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\r ' SYNOPSIS
i
FREFACfc.?'Mary Mario" explains her
apparent "double personality" and just
why she Is a "cross-current and a contraAction;"
she also tells her reasons for
writing the diary?later to be a novel. The
diary is commenced at Andersonvills.
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
mall 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
tig sedate professor had chosen for a
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 in.?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) unacountable behavior.
By the court's decree the child is to spend
v 4 sue swaths of the year with her mother
and six months with her father. Boston
is Mother's home, and she and Mary
leave Aadersonville 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
louse 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 i 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
i: to be the likely man. Mrs. Anderson re
Eceives a letter from "Aunt Abigail Anderson,
her former husband's sister, whi is
..' keeping house for him, reminding her that
"Mirr1 Is expected at Andersonvllle for
the six months she is to spend with her
father. Her mother is distressed, but
has no alternative, and "Marie" departs
for Aadsrsonville.
nY 1
CHAPTER IX.?The diary takes a jump
of twelve years, during which Marie
(always Marie then) has the usual harmless
love affairs inseparable xrom girlhood.
Then she meets THE man?Gerald
Weston, young, wealthy, and already a
successful portrait painter. They are
deeply In love and tne 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,
i she is reminded of her own frequently
unhappy childhood and how her action
In parting from her husband will subject
Eunice to the qame humiliations. Her
oyes opened, Marie gives up her idea of
a separation, and returns to her husband,
her duty, and her love.
CHAPTER V.?At Andersonville Aunt
Jane meets her at the station. Her fa,
. 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
1 appears interested in the life Mrs. Anderson
leads at Boston and asks many
t; . Questions in a queer manner which
puszles 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 Mary dresses In the pretty clothes
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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 cjomforts 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 beginning
of the school term, and Mr. Anderson
consents, though from an expression
he lets fall Mary believes he Is sorry she
Is going.
CHAPTER VT.?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
pretty things to wear. As the time for
her return to Andersonville approaches,
Mrs. Anderson equips her in plain
dresses and "sensible" shoes?"Mary"
things, the child complains.
CHAPTER vn.?At the Andersonville
station Mary is met by her father in a
new automobile, and finds Instead of the
prim and angular Aunt Jane a young and
attractive woman who she learns is
"Cousin Grace * Mary writes her mother
of the change, and is astonished at the
many questions she is called on to answer
concerning her father's new housekeeper.
Mary decides that he intends to
marry "Cousin Grace." In a moment of
confidence she asks him if that is not
his intention. He tells her it is not, and
is dumfounded when she informs him she
has written to her mother telling her her
idea of the situation. A few days later
Mary goes back to Boston.
"I did cry, then. After all I'd been
through, to have her accuse me of getting
those dresses! Well, I just
couldn't stand it. And I told her so
as well as I could, only I was crying
so by now that I could hardly speak.
I told her how it was hard enough to
Msrv nart of the time, and Marie
part of the time, when I knew what
they wanted me to be. But when she
tried to have me Mary while he wanted
me Marie, and he frried to, have, me
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rt FUKIEK.
TIONS BY
NGSTONE.
f :
ANOR H. PORTER)
Marie while she wanted me Mary?I
did not know what they wanted; and
I wished I had never been born unless
j I could have been born a plain ISuile
or ?5essie, or Annaoene, ana noi a
Mary Marie that was all mixed up till
I didn't know what I was.
And then I cried some more.
Mother dropped the dress then, and
took me in her arms over on the
couch, and she said, "There, there,"
and that I was tired and nervous, and
all wrought up, and to cry ^11 I wanted
to. And by and by, when I was calmer
I could tell Mother all about it
And I did.
I told her how hard I tried to be
Mary all the way up to Andersonville
and after I got there; and how thfn
I found out, all of a sudden one day,
that father had got ready for Marie,
and h$ didn't want me to be Mary,
and that was why he had got Cou#ln
Grace and the automobile and the
geraniums in the window, and, oh,
everything that made it nice and comfy
and liomey. And then is when they
bought me the new white dresses and
the little white shoes. And I told
Mother, of course, it was lovely to be
Marie, and I liked it, only I knew she
would feel bad to think, after all her
pains to make me Mary, Father didn't
want me Mary at all.
