sighs and symptoms, I mean, and how different and thawedout Father was; and I asked if she didn't think it was so, too. But she didn't answer that part She didn't write much, anyway. It was an awfully snippy letter; but she said she had a headache and didn't feel at all well. So that was the reason, probably, why she didn't say more?about Father's love affair, I mean. She only said she was glad, she was sure, if Father had found an estimable woman to make a home for him. and she hoped they'd be happy. Then she [went on talking about something else. And she didn't write much more, anyway, about anything. AUGUST Well, of all the topsy-turvy worlds, this is the topsy-turviest, I am sure. What do they want me to do, and which do they want me to be? Oh, I wish I was just a plain Susie or Bessie, and not a cross-current and a contradiction, with a ' father that wants me to be one thing and a mother that wants me to be another! It was bad enough before, when Father wanted me to be Mary, and Mother wanted me to be Marie. But now? Well, to begin at the beginning. It's all over?the love story, I mean, and I know now why it's been so hard for me to remember to be Mary and why everything is different, and all. They don't want me to be Mary. They want me to be Marie. And now I don't know what to think. If Mother's going to want me to be Mary, and Father's going to want me to be Marie, how am I going to know what anybody wants, ever? Besides, it was getting to be such a beautiful love story?Father and Cou sin urace. ahu uuw? But let me tell you what happened. It was last night. We were on the piazza. Father, Cousin Grace, and L She got up and went into the house for something?Cousin Grace, I mean ?and all of a sudden I determined to tell Father how glad I was, about him ind Cousin Grace; and how I hoped It wsuld last?having him out there with us, and all that. And I told him. I don't remember what I said exacfr ly. But I hadn't anywhere hear said what I wanted to when he did stop me. Why,' he almost jumped out of his chair. "Mary!" he gasped. "What in the world are you talking about?" "Why, Father, I was telling you," I explained. And I tried to be so cool and calm that it would make him calm arwi nnni tnr\ fP.nt if didn't calm him UX1\1 V?VV4, WVV/. \ ^ ? - ? v -? or cool him one bit.) "It's about when you're married and?" "Married!" he interrupted again. (They never let me interrupt like that!) "To Cousin Grace?yes. But Father, you?you are going to marry Ousin Grace, aren't you?" I cried?and Ijlid 'most cry, for I saw by Ills face "that he was not. "That is not my present intention," he said. His lips came together hard. n and he looked over his shoulder to see s, if Cousin Grace was coming back. "But you're going to some time," I begged him. j, "I do not erpect to." I fell back in my chair, and f know I looked grieved and hurt and disappointed, as I almost sobbed: v "Oh, Father, and when I thought p you were going to!" y "There, there, child! He spoke. ^ stern and almost cross now. "This ab- \ surd nonsensical idea has gone quite a far enough. Let us think no more about it." h "It isn't absurd and nonsensical!" t! I cried. And I could hardly say the tl words, I was choking up so. "Every- h body said you were going to, and I ^ wrote Mother so; and?" b ' "You wrote that to your mother?" \ He did jump from his chair this time. A "Yes; and she was glad." h "Oh, she was!" He sat down sort of t limp-like and queer. t< "Yes. She said she was glad you'd ^ found an estimable woman to make a home for you." * "Oh, she did." He said this, too, fn h that queer, funny, quiet kind of way. 8 "Yes." I spoke, decided and Arm. I'd ' begun to think, all of a sudden, that ? maybe he didn't appreciate Mother as much as she did him; and I deter- ? mined right then and there to make him, if I could. When I remember all ? the lovely things she'd said about ; him- J "Father," I began; and I spoke this ^ time, even more decided and firm. "I ] don't believe you appreciate Mother." . "Eh. What?" T He made me jump this time, he turned around with such a jerk, and t spoke so sharply. But in spite of the ' jump I still held on to my subject, firm and decided. h "I say f don't believe you appreciate j my mother. You acted right now as p if you didn't believe she meant it when h I told you she was glad( you had found a an estimable woman to make a home for you. But she did mean it. I know, E because she said it before, once, last year, that she hoped you would find j one. Yes, and that isn't all. There's q another reason why I know Mother | always has?has your best interest at v heart. She?she tried to make me over a into Mary before I came, so as to q please you." g "She did what?" Once more he made f me jump,, he turned so suddenly, and r spoke with such a short, sharp snap, j But in spite of the jump I went right u on, just as I had before, firm and decided. I told him everything?all about t the cooking lessons, and the astronomy fc book we read an hour every day, and t | the pink silk dress I couldn't have, and s the self-discipline. And how she,said i if she'd had self-discipline when she j was a girl, her life would have been s very different. I talked very fast and hurriedly. I I was afraid he'd interrupt, and I 2 wanted to get in all I could before he f did. But he didn't interrupt at all. He f "And So You Came as Mary?" did not evep stir until I said how at