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1326
PREFACE!—’Mary Marie" explains her
apparent "double personality" and lust
why she is a "cross-current and a contra
diction;” she also tells her reasons tor
writing the diary—later to be a novel. The
diary Is commenced at Andersonville.
The Prosperity Of Our Depositors Is
FRIENDSHIP
amounts
purclinse
We save you money by our discount offe r
Try it and prove ft.
CONOVER & CONOVER
TILLAMOOK.
OREGON
8YNOPSI8
CHAPTER I.—Mary begins with Nurse
Sarah’s account of her (Mary’s) birth,
which seemingly Interested her father,
who la a famous astronomer, less than a
aew star which was discovered the same
night. Her name is a compromise, her
mother wanted to call her viola and her
father Insisting on Abigail Jane. The
child quickly learned that her home was
In some way different from those of her
small friends, and was puzzled thereat.
Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother’s ar
rival at Andersonville as a bride and how
astonished they all were at the sight of
the dainty elghteen-year old girl whom
the sedate professor had chosen for a
wife.
TILLAMOOK
HEADLIGHT
"Well, Mary, what shall we do to
! day?” Just like that he said it, as if
i we’d been doing things together every
day of <>ur lives.
"D-do?” I asked; and I know I
showed how surprised I was by the
I way I stammered and flushed up.
"Certainly, do," he answered, impn-
' tlent and scowling. “What shall we
. do?”
“Why, Father, I—I don't linow," I
stammered again.
“Come, come, of course you know!"
he cried. “You know what you want
to do, don’t you?”
I shook my head. I was so aston
ished I couldn’t even think. And when
you can't think you certainly can’t
talk.
“Nonsense, Mary,” scowled Father.
“Of course you know what you want
to do! What are you In the habit of
doing with your young friends—your
Carries and Charlies, and all the
rest ?”
I guess I just stood and stared and
didn’t say anything; for after a min
ute he cried: “Well—well—well? I’m
waiting.”
“Why, wi ■we walk—and talk—and
play games," I began; but right away
he Interrupted.
“Good I Very well, then, we’ll walk.
I’m not Carrie or Charlie, but I be-
lleve I can walk and talk—perhaps
even play games. Who knows? Come,
get your hat."
And I got my hat, and we went,
But what a funny, funny walk that
was I He meant to make It a good
one, I know he did.
And be tried.
He tried real hard, But he walked
so fast I couldn’t half keep up with
him; then, when he saw how I was
hurrying, he’d slow down, 'way down,
CHAPTER II.—Continuing her story,
Nurse Sarah makes It plain why the
household seemed a strange one to ths
child and howhor father and mother
drifted apart through misunderstanding,
each too proud to in any way attempt to
smooth over the situation.
inArifiK Hl.—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
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
come« "Marie." She la 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,” Anally 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
ceives a letter from "Aunt Abigail Ander
son, her former husband’s sister, will is
keeping house for him, reminding her that
“Mary 1s 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
for Andersonville.
CHAPTEHt V.—At Andersonville Aunt
Jane meets her at the station. Her fa
ther Is away somewhere. studying an
eclipse of the moon. Marie—"Mary"
now- Instinctively compares Aunt Jane,
prim and severe, with her beautiful, dainty
mother, much to the former’s dlsadvnn-
•asre. Aunt Jane dis approves of the daln
'y clothes which the child is w< arlng. and
replaces them with "serviceable" ser s
and thick-c< led shoes Her father arrives
home and seems surprised to see her. The
chll I ..... hoi-ins to notice that the crlrls
at s< hool seem to avoid her Her father
ilfi-iis inti:■■■! In 'he life Mrs. An-
derson leads at Poston and asks many
questions In a miser manner
which
P’trzlea Mary
S1A- finds out that her
scho dmutes do n,.i aasoklate wtth het
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 n *d not go. He wiU hear her
— sons In Aunt Jane's and hor father’s
tbsm. e Mary dresses In the prettt cloth, a
she brought from F >aton nnd plavs the
liveliest tunes ahe knows, on the llttlo-
used piano Then, overcome by her lone-
■omeness ch.* Io lutg.-s ’n a crying spell
which hor father’s unexpected appear
anco Interi o'.