"I don't think you need to worry?
about that," stammered Mother. "But,
tell me, why?why did?your father
want you to be Marie and not Mary?"
And then I told her how he said he'd
remembered what I'd said to him in
the parlor that day?how tired I got
. being Mary, and how I'd put on Marie's
things just to get a little vacation
from her: and he said he'd never forgotten.
And so when it came near
time for me to o#me again, he determined
to fix it so I wouldn't have to
hcqto at all And so that was why.
And I told Mother it was all right,
and of course I liked it; only it did
mix me up awfully, not knowing which
wanted me to be Mary now, and which
Marie, when they were both telling me
different from what they ever had be<
fore. And that it was hard, when you
were trying just the best you knew
how.
And I began to cry again.
And she said there, there, once
more, and patted me on my shoulder,
and toid me I needn't worry any more.
And that sh? understood, it, if I
didn't In fact she was beginning
to understand a lot of things that
she'd never understood before. And
she said it was very, very dear
9f Father to do what he did, and that
I needn't worry about her being dis
pleased at it That she was pleased,
and that she believed he mqant her
to be. And she said I needn't think
anj more whether to be Mary or Marie
; but to be just a good, loving little
daughter to both of them; and tha
was all she asked, and she was very
sure it was all Father would ask, too
I told her then how I thought he
did care a little about having me there,
and that I knew he was going to miss
me. And I told her why?what he'd
said that morning in the junction?
about appreciating love, and not missing
things or people until you didn't
have them; and how he'd learned his
lesson, and all that.
? And Mother grew all flushed and
aero in hilt cho WO ? nlPORPfi. T
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knew she was. And she said some
beautiful things about making other
people happy, instead of looking to
ourselves all the time, just as she had
talked once, before I went away. And
I felt again that hushed, stained-window,
soft-music, everybody-kneeling
kind of a way; and I was so happy!
And it lasted all the rest of that evening
till I went to sleep.
And for the first time a beautiful
idea came to me, when I thought how
Mother was trying to please Father,
and he was trying to please her.
Wouldn't it be perfectly lovely and
wonderful if Father and Mother should
fall in love with each other all over
again, and get married? I guess then
this would be a love story all right,
all right!
OCTOBER
Oh, how I wish that stained-window,
;-everybody-kneeling feeling would last,
i But it never does. Just the next
morning, when I woke up, it rained.
And I didn't\feel pleased a bit. Still
I remembered what had happened the
night before, and a real glow came
over me at the .beautiful idea I had
i gone to sleep with,
j I wanted to tell Mother, and ask
; her if it couldn't be, and wouldn't she
; let it be, if Father would. So. without
| waiting to dress me. I hurried across
1 the hall to her room and told her all
! about it?my idea, and everything.
But she said, "Nonsense," and,
"Hush, hush," when I asked her if she
and 'Father couldn't fall in love all
over again and get married. And she
said not ts get silly notions into my
head. And she wasn't a bit flushed
and teary, as she had been the night
before, and she didn't talk at all as she
had then,. either. And it's been that
way ever since. Things have gone
along in just the usual humdrum way,
and she's never been the same as she
was that night I came.
Something?a little different?did
happen yesterday, though. There's
going to be another big astronomy
meeting here in Boston this month,
just as there was when Father found
Mother years ago; and Grandfather
brought home word that Father was
going to be one of the chief speakers.
And he told Mother he supposed she'd
go and hear him.
? t i-i. ?-i_: - * ^
"wen, yes, i am imuKiiig ui gumg,
she said, jjust as calm and cool as
could be. "When does he speak, Father?"
And when Aunt Hattie pooh-poohed,
and asked how could she do such a
thing, Mother answered:
"Because Charles Anderson is the
father of my little girl, and I think
she should hear him speak. Therefore.
Hattie, I intend to take her."
And then she asked Grandfather
again when Father was going to speak.
I'm so exeited! Only think of seeing
my father up on a big platform
with a lot of big men, and hearing him
speak! And he'll be the very smartest
and handsomest one there, too. You
see if he isn't!
TWO WEEKS AND ONE DAY LATER
Father's here?right here in Boston.