the last she bought me the homely shoes and the plain dark suit so I could go as Mary, and be Mary when Aunt Jane first saw me get off the train. When I said that, he dropped his hnn/4 f-nrnort nrnrmri and stared at Xiauu U11U I.UAMVV4 V?a w v. _ Q me. And there was such a funny look In his eyes. Then he got up and began ^ to walk up and down the piazza, muttering: "So you came as Mary, you came as Mary." Then, after a minute, he gave a funny little laugh and sat down. Mrs. Small came up the front walk t then to see Cousin Grace, and Father (told her to go right into trie library ^ where Cousin Grace was. So we were left alone again, after a minute. It was 'most dark on the piazza, but I could see Father's face in the light from the window; and it looked?well, I'd never seen it look like that before. It was as if something that had been on it for years had dropped off and ] left it clear where before it had been , blurred and indistinct. No, that < doesn't exactly describe it either. I ] can't aescrioe it. tsut m gu u" oilu 1 say what he said. t After Mrs. Small had gone int? the t house, and he saw that she was sit- ^ ting down with Cousin Grace in the i library, he turned to me and said: t "Andso you came as Mary?" t % I said yes, 1 did. w "Well. I?I got ready for Marie." p But tlien I didn't quite understand, (>t even when I looked at him and cj aw the old understanding twinkle in ^ is eyes. ^ "You mean?you thought I was com- ^ ig as Marie, of course," I said then. ^ "Yes," he nodded. h, "Rut T rnmp ns Mnrv ~ ~ ~ " I "I see now that you did. Well, Mary, ^ ou've told me your story, so I sup- ^ ose I may as well tell you mine?now. ou see, I not only got ready for Iarie, but I had planned to keep her larie, and not let her be Mary?at ? 11." * And then he told me. He told me ? ow he'd never forgotten that day in *r he parlor when I cried and he saw hen how hard it was for me to live w ere, with him so absorbed in his *c rork and Aunt Jane so stern -in her *( l ~ A r\/l V? r\ c?n ? rl T nnf 1 f rnnrf iUL'K Ui Allli HC OUiU JL ^;ui Ac f c* J ividly when I talked about being ro larie In Boston, and Mary here, and S? e saw just how It was. And so he tt hought and thought about it all winer, and wondered what he could do. w ind after a time It came to him?he'd M ?t me be Marie here; that is, he'd try 01 o make it so I could be Marie. And I e was just wondering how he was b< olng to get Aunt Jane to help him st rhen she was sent for and asked to n< o to an old friend who was sick, aid he told her to go, by all means to d! o. Then he got Cousin Grace to come I' ere. He said he knew Cousin Grace, r nd he was sure she would know how pi o help him to let me stay Marie. So li e talked it over with her?how they k: - ould let me laugh, and sing and play y? he piano all I wanted to, and wear hi he clothes I brought with me, and tl e just as near as I could be the way o: was in Boston. f( MAn/3 +/-, +>>{nir o-ftor all mv nrPDflra A11U IU luiua uxLva r ? Ion for Marie, you should be Mary >] lready, when you came," he finished. Father had covered his eyes with is hand, as if thinking and thinking, r ust as hard as he could. And I stip- b< ?ose it did seem queer to him, that tl ie should be trying to make me Marie, y, nd all the while Mother was trying ^ o make me Mary. And it seemed so to b< ne, as I began to think it over. I "And so your mother?did that," a father muttered; and there was the a; [ueer little catch In his breath again. ! f( He didn't say any more, not a single | t-ord. And after a minute he got up ; K nd went into the house. But he j b lidn't go into the library wnere Mrs. i Imall and Cousin Grace were talking, le went straight upstairs to his own oom and shut the door. I heard it. Lnd he was still there when I went ip to bed afterward. How do you quppose Mother's going i o feei (when I tell her that after all ier pains Father didn't like it at all. ' le wanted me to be Marie. It's a , hame, after all the pains she took. 5ut I won't write it to her, anyway. ' Jaybe I won't have to tell her, unless he asks me. ? But I know it. And. pray, what am to do? Of course, I can act like Jarie here all right, if that is what j oiks want. But I can't wear Marie, ! i or I haven't a single Marie thing here. f [They're all Mary. That's all I brought, f Oh. dear suz me! Why couldn't |. father and Mother have been just the ommon live-happy-ever-after kind, or , 'lse found out. before they married hat they were unlikes? SEPTEMBER Well, vacation is over, and I go back o Boston tomorrow. It's been very j dee and I've had a good time, in spite * if being so mixed up as to whether was Mary or Marie. It wasn't so >ad as I was afraid it wo^ld be. Very ;oon after Father and I had that talk >n the piazza, Cousin Grace took me j town to the store and bought me two lew white dresses, and the dearest litle.pair of shoes I ever saw. She said father wanted me to have them. And that's all?every single word e * - ' *- ??? -?- J I IlflX S ueen SU1U auuui mat -jjlcu. j -ojlevi.