She sobs out the storv
of her iinhorolnesD. nnd tn n clnmsv way
he comforts her
(tier that he appears
to desiro to make her stay more pleasant
Her mother writes asking that Mary be
allowed to corm, to Ronton for the begin
ning of the school term, and Mr Ander
son contents thong', from an expression
he lets fall Mary believes he pi sorry’ ah«
la going
speak to tup and ask nip to comp to
the library. I hoped lie would. There
were lots more things I’d like to have
Said Io him. But he didn't. He never
said a word. He Just kept scowling,
mid got up from the table mid went off
by himself. But he didn’t go out to
the observatory, ns lie most generally
floes, lie went Into the library and
shut the door.
He was there when the telephone
message came nt eight o'clock. And
what do you think? He’d forgotten he
ruing to speak before the Col-
Astrommi y club ttint evening!
tten bis old stars for one«). I
don't know why. I did tlilnjc, for a
minute, 'twn s ‘cause of me—what I'd
told him. But 1 knew, of course, right
away Him it couldn't be that, He'd
never forgot his stars for me! Prob-
ably lie was just reading up about
some other gtnrs. or hinl forgotten
how late It wns, or something,
(Fa
tiler's always forgetting things.) But.
anyway, when Aunt Jnne culled him
he got his hat nnd hurried off without
so much as one word to me. who was
standing near, or to Aunt Jane, who
was following him nil through the hall.
ami telling him In Iter most I’m-
mnaxed nt-you voice how shockingly
absent minded he was gelling to be.
ONE WEEK LATER.
Father’s bean awfully queer this '
whole week through. I can't make i
him out nt all. Sometimes I think he's |
glad I told him all those things In the .
parlor that day 1 dressed up lu Marie's i
things, and sometimes I think lie's tor- '
ry mid wished I hadn’t.
The very next morning he came4
down to breakfast with «uch a funny
look on hl« face, lie said good-morn
ing to me three times, and all through
breakfast he kept looking over at me
with a kind of scowl that was not
cross at all- Just purtled.
After break faat lie didn't go out to
the observatory, not even Into the
library, lie fidgeted around the din-
Ing room till Aunt Jane went out
Into the kitchen to give her udera to
Susie; then lia burst out. all of a
»Uddin;
He Didn’t Say Much at Firat.
and look so worried—till he’d forget
and go striding off again, 'way ahead
of me.
We went up on the hill through the
Benton woo<l% nnd B "’as perfectly
lovely up there. He didn’t say mlich
at first. Then, all of a sudden, he be
gan to talk, nhoijj anything and every
thing. And I knew, by the way he
did It, that he’d just happened to
think he’d got to talk.
And how ho talked! He naked me
was I warmly clad (nnd here ft Is
August!), nnd did T have n good break
fast. nnd how old wns I. nnd did I en
joy my studies—which shows how lit
tle he wns really thinking ^vhat he was
saying. He knows school closed ages
ago. Wasn’t he teaching me himself
the last of it, too? All around us were
flowers and birds, nnd oh, so many,
many lovely things. But he never said
a word about them. He just talked—
because he'd got to talk. I knew It,
and It made me laugh inside, though
all the while It maoe me sort of want
to cry. too. Funny, wasn’t it?
After a time he didn’t talk any more,
but just w alked on and on; and by and
by we came home.
Of course, it wasn’t awfully Jolly—
that walk wasn’t: nnd I guess Father
didn’t think, it was either. Anyhow,
he hasn't asked me to go again this
week, and he looked tired nnd worried
and sort of discouraged when he got
back from that one.