I don't know when he came. But the
first day of the meeting was day before
yesterday, and he was here then.
The paper said he was, and his picture
was there, too. There were a lot of
pictures, but his was away ahead of
the others. It was the very best one
on the page. (I told you it would be
that way.)
Mother saw it first. That is, I think
she did. She had the paper in her
hand, looking at it, when I came into
the room; but as soon as she ?aw me
she laid it right down quick on the
table. If she hadn't been quite so
quick about it, and if she hadn't looked
quite so queer when she did it, I
wouldn't have thought anything at all.
But when I went over to the table aftej;
she had gone, and saw the paper with
Father's picture right on the first
page?ana ine Diggesi picture mere?
I knew then, of course, what she'd
been looking at.
I looked at It then, and I read what
it said, too. It was lovely. Why, I
hadn't any idea Father was so big. I
was prouder than ever of him. It told
all about the stars and comets he'd
discovered, and the books he'd written
on astronomy, and how he was president
of the college at Andersonville,
and that he was going to give an address
the next day. And I read it
all?every word. And I made up my
mind right there and then that Fd
cut out that piece and'save it.
But that night, when I went to the
library cupboard "to get the paper, I
couldn't do it, after all. Oh, the paper
was there, but that page was gone.
There wasn't a bit of it' left. Somebody
had taken it right out. I never
thought then of Mother. But I believe
now that it was Mother, for?
But I mustn't tell you that part now.
Stories are just like meals. You have
to eat them?I mean tell them?in regular
order, and not put the ice cream
in where the soup ought to be. So
I'm not going to tell yet why I suspect
it was Mother that cut out that page
of the paper with Father's picture in
it
Well, the next morning was Father's
lecture, and I went with Mother. Of
course Grandfather was there, too,
but he was with the other astronomers.
I guess. Anyhow, he didn't sit with us.
And Aunt Hattie didn't go at all. So
Mother and I were alone.
We sat back?a long ways back. I
wanted to go up front, real far front?
the.front seat, if I could get it; and
I told Mother so. But she said,
"Mercy, no!" and shuddered, and went
back two more rows' from where she
was, and got behind a big post.
I guess she was afraid Father would
see us, but that's what I wanted. I
wanted him to see us. I wanted him
to be right' in the middle of his lecture
and look down and see right there before
him his little girl Mary, and she
that had been the wife of his bosom.
Now that would have been what I
called thrilling, real thrilling, especially
if he jumped, or grew red, or white,
or stammered, or stopped short, or
anything to show that he'd seen us?
and cared.
I'd have loved that.
But we sat back where Mother
wanted to, behind the past. And, of
course, Father never saw us at all.
It was a lovely lecture. Oh, of
course, I don't mean to say that I
understood it. I didn't. But his voice
was fine, and he looked just too &rand
for anything, with the light on his noble
brow, and he used the loveliest
big words th^t I ever heard. And
folks clapped, and looked at each
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they laughed. And when he was all
through they clapped again, harder
than ever.
Another man spoke then, a little
(not near so good as Father), and then
It was all over, and everybody got up to
go; and I saw that lot of folks were
crowding down th aisle, and I looked
and there was Father right in front
of the platform shaking hands with
folks.
I looked at Mother then. Her face
was all pinky-white, and her eyes were
shining. I guess she thought I spoke,
for all of a sudden she shook her
head and said:
"No, no. I couldn't. I couldn't! But
you may, dear. Run along and speak
to him; but don't stay. Remember,
Mother waiting, and come right
back."
I know then that It must have beev
I Just my eyes that spoke, for I did j i
want to go down there and speak to j
Father. Oh, I did want to go! And
I went tnen, of course. t
He saw me. And, oh, how I did love, 1
the look that came to his face; it was I 1
so surprised and glad, and said, "Oh!; 1
You!" in such a perfectly lovely way j i
that I choked all up and wanted to i
cry. (The idea!?cry when I was so
glad to see him!) J
The next minute he had drawn me; 1
out of the line, and we were both talk- 1
*J /
He Saw Me.
ing at once, and telling each other how
glad we were to see each other.