- | ^ riarie business. And even that didn't I p eally say anything?not by name. And ; a Cousin Grace never . mentioned it j y [gain. And Father never mentioned , jj t at all. Not a word. I ^ Father's been queer. He's been aw- ! jj ully queer. Some days he's talked a f( ot with me?asked me questions just is he used to, all about what I did in Boston, and Mother, and the people i j hat came there to see her, and every- j ^ hing. And he spoke of the violinist i - ?e 4-UI* T I Lgam, aiiu, ui vjuuidc iu? llluc *. iuiu ^ iim all about him, and that he didn't ome any more, nor Mr. Easterbrook, dther; and Father was so interested! -Vhy, it seemed sometimes as if he nst couldn't hear enough about things. a Then, all of a sudden, at times, he'd ? ret right up in the middle of some- J hing I was saying and act as. if he ras just waiting for me to finish my ,g entence so he could go. And he did J' ;o, just as soon as I had finished my ?j lentence. And after that, maybe, he vouldn't hardly speak to me again for v l whole day. And so that's why I say he's been v ;o queer since that night on the piax- 8 *"??* ftrvin KA'O Vu>an S .d. DUL l'JUSL UI U1C HUiC no o uvvu ovely, perfectly lovely. And so has s Cousin Grace. And I've had a beauti- a 'ul time. CHAPTER VIM \ t 0 Which Is the Real Love Story. BOSTON. FOUR DAYS LATER. a Well, here I am again in Boston. A Mother and the rest met me at the v station, and everybody seemed glad to v *ee me, just as they did before. And [ was glad to see them. But I didn't 1< 'eel anywhere near so excited, and s sort of crazy, as I did last year. I :ried to, but I couldn't. I don't know a vhy. Maybe it was because I'd been t Vfarie all summer, anyway, so I wasn't n jo crazy to be Marie now, not needing my rest from being Mary. Maybe it i ? ?I III an I _ \ as ''cause I soft "of "hated to leave ather. And I did hate to leave him, espe- t [ally when I found he hated to have le leave him. And he did. He told se so at the junction. He asked me ad I been a little happier there with , im this year than last; and he said e hoped I had. And 1 told him, of course I had; lat it had been perfectly beautiful lere, even if there had been such a ix-up of him getting ready for Marie, * id Mother sending Mary. And he iUghed and looked queer?sort of half i ad and half sorry; and said he louldn't worry about that. Then the ain came, and we got on and rode >wn to the junction. And there, while ( e were waiting for the other train, he >Id how sorry he was to have me >. He said I would never know how he J issed me after I went last year. He lid you never knew how you missed * tings?and people?till they were ? >ne. And I wondered if, by the ay he said it. he wasn't thinking of [other more than he was of me, and * \ her jroing long ago. And I told, him ^ loved him dearly, and I had loved to ? with him this summer, and that Td ay his whole six months with him ext year if he wanted me to. He shook his head at that; but he ' '& Id look happy and pleased, 'and said i d never know how glad he was that d said that, and that he should rize it very highly?the love of his ttle daughter. He said you never " new how to prize love, either, till Du'd lost it; and he said he'd learned * la lesson and learned it well. I knew len, of course, that he was thinking / P Mother and the long ago. And I sit so sorry foi^ him. 1 *'But I'll stay?I'll stay the whole x months next year!" I cried again. But again he shook his head. ^! "No, no, my dear; I thank you, and d love to have you; but it is much etter for you that you stay in Boston irough the school year, and I want ou to do It. It'll just make the three tonths I do have you all the dearer, ecause of the long nine months that ? i do not," he went on very cheerfully nd briskly; "and don't look so solemn 4 nd long-faced. You're not t<f blame? * >r this wretched situation." The train came then, and he put le on board, and he kissed me again? ut I was expecting it this time, ?f he Train Came Then, and He Put Me on Board, and He Kissed Me Again? But I Was Expecting It This Time, of Course. ? ourse. Then I whizzed off, and he ras left standing all a(lone on the latform. And I felt so sorry for him; nd all the way down to Boston I kept v linking of him?what he said, and ow ne looaea, ana now nne ana spieuId and any-woman-would-be-proud-of- < Im he was as he stood on the platDrm waving good-by. And so I guess *1 was still thinking f him ana being sorry for him when V got to Boston. That's why I couldn't e so crazy and hilariously glad when tie folks met me, I suspect. Some ray, all of a sudden, I found myself dshing he could be there, too. ' * Of course, I know that that wan ad and wicked and unkind to Mother, .' nd she'd feel so grieved not to have le satisfied with her. And I wouldn't ave told her of it for the world. So f tried just as hard as I could to foret him?on account of Mother, so as o be loyal to her. And I did 'most orget him by the time I'd got home, lut it all came back again a little later rhen we were unpacking my trunk. * oan lUnthar fnnnH twrt T1AW iUU A?JLV mvi AVUUU W?v V .. W rhke dresses, and the dear little 1 hoes. I knew then, of course, that he'd have to know all?I mean, how he hadn't pleased Father, even after 11 her peins trying to have me go as lary. "Why. Marie, what in the werld is ms?" she demanded, holding up one f the new dresses. I could have cried. I suppose she saw by my face how $| wfully I felt 'cause she'd found it. p Lnd, of course, she saw something ras the matter; and she thought it ras? Well, the first thing I knew she was > ooking at me in her very sternest, u-av and snvinir* ' "Jt -0. "Oh, Marie, how could you? Tm shamed of you! Couldn't you wear he Mary dresses one little three aonths to please your father?" (To be continued next week.) ,...,31