HEADLIGHT
FRIDAY. JUNE T«. T92T
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¿MARY
¿MARIE
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Dy Eleanor H. Porter
Illustraitons by
H. Livingstone
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PORTLAND AUTO STAGE
SYNOPSIS
PREFACE.—’Mary Marie" explains her
apparent "double personality" and Just
why she is a "cross-current and a contra
diction ;" she also tells her reasons for
writing the diary—later to be a novel. The
diary 1s commenced at Andersonville.
Ivan Donaldson, Mgr. Tillamook, Ore.
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
tn some way dUTerent from those of her
•mall friend«, and was puzzled thereat.
Nurse Surah 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 sedats professor had chosen for s
wits.
Leaves Tillamook—7:30a. tn., 12m., 3 p. tn.
Leaves Portland—8: 30 a. tn., 12:30p. ni., 3: 30 p tn.
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via
Hebo,
Grand
Rounde, Willamina, Sheridan, McMinnville,
Dayton, Newburg, Multnomah.
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CHAPTER IV-At Boston Mary be
comes "Maris." She Is delighted with her
mw home, ev different from the gloomy
house at Andersonville. The number of
Cntlemen who call on her mother leads
r to speculate on ths possibility of a
Mw father.
Shs classss ths callers m
"prospsetnrs suitors,” anally deciding the
choice Is to be between "the violinist"
and a Mr. Harlow. A conversation shs
overhears between her mother and Mr.
Harlow eoavtacss her that It wUl not be
that geatlemaa. and "to violinist" seems
to bo ths likely man. Mrs. Anderson rs-
ootves a latter from “Auat Abigail Ander
son. bar former husbaad's elster, whl la
kMpIng heuM for him, reminding her that
"Mary
Is expected at Andersonville for
the six months she ts to spend with her
father.
Her mother Is distressed, but
has no alternative, and “Marie" departs
for Andersonville
CHARTER T—At Aodareonvfne Atmt
Jane meets her at the station. Her fa
ther ta away somewhere, studying an<
eclipse of the moon.
Marls—"Mary"
now—instinctively compares Aunt Jans,
prim and severs, with her beautiful, dainty
mother, much to the former's disadvan
tage. Aunt Jane disapproves of ths dala-
ty clothes which the child Is wearing, and
replaces them with "serviceable" serges
and th lek-oo led shMe Her father arrives
home and Menu surprised to see her. The
child soon begins to notice that the girts
at schMl eeocn to avoid her. Her father
appears Interested In the life Mr». An
derson leads at Boston sad aako many
questions In a queer manner
whlon
puxzlee Mary
Mrs finds out that her
school male« de not Associate with her
on aceount st ber paraala batsg dlTerosd,
and she refuses te attend school Angry
at first. Mr Andersen, when ho learns
the reason for her determination, doeidea
that she need not go
He wlU hoar her
ISMons
In Aunt Jane's and her father's
absence Mary drosses In the pretty clsthos
•ho brought from Boston end plays the
liveliest tunas she knows, on the little-
used piano
Thea, overcome by her lows
somsnesa. aha Indulges In a crying spell
which her father's unexpected appear
ance Interrupts
Rho sobs out the story
of her unhapnlnMs. and In a clumsy way
ho comforts her.
After that ho appears
to desire to make har stay more pleasant
Her mother writes asking that Mary be
allowed to coms to Boston for the begin
ning of the school term, and Mr Ander
son consents, though from an expression
he lets fall Marv believes he Is eorrv ehe
te going.
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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.
v-HAri tK ill.—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
la Mother's home, and she and Mary
leave Andersonville for that city to spend
the first six months.
Aiint 1111 ft it—li."‘in ti Tier—that slie
thought every girl nhoukl know how to
cook ant! keep house; and that If she
had learned those things when she
was a girl, her life would have been
quite different, she was sure.
I am learning at a domestic scleuce
school, and Mother Is going with tne.
I didn’t mind so much when »he sgld
she’d go, too. And, really. It is quite
a lot of fun—really it Is. But it Is
queer—Mother and I going to school
together to learn how to make bread
and cake and boll potatoes 1 And. of
course. Aunt Hattie laughs at us. But
I don’t mind. And Mother doesn’t,
either. But, oh, how Aunt Jaue would
love It, If she only knew!
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MAY
What do you suppose I tun learning
now? You'd never guess. Stars. Yes,
stars! And that is for Father, too.
Mother came Into my foom one day
with a book of Grandfather’s under
her arm. She said it was a very won
derful work on astronomy, and she
was sure I would find it Interesting.
She said sbe was going to read it
aloud to me an hour a day. And then,
when 1 got to Andersonville and
l ather talked to me. I’d know some
thing. And he’d he pleased.
She said she thought we owed It to
Futlier, after he’d been so good and
kind as to let me stuy here almost
three whole months of his six, so I
could keep on with my school. And
that she was very stir this would
please him and make bin happy.