But he was looking for Mother?I
know he was; for the next minute after
he saw me, he looked right over my
head at the woman back of me. And
all the while he was talking with mye,
his eyes would look at me and then
leap as swift as lightning first here,
and then there! all over the hall. But
he didn't see her. I knew he didn't
see her, by the look on his face. And
pretty quick I said Td have to go.
And then he said:
"Your mother?perhaps she didn't?
did she come?" And his face grew all
red and rosy as he asked the question.
And I said yes, and she was waiting,
and tnat was wny i nau to go Daca
right away.
And he said, "Yes, yes, to be sure,"
and, "good-by." But he still held my
hand tight, and his eyes were still roving
all over the house. And I had to
tell him again that I really had to go;
and I had to pull real determined at
my haftd, before I could break away.I
went back to Mother then. The
hall was almost empty, and she wasn't
anywhere in sight at all; but I found
her just outside the door. I knew then
why Father's face showed that he
hadn't found her. She wasn't there to
find. I suspect she had looked out for
that.
Her face was still pinky-white, and
her eyes were shining; and she wanted
to know everything we had said?
everything. So she found out, of
course, that he had asked if she was
there. But she didn't say anything herself,
not anything.
In the afternoon I went to walk with
one of the girls; and when I came in !
I couldn't find Mother. She wasn't j
anywhere downstairs, nor in her room, j
nor mine, nor anywhere else on that!
floor. Aunt Hattie said no, she wasn't I
out, but ttiat she was sure she dldfl't 1
know where she was. She must be
somewhere In the house.
I went upstairs then, another flight.
There wasn't anywhere else to go, and
Mother must be somewhere, of course.
And it seemed suddenly to me as if
I'd just got to find her. I whnted
her so. . L
And I found her.
In the little back room where Aunt
Hattie keeps her trunks and mothball
bags, Mother was on the floor in the
corner crying. And when I exclaimed
out and ran over to her, I found she
was sitting beside an old trunk that
was open; and across her lap was a
perfectly lovely pale-blue satin dress
all trimmed with silver lace that had
grofvn black. And Mother was crying
and crying as if her heart would break.
Of course, I tried and tried to stop
her, and I begged her to tell me what
was the matter. But I couldn't do a
-thing, not a thing, not for a long time.
Then I happened to say what a lovely
dress, only what a pity it was that the
lace -was all black.
She gave a little choking cry then,
and began to talk?little short sentences
all choked up with sobs, so that
I could hardly tell what she was talking
about., Then, little by little, I bennn
tr\ nnHor?t?nrl
6"11 ? "
She said yes, it was all black?tarnished
: and that if was just like everything
that she had had anything to do
with?tarnished; her life, and her marriage,.
and Father's life, and mine?
everything was tarnished, just like that
silver lace on that dress. And she had
done it by her thoughtless selfishness
and lack of self-discipline.
Apd when I tried and tried to tell
her no, it wasn't, and that I didn't
feel tarnished a bit. and that she
wasn't, nor Father either, she only
cried all the more, and shook her head
and began again, all choked up.
She said this little dress was the
one she wore at the big reception
where she first met Father. And she
was so proud and happy when Father
?and he was fine and splendid and
handsome then, too, she said?singled
her out. snd just couldn't seem to stay
! away from her a minute all the eve- i
I ning. And then four days later ht 1
isked her to marry him; am! khe was
still more proud and happy.
And she said their married Life, when
:hey started out, was just like that
Deautiful dress, all shining and spotess
and perfect; but that it wasn't
two months before a little bit of tarlish
appeared, and then another and
mother.
She said she was selfish and willful
md exacting, and wanted Father all to
herself; and she didn't stop to think \
that he had his work to do, and his
place to make in the world; and that
ill of living, to him. wasn't just in being
married to her. and attending to
tier every whim. She said she could !
see it all now, but that she couldn't
then, she was too young, and undisciplined,
and she'd never been denied
el thing in the world she wanted.
She said things went on worse and
worse?and it was all her fault. She
grew sour and cross and disagreeable.
She could see now that she did. But
she did not realize at all then what
she was doing. She was just thinking
of herself?always herself; her rights,
her wrongs, her hurt feelings, her
wants and wishes. She never once
thought that he had rights and
wrongs and hurt feelings, maybe.