But lie's asked me to do other
things. The next day after the walk
he asked me to play to him. Yes. he
naked me to; and he went Into the
parlor and sat down on one of the
chairs and listened while I plqyed
three pieces. Of course, I didn't play
loud ones, nor very fast ones, and I
was so scared l‘m afraid I didn't play
them very well. But he was very po
lite and said. ’’Thank you, Mary,” and.
“That was very nice"; then he stood
up aud said, "Thank you” again and
went away Into the library, very po
lite, but stiff, like company.
The next evening he took me mq to '
the observatory to sei the stars. That
was lovely. Honestly I had a perfect
ly beautiful time, and I think Father
did. t<xx He wasn't stiff and polite
one bit Oh. I don’t mean that he was ■
Impolite or rude, It’s Just that he
wasn't stiff as If I was company, And
he was so happy wtth his stars and
Ills telescope, and so glad to show
them to me—oh, I had a beautiful
time, and I told him so; and he looked
real pleased. But Aunt Jane cam« for
me before I'd had half enough, and I
had to go to bed.
The next momtng I thought he’d be
different, somehow, because we'.d had
such a lovely time together the night
before. But he wasn’t, lie Just said.
“Good morning. Mary.” and began to
read his pn|>er. And he read bls pa
per all through breakfast without «ay-
big another word to me. Then lie got
up and went Into the library, and I
never saw him again all day except
at dinner-time and supper-time, and
then he didn’t talk to me.
But after supper he took me out
again to see the stars, and he was
just us nice and friendly as cculd be.
Not a bit like a man that’s only a
futher by order of the court. But the
next day—!
Well—and that's the way It’s been
all the week. And that’s why I say
he’s been so queer. One minute he'll
be just as nice and folksy as you
could ask anybody to be, and the very
next he’s looking right through you
as If lie didn’t see you at all, and you
wonder and wonder what’s the mat
ter, and If you’ve done anything to
displease him.
Sometimes he seems almost glad and
happy, and then he'll look so sorry
and sad!
I just can’t understand my father
at all.
ANOTHER WEEK LATER.
?riday. May 26. 1922
under the circumstances» you would
manage somehow to put up with the
i noise and—”
I "Jane!” Just like that he interrupt-
i ed, and he thundered, too, -so that
[ Aunt Jane actually jumped. And I
guess I did, too. K had sprung to
his feet. “Jane, let t close this mat-
ter once for all. I f 1 not letting the
child go for my sal
I am letting
her go for her own. So far as I am
concerned. if I consulted no one’s
wishes but my own, I should—keep
her here always,”
With that lie turned ana strode from
the room, leaving Aunt Jane and me
just staring after him.
But only for a minute did I stare.
It came to me then what he had said
—that he would like to keep me here
always. For I had heard It, even if he
had said the last word very low, and
in a queer, Indistinct voice, I was
sure I liad heard it, and I suddenly
realized what It meant. So I ran after
him; and that time, If I had found
him, I think I would have hugged him.
But I didn’t find him. He must have
gone quite away from the house. He
wasn’t even out to the observatory. I
went out to see.
He didn't come In all the afternoon.
I watched for that, too. And when he
did come—well, I wouldn’t have dared
to hug him then. He had his very
sternest I-ain-not-thlnktng-of-you-at-all
air, and he just came In to supper and
then went into the library without say
ing hardly anything. Yet, some way,
the look on his face made me cry. I
don’t know why.
The next day he was more as he has
been since we Dad that talk In the
parlor. And he has been different
since then, you know. He really has.
He has talked quite a lot with me, as
I have said, and I think lie’s been try
ing, part of the time, to find something
I'll be Interested In. Honestly, 1 think
lie’s been trying to make up for Carrie
Heywood and Stella Mayhew and
Charlie Smith and Mr. Livingstone. I
think that’s why he took m^to walk
that day In the woods, and why he
took me out to the observatory to see
the stars quite a number of times.
Twice he's asked me to play to him,
and once he asked me If Mary wasn't
about ready to dress up in Marie’s
clothes again. But he was joking
then, I knew, for Aunt Jane was right
there in the house. Besides, I saw the
twinkle In his eyes that I’ve seen there
once or twice before. I just love that
twinkle in Father's eyes!