And *o, for ’most a we •k now. Moth
er has read to be an ti< ur a day out
uf that astronomy book, Then we talk
about it And It is Interesting Moth
er says It I*, too. She says she wishes
she'd known something about astroiHi-
nty when she wus a girl; that she's
sure It would have made things a
whole lot easier and hapi'er all
around, when she married Father; for
then she would have known some
thin* about something he was Inter
ested in. She said she couldn't help
that
ot course; but she could see
that J “ knew something about such
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It seems so funny to hear ber talk
such a lot about Father as sbe does,
when before she never used to men
tion him—only to say how afraid she
was that I would love him better than
I did her, and to make n>e say over
and over again that I didn't. And I
said so one day to her—I mean, I said
I thought It was funny, the way she
talked now.
Sbe colored up and bit her lip, and
I gave a queer little laugh. TL u she
grew very sober and grave, and said:
”1 know, dear. Perhaps I am talk
ing more than I used to. But, you see,
I’ve been thinking quite a lot, and I
—I’ve learned some things. I’m trying
to make you forget what I said—about
your loving me more than him. That
wasn’r right, dear. Mother was wrong.
She shouldn’t try to Influence you
against your father. He is a good
man; and there are none too many
good men In the world—No, no, I won’t
say that,” she broke off.
But she’d already said It, and, of,
course, I knew she was thinking of the
violinist. I’m no child.
She went ou more after that, quite
a lot more. And she said again that
1 must love Father and try to please
him in every way; and she cried a lit
tle and talked a lot about how hard it
was in ray position and that she was
afraid she’d only been making it
harder, through her selfishness, and I
must forgive her, and try to forget It.
And she was sure she’d do better now.
And she said that, after all, life
wasn't In just being happy yourself,
It was in how much happiness you
could give to others.
Oh, it was lovely! And 1 cried, and
she cried some more, and we kissed
each other, and I promised. And after
she went away I felt all upraised and
holy, like you do when you’ve been
to a beautiful church service with soft
music and colored windows, and
everybody kneeling. And I felt as if
I’d never be naughty or thoughtless
again. And that I’d never mind being
Mary now. Why, I’d be glad to be
Mary half the time, and even more—
for Father.
But, alas!
Listen. Would you believe ft? Just
that same evening Mother .stopped
me against laughing too loud and mak
ing too much noise playing with Les
ter ; and I felt cross, 1 just boiled
Inside of me, and said 1 hated Mary,
and that Mother was getting to be
just like Aunt Jane. And yet, just
that morning—
Oh. If only that hushed, stalned-
wlndow-soft-muslc feeling would last!
JUNE
Well, once more school la done, my
trunk Is all packed, and I’m ready to
ao to Andersonville. I isqva tomorrow
momfng. But not as I left last year.
Ob. bo . It is very, very different. Why
this yesr I’m really going as Mary.
Honestly, Mother has turned me Into
Mary before 1 go. Now, what do you
think of that? And If I’ve got to be
Mary there and Mary here, too, when
can I ever be Marie? Oh, I know I
said I'd be willlug to be Mary half,
and, maybe more than half, the time.
But when It comes to really being
Mary out of turn extra time, that U
quite another thing.
And I am Mary.
Listen:
I've learned to cook. That's Mary.
I’ve been studying astronomy. That’s
Mary.
I've learned to walk quietly, speak
softly, laugh not too loudly, and be a
lady at all times. That’s Mary.
And now, to add to all this. Mother
has had me dress like Mary. Yes, she
began two weeks ago. She came Into
my room one morning and said she
wanted to look over ray dresses and
things; and I could see, by the way
she frowned and bit her lip and tapped
her foot on the floor, that she wasn't
suited. She said:
“I think, ray dear, that on Saturday
we’ll have to go In town shopping.
Quite a number of these things will
not do at all.’’
And I »as so happy I Visions of new
dresses and hats and shoes rose be
fore me. and even the pink beaded silk
came Into uiy mind—though I didn't
really have much hopes of that.
Well, we went shopping on Satur
day, but—did we get the pink silk?
We did not. We did get—you'd never
guess what. We got two new gingham
dresses, very plain and homely, and a
pair of horrid, thick, low shoes. Why,
I could have cried I I did 'most cry as
I exclaimed :
“Why Mother, those are Mary
thing*!”
“Of course, they’re Mary things,”
answered Mother, cheerfully. - "That's
what I meant to buy—Mary things, as
you call tliKm. Aren’t you going to be
Mary Just next week? Of course, you
are! And didn’t you tell me last year,
as soon as you got there. Miss Ander
son objected to your clothing and
bought new for you? Well, I am try
ing to see that she does not fiave to
do that this year."