She said a lot more?oh, ever so
much more; but I can't remember it
all. I know that she went on to say
that by and by the tarnish began to
dim the brightness of my life, too;
onH fViof thp worst of all. she
auu t w?w
said?that innocent children should
suffer, and their young lives be spoiled
by the kind of living I'd had to have,
with this wretched makeshift of a divided
home. She began to cry again
then, and begged me to forgive her;
and I cried and tried to tell her I didnt
mind it; but, of course, I'm older now,
and I knew I do mind it, though I'm trying
just as hard as I can not to be
Mary when I ought to be Marie, or
Marie when I ought to be Mary. Only
I get all mixed up so, lately, and I
said so, and I guess I cried some more.
Mother jumped up then, and said,
"Tut, tut," what was she thinking of
to talk like this when it couldn't do
a bit of good, but only made matters
worse. And she said that only went to
prove how she was still keeping on
tarnishing my happiness and bringing
tears to my bright eyes, when certainly
nothing of the whole wretched business
was my fault.
She thrust the dress back into the
* ? 1? J A
trunk then, ana snut ine na. auu
she began to talk and laugh and tell
stories, and be gayer and jollier than
Td seen her for ever so long. And
she was that way at dinner, too, until
Grandfather happened to mention the
reception tomorrow night, and ask if
she was going.
She flushed up red then, oh, so red!
and said, "Certainly not." Then she
added quick,' with a funny little drawIng-in
of her breath, that she should
let Marie go, though, with her Aunt
Hattie. It was the only chance Father
would have to see me, and she
didn't feel that she had any right to
deprive him of that privilege, and she
didn't think it would do me any harm
to be out this once late in the evening.
And she intended to let me go.
TWO DAYS LATER
Well, now I guess something's doing
all right! And my hand is shaking so
I can hardly write?it wants to get
ahead so fast and tell. But I'm going
to keep it sternly back and tell it just
as it happened, and not begin at the
ice cream instead of th^soup.
At the reception I saw Father right
away, but he didn't see me for a long
time. He stood in a corner? and lots
of folks came up and spoke to him and
shook hands; and he bowed and smiled
?l^ut in between, when there wasn't
anybody noticing, he looked so tired
and bored. After a time he stirred and
changed his position, and I think he
was hunting for a chance to get away,
when all of a sudden his eyes, roving
around the room, lighted on me.
My! but just didn't I love the way
he came through that crowd, straight
toward me, without paying one bit of
attention to the folks that tried to
stop him on the way. And when he
Then He Began to Talk and Tell Stories,
Just as If I Was a Young Lady
to Be Entertained.
got to me. he looked so glad to see me,
only there was the same quick searching
with his eyes, beyond and around
me, as if he was looking for somebody
else, just as he had done the morning
of the H-eture. And I knew it was
Mother, of course, so I said:
"No, she didn't come."
i
"So I see," he answered. And there!
was such a hurt, sorry look away back I N I
In his eyes. But right away he smiled, J
and said: "But you came! I've got; *
you."
Then he began to talk and tell
stories, just as if I was a young ladj^ g
to be entertained. And he took me 1
over to where they had things to eat,! , J
and just heaped my plate with chicken) ' f
patties and sandwiches and olives andl
pink-and-white frosted cake and ice? > j
cream (not all at once, of course, but*
in order.) And I had a perfectly beauti-j
ful time. And Father seemed to like' * |
it pretty well. But after a while he<
grew sober again, and his eyes began1
to rove all around the room. n
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corner afterward, and we sat down] i
and began to talk?only Father didn'tj /
talk much. He just listened to what1 ' 1
I said, dnd his eyes grew deeper and] <
darker and sadder, and they didn'tj
rove around so much, after a time, but1
just stared fixedly at nothing, awayJ ^
out across the room. By and by ha j ^
stirred and drew a long sigh, and saidj
almost under his breath:
"It was just such another night a#
this." ' 41
And of course, I asked what wai? zi
and then I knew, almost before he hadi
told me.