But that hasn't come any since
Mother’s letter to Aunt Jane arrived.
He's been the same in one way, yet
different In another. Honestly, if It
didn’t seem too wildly nbsurd for any
thing, I should say he wns actually
sorry to have me go. But, of course,
that isn’t possible. Oh, yes, I know he
said that day at the dinner table that
he should like to keep me always. But
I don’t think he really meant It. He
hasn’t acted a mite like that since, nnd
I guess lie said It just to hush up Aunt
•Jnne, and make her Stop arguing the
matter.
Anyway, I'm going tomorrow. And
I'm so excited I can hardly breathe.
I’m so excited I don’t know what to
do. The most wonderful thing has
happened, I can’t hardly believe it
yet myself. Yet It's so. My trunk is
all packed, and I’m to go home tomor
row. Tomorrow!
This Is the way It happened:
Mother wrote Aunt Jane and asked
If I might not be allowed to come
home for the opening of school In
September. She said she understood
quite well that she had no right to
ask this, and, of course, If they saw
tit, they were entirely within their
rights to refuse to allow me to go un
til the allotted time. But that she
could not help asking It for m.v sake,
on account of the benefit to be derived
from being there at the opening of
the school year.
Of course, I didn’t know Mother was
going to write this. But she kne*
nil about the school here, anti how 1
came out, and everything. I’ve always
told Mother everything that has hap
pened. Oh, of course, I haven't writ
ten “every few minutes," as she asked
me to. (That was a joke, anyway, of
course.) But I have written every few
days, and, as I said before, I told her
everything.
Well, when the letter came I took it
to Aunt Jane myself; and I was crazy
to know what was Ln it, for I recog
nized the writing, of course. But Aunt
Jane didn't tell me. She opened K
read It, kind of flushed up, and said.
“Humph ! The Idea !” under her breath,
and put the letter In her pocket
Marie wanted to make a scene and
Insist on knowing what was In her
own mother’s letter; but Mary con-
tented herself with looking superb and
haughty and disdainful, and marching
out of tlirf room without giving Aunt
Jane the satisfaction of even being
asked what wns Ln that letter.
But at the table that noon Aunt
June read It to Father out loud, So
thnt's how I came to know just what
was tn It. She started first to hand It
over to him to read ; but ns he put out
his hand to take It I guess he saw
the handwriting, for he drew back
quickly, looking red nnd queer.
“From Mrs. Anderson to you?" ht
CHAPTER VI.
asked. And when Aunt Jnne nodded
her head he sat still farther back In
When I Am Both Together.
his chair and said, with a little wave
of his hand, “I never care to read— BOSTON AGAIN.
other people’s letters.”
Well, I came last night. Mother and
Aunt Jnne said, "Stuff and nonsense
¡randfather nnd Aunt Hattie nnd
Charles, don’t be silly!” Rut sh> Baby Lester all met me nt the station.
pulled back the letter and reud it— And, my! wasn’t I glad to see them?
after giving s kind ot an uneasy Well, I just guess 1 was!
glance In my direction.
I was special!}’ glad on account of
Father never looked up once while having such a dreadful time with Fa
she was reading It. He kept his eyes ther that morning. I mean. I was
on hfs plate and the baked beans he feeling specially lonesome and home
wns eating. I watched him. You see. sick, nnd not-beimiging-anywhere like.
I knew, by Aunt Jane’s rending the
You see, it was this way: I’d been
letter to him, that It was something sort of hoping, I know, that nt the Inst,
he had got to decide; and when I when i came to really g >. i at her
found out what it was, of course, 1 would get back the understanding
was just crazy. I wanted to go so. smile and the twinkle, and show that
So I watched Father’s face to i see if he really did care for me, and was
he was going to let me go. But I sorry to have me go. But, dear me !
couldn't make out. I couldn't : make Why, he never was so stern and sol-
out at all. It cluinged—oh, ; yes, it enui. and you're-my-daughter-only-by-
changed a great deal as she read; but the-order-of-the-court sort of way as
I couldn’t make out what kind of a he was that morning.
change It was at all.