And then she bouglit me a brown
serge suit and a hat so tlre.somely
sensible that even Aunt Jane would
love them, 1 know, And tomorrow1 I’ve
got to put them on to go In. ,
Do you wonder t! nt 1 say I am Mary
CHAP ♦ ER VII
When I Am Neither Ont.
ANDERSONVILLE
W ell, ! came last night. I had on
the brown suit and the sensible hat.
and every turu of the wheels all day
had l>eei> singing: "Mary. Mary, now
you're Mary !” Why, Mother even
called me Mary wheu she said good-
by. She cams to ths JuncttaB with me
Just as sbe bad before, sad put me
op the other train.
very hard to be a Joy and a comfort
to your father—Just the little. Mary
that he wants you to bi Remember,
he has been very kind to let you stay
with me so long."
She cried when she kissed me Just
as she did before; hut she didn’t tell
rue this time to he sure and nut love
Father better than I did her. I noticed
that, But. of course. I didn’t say any:
thing, though I might have told her
easily that I knew nothing could ever
make >ue love him better than I did
her.
When we got to Andersonville, and
the train rolled into the station, I
stepped down from the curs and
looked over to wlfere the carriages
were tu find John and Aunt Jane. But
they weren’t there. There wasn’t even
the carriage there; anil I can remem
ber now just how my heart sort of felt
sick inside of lue when I thought that
even Aunt Jane had forgotten, and
that theta wasn’t anybody to meet
me.
There was a beautiful big green au
tomobile there, and I thought how I
wished that had come to meet me;
and I was just wondering what I
should do, when all of a sudden some
body spoke my name, And who do
you think It was? You'd never guess
it In a month. It was Father. Yes.
Father!
Why, I could have hugged hiiu, 1
was so glad. But of course I didn’t,
right before all those people. But he
was so tall and handsome and splen
did, and I felt so proud to be walking
along the platform with him aud let
ting folks see that he'd come to meet
me! But I couldn't say anything—
not anything, the way I wanted to;
and all I could do was to stammer
out:
“Why, where’s Aunt JaneF’
And that’s Just the thing I didn’t
went to say; and I knew It the minute
I’d said It. Why, it sounded as if I
missed Aunt Jane, and wanted her In
stead of him, when all the time I was
so pleased and excited to see him that
I could hardly speak.
He just kind of smiled, and looked
queer, and said that Aunt Jane—er—
couldn’t come. Then I felt sorry; for
I saw, of course, that that was why- he
had come; not because he wanted to,
but because Aunt Jane couldn’t,"so he
had to. And I could have cried, all
the while he was fixing it up about
ray trunk.
He turned then and led the w&y
straight over to where the carriages
were, and the next minute there was
John touching his cap to me; only It
was a brand-new John looking too
sweet for anything hi a chauffeur’s
cap and uniform. And, what do you
think? He was helping me into that
beautiful big green car before I knew
“Why, Father. Father?" 1 cried.
“You don’t mean—” I just couldn’t
finish: but he finished for me.
“It Is ours—yes. Do you like It?”
“‘Like it!” I guess be didn't need to
have me say any more. But I did say
more. I just- raved and raved over
that car until Father's eyes crinkled
all up In little smile wrinkles, and he
said:
“I'm glad. I hoped you'd Uke IL”
“1 guess I do lyte it!” I cried. Then
I went on to tell him bow I thought
ft was the prettiest one I ever saw,
and 'way ahead of even Mr. Easter
brook ’«.
“And, pray, who la Mr. Easterbrook T"
asked Father then. “The violinist,
perhaps—eh F’
Now, wasn’t It funny he should have
remembered that there was a violin
ist? 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 let
ter; and be 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, “Yes, 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
that Aunt 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 Uke her. And
I might call her “Cousin Grace.”
And before I could even draw breitlh
to ask any questions, we were home;
and a real pretty lady, with a light
blue dress on, was helping me out of
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 L and if this was An-
dersonvllle?
ONE WEEK LATER
It isn't a dream, It's all. really,
truly true everything : Father com-
Ing to meet me, the lovely automobile,
and the pretty lady in the light-blue
dress, who kissed me. And when
went downstairs the next uiorning
found out it »as real, ’specially -tl
pretty lady; for she kissed me
and said she hi 4 I'd be hi
And she Mil me to an
way I liked, and sakl,
I might run over to s
HI)
girls, but not to ti
'he afteniiHin. for
take q-e to riile.
Now, what Ao j
Go to see the glr,
and take a ride— ■>
—In the afternoon In Am r-orii ille
Why. I couldn’t be t»v< m; ears. O<
course, I was wild nd
»1th <1»
light—but It was all so different Why I
began to think almost that 1 was Ma
rte, and not Mary at all.
And it's been that way the who!«
w»ek through
I’vs had a baautiful
tlma. I've bewn sa sxcHeil I And Math
•r ie a&cttsd. tow Of cowra*. I wrote
Mr
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