"That I first saw your mother, mjn
dear." 1 ,
"Oh, yes, I know!" I cried, eager toj *
tell him that I did know. "And sh& J
' * 1 1 J 1 nf nAVJ ^
musi nave xooaeu xuveij w mat. p<?-,
fectly beautiful blue silk dress all silver
lace." .;
He turned and stared at me. . ?
"How did you know that?" he diemanded.
f
"I saw it." *
"You saw it!M i / 4
"Yesterday, yes?the dress,H 1
nodded. J
"But how could you?" he asked*
frowning, and looking so surprisedS
"Why, that dress must be?seventeen
years old, or more." 7 ;I
nodded again, and I suppose I did) ^
look pleased; It's such fun to have *j
secret, you know, and watch felto
guess and wonder. And I kept hisj!
guessing and wondering for quite a1 *
while. Then, of course, I told him .'A
that it was upstairs in Grandfather*^
trunk room; that Mother had got it 4
out, and I saw it. v ' r"i
"But, what?was your mother doLqg
with that dress?" he asked then, leofcl
ing even more puzzled and mystified.
And then suddenly I thought audi
remembered that Mother was crying
And, of course, she wouldn't want Fa*'
.
ther to know she was crying over ;t? j
that dress she had worn when he first
met her long ago! (I don't think womr A
en ever want men to know such things,; 1
do you? I know I shouldn't!) So 1
didn't tell. Father had begun to talk
again, softly, as if to himself:
"I suppose tonight, seeing you, and
all this, brought it back to me so vivid- A
ly." Then he turned and looked at *
me. "You are very like your mother
tonight, dear."
"I suppose I am, maybe, when I'm
Marie," I nodded. ' * j
He laughed with his lips, but his
eyes didn't laugh one bit as he said: '
"What a quaint little fancy of yours
that is, child?as If you were two is
one." ^ a
"But I am two in one," I declared.
"That's why I'm a cross-current and at
contradiction, you know," I explained.
"A what?" he demanded.
"A cross-current and a contradic- >
tion," I explained oiice more. "Children
of umikes, you know. Nurse Sa- i
rah told me that long ago. Didn't yoa J
ever hear that?that a child of unlikes
was a cross-current and a contradie- /
?nn r?
"Well, no?I?hadn't," answered Fa- f,
ther, In a queer, half-smothered volet.
"I suppose, Mary, we were?unlikes,
your mother and I. That's Just what y
we were; though I never thought of It
before, In just that way." j
He waited, then went on, ptill half
to himself, his eyes on the dancers: i
"She loved things like this?music, ?
laughter, gayety. I abhorred them. I
remember how bored I was that night
here?till I saw her."
"And did you fall in love with hep
right away?" I just couldn't help asking
that question. Oh, I do so adore ij
love stories!
A oueer little smile came to Father^
"Well. yes. I think I did, Mary. I
just looked at her once?and then kept i.
en looking till it seemed as if I Just
couldn't take my eyes off her. And
after a little her glance met mine?!
and the whole throng melted away,
and there wasn't another soul in the '
room but just us two. Then she
1?1 > *-V< a fhrrtner PflmA
IOUSCU rt v? a? , auu i v>?vue -?-? ?
back. But I still looked at her." ,j
"Was she so awfully pretty. Father?"
I could feel the little thrills
tingling all over me. Now I was getting
a love story! ?
"She was. my dear. She was very ^
lovely. But it wasn't just that?it was
a joyous something that I could net
describe. It was as if she were a
bird, poised for flight. I know it now
for what it was?the very incarnation /
of the spirit of youth. And she was
young. Why, Mary, she was not se
many years older than you yourself,
now. You aren't sixteen yet. And #?
your mother?I suspect she was toe
young. If she hadn't been quite so V;
young?"
' He stopped, and stared again
straight ahead at the dancers?without
seeing one of them, I knew. Then
* - J ~J ? v ^u_j. ~ j
ne drew a great ueep sigi 1 niai seemeu ^
to come from the very bottom of his
boots. j
"But it was my fault, my fault,
every bit of it," he muttered, still staring
straight ahead. "If I hadn't "been
so thoughtless? As if I could ira- *3
prison that bright spirit of youth in &
great dull cage of conventionality, and
not expect it to bruise its wings bj l|
fluttering against the bars!"
(To be continued next week.)
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