He never even spoke at the break
Aunt Jnne finished the letter and fast-table. (He wasn't there hardly
begun to fold it up. I coulif ee she long enough to speak, anyway, and he
was waiting for Father to speak; but never ate a thing, only his coffee—I
be never said a word. He kept right, mean he drank It.) Then be pushed
on—eating beans.
hie chair back from the table and
Then Auut Jane cleared her throat Stalked out of tile room.
and spoke.
11»’ went to the station with me;
“You will not let hor go. of course, but he didn't talk there much, only to
Charles; but natuiuiij 1 had to read ask if I was sure I hadn't forgotten
the letter to you. I will write to Mrs. anything, and was I warmly dad.
Anderson tonight.”
Warmly clad. Indeed! And there It
Futher baiked up thet
was still August, and hpt as it could
“Yes." ho said quiet
yon be I But that only goes to show how
may tell her, please, t
will absent-minded hb-wns, and how little
Ko."
he wns really thinking of me!
“Charles!"
Well, of course, he got my ticket and
Aunt Jane said that. But I—I al checked my trunl». and did all those
most ran around the table anil hugged proper, necessary things; then we sat
him. (<>li, how I wish he was the kind down to wait for the train. But did
of a father yoti.cotrld do that to!)
he stay with me and talk to tne and
"Charles!" said Aunt Jane again. tell me how glad he had been to have
"Surely you aren't going to give In so me wtth him. and how sorry he was
tanielv ns this to that child and her to have me go, and all the other nice,
mother I"
polite things ‘most everybody thinks
“I’m not giving tn at all, Jane." said they’ve got to say when a visitor goes
Father, very quietly again, “I am con- away? He did not. He naked me
suiting nry own wishes in the matter. again If I was sure I had not left any
I prefer to have her go."
thing. and was I warmly clad; then he
I ’most cried out then. Some way. took out his newspaper an<L,began to
It hurt to have him say It like that, rend. That Is, he preteiMed to read:
right out—that he wanted me to go. but I don’t believe he read much, for
You see. I’d begun to think he was he never turned the sheet once; and
getting so he didn’t mind so very much twice, when I looked at him. he was
having me here.
All the last two looking fixetlly at me. as if he was
week« he'd been different, really dif thinking of something. So I guess he
ferent. But more of that anon. Fll WM Just pretending to read, so he
go on with what happened at the table. wouldn’t have to talk to me.
And, as I said. I did feel bad to have
But he didn't even do that long, for
him apeak tike that. And I can re be got up and went over ami looked at
member now Just how the lump came a map hanging on the wall opposite
right up In my throat.
and at a big time-table near th«y other
Then Aunt Jane spoke, stiff and dig- comer. Then he looked It his watch
nlfled.
again with a won’t-that train-ever
”(»h, very well, of course. if you put come? air, and walked back to me and
it that wy. ! con quite well under aat down.
stand that • on wonid want her to go
And how do you suppose 1 felt, t«
fer j"ur -ake. liut I thought that, MYS_hl^_a<lUkq.tbaLterfore all those
people—to show so plainly thaf he u
just longing to haVe me go? I gt
wasn’t any more anxious for th:
to come than I was. And It d!
us If it never would come, t. o
It didn’t come for ages. It
minutes late.
Oh, I did so hope he wou
down to the Junction. It’s so hard
be taken care of “because It's my dutj
you know!” Bht he went. I told hit
he needn’t, when he was get^g ,.|
the train with me. I told him I Juq
knew I could do It beautifully all b
myself, almost-a-young lady like inej
But he only put his lips together ha rib
and said, cold, like Ice: “Are you then
so eager to be rid of me?' Just as 11
I was the one that was eager to gel
rid of somebody I
Well, as I said, he went But hq
wasn’t much better on the train tliai
he had been in the station. He was a
nervous and fidgety as a witch, and h
acted as if he did so wish It would bi
over, and over quick. But at th<
Junction—at the Junction a funny thln|
happened. He put me on the train
Just as Mother had done, and spoke t(
the conductor. (How I hated to hav<
him do that!
Why, I’m six wholi
months older, 'most, than I was whei
I went up there!) And then, whet
he’d put me In my seat (Father, ]
mean; not the conductor), all of a sud
den he leaned over and kissed me;
kissed me—Father! Then, before 1
could speak, or even look at him, hel
was gone; and I didn't see him again,
though It must have been five whole!
minutes before that train went,
I had a nice trip down to Boston,
though nothing much happened. This
conductor was not near so nice and
polite as the one I had coming up;
and there wasn’t any lady with a
baby to play with, nor any nice young
gentleman to loan me magazines o
buy candy for me. But it wasn’t a verj
long ride from the Junction to Boston
anyway. So I didn’t mind. Besides,
I knew I had Mother watting for me.
And wasn’t I glad to get there
Well, I Just guess I was! Aud they
acted as if they were glad to see me—
Mother, Grandfather, Aunt Hattie, and
even Baby Lester. He knew me, and
remembered me. He'd grown a lot,
too. And they said I had, and that I
looked very nice. (I forgot to say that,
of. course, I had put on the Marl
clothes to come home in—though
honestly think Aunt Jane wanted to
send me home In Mary’s blue glnghai
and calfskin shoes. As If I’d have ap
peared In Boston In that rig!)
My, but it was good to get into an
automobile again and just go! And It
was so good to have folks around you
dressed in something besides don't-car
black alpaca and stiff collars. And I
said so. And Mother seemed st
pleased.
“You dra want to come back to me,
darling, didn't you?” she cried, giving
ine a little hug. Aud she looked s<
happy when I told her all over agulu
how good It seemed to be Marie again,
and have her and Boston, and automo
biles, and pretty dresses and fo
and noise again.
She didn't say anything about Fathe
then ; but later, when we were up ii
my pretty room alone, and I was tak
Ing off my things, she made me tell
her that Father hadn't won my
away from her, arffl that I didn't
him better than I did her; and
I wouldn’t rather stay with him
with her.
Then she askod me a lot of questlo
about what I did there, and Aunt Jane
and how she looked, and Father. an<
was he ns fond of stars as ever (thougl
she must have known 'most everythin«;
'cause I’d already written it, but sh<
asked me just the same.) And sh
seemed real interested in everything
tolil her.
And sae asked was lie- lonesome
and I told her no, I didn’t think so
nnd that, anyway, he, could have al
the ladies’ company h<4 wanted by jus
being around when they called. An<
when she asked what I meant, I tol
her about Mrs. Darling, ami the res
and how they came evenings ami Sut
days, and how Father didn’t like then
but would flee to the observatory. An
she laughed and looked funny, f r
minute. But right away she cbm _e
and looked very sober, with the kin
of expression she has when she stand
up in church nnd «nvs the Apo
lp<>stl
.Creed on Sumhiy; only this tini'
time s
snid she was «r.v s«rry. sb w s -ui
that she hoped my father would fin|
some estimable woman who v mil
make a good, home for him.
Then' the dinner-gong soumlml, am
she dldu't say any more.
There wns company that evenin
The violinist. He brought his vloll
velvet
Kllch
Shop.
JR SA
land,
14500
quire
)R SA
or tra
is ful
tense.
Motor
shape.
Boaki
R S-
good
Garib;
R S j
Barns,
R RE
lahed
bath,
tingle
EN 1
■ale c
bhone.
ade f,
rnsdi
INTED
pc a <
nildrei
ressini
INTED
the
er :
might
—tend<
1 serve
's, ere
jant sa
Have
diniC
deligh
lent 1
vice,
and
price«
U1
(Continued next week)