THE Till..', . g
2
R
r
I,
e
ilJADLIGHT
—
this J” she demanded, holding up oue hend. Ami >he wasn’t a bit flushed Just my eyes thfft spoke, for I did
of the new dresses.
and teary, as she hud been the night Ì want to go d -ivn 11 . re i-.d sjieak to
I could have cried.
before, and she didn't taik at all as she i Father, oh I ., q unt to go! And
I suppose she saw by my face how had then, either. And it's been that : I went then f > t .
awfully I felt 'cause slic'd found it. way ever since. Things have gone
He saw ...... \n o'. !
1 d: 1 love
And. of course, -u-- saw something along in Just rtie usual humdrum way. I the look that crime to bls face: it \:is
* uus the mutter, and shv thought it and she's never been the same as she .
surprised .ml glad, and »aid (tii!
was—
was that night I came.
! You!” In such a perfectly lovely way
Well, the first thing 1 knew she was
Something—a little different—did that I clicked nil up and
.ted te
looking at me in her very sternest, happen yesterday, though.
There- i cry. (The idea !—cry when 1 « as so
sorriest way, and saying:
going to be another big astronomy glad to see him!)
"oh, Marie, how could you? I’m meeting here in Boston this month,
The next minute he had drawn me
ashamed of you! Couldn’t you wear just as there was when Father found out of the line, and we were both talk
A*
the Mary dresses one little three Mother years ago; and Grandfather
months to please your father?”
brought home word that Father was
_£?> Eleanor H. Porter
I did cry, then. Alter all I’d beeu going to be one of the chief speakers.
through, to have her accuse me of get­ And he told Mother he supposed she’d
ting those dresses!
Well, I just go and hear him.
A*
couldn’t stand it. And 1 told her so
“Well, yes, I am thinking of going.’
as well as I could, only 1 was crying she said, just as calm and cool as
Illustrations by
so by now that 1 could hardly speak. could be. “When does he speak. Fa­
‘Hf H. Livingstone
I told her how It wag hard enough to ther?"
be Mary part of the time, and Marie
And when Aunt Hattie pooh-poohed,
part of the time, when 1 knew what and asked how could she do such a
they wanted me to be. Hut when she thing. Mother answered:
tried to have me Mary while he wanted
"Because Charles Anderson is the
me Marie, and he tried to have me father of my little girl, and I think
SYNOPSIS
Marie while she wanted me Mary—1 she should hear him speak. Therefore.
PREFACE.—'Mary Marie” explains her did not know what they wanted; and Hattie, I intend to take her."
tarent "double personality” and just I wished I had never beeu born unless
And then she asked Grandfather
5hy she .a a "cross-current and a contra-
Stlon, ’ she also tells her reasons for I could have been born a plain Susie again when Father was going to speak.
sritlng the diary—later to be a novel. The or Bessie, or Annabelle, and not a
I'm so excited! Only think of see­
gar> Is commenced at Andersonville.
Mary Marie that was all mixed up till ing my father up on a big platform
with a lot of big men. and hearing him
I CHAPTER L—Mary begins with Nurse I didn't know what I was.
Brahe account of her (Mary's) birth,
And then I cried some more.
speak ! And he'll he the very smartest
which seemingly Interested her father,
Mother dropped the dress then, and and handsomest one there, too. You
»bu la a famous astronomer, less than a
vs star which was discovered the same took me In her arms over on the see if he isn't!
light. Her name is a compromise, her
pother wanted to call her viola and her couch, and she said, "There, there,”
hther .nalstlng on Abigail Jane. The and that I was tired and nervous, and TWO WEEKS AND ONE DAY LATER
JU! quickly learned that her home was
g some way different from those of her all wrought up, and to cry all I wanted
Father's here—right here in Boston.
mall friends, and was puxzlod thereat. to. And by and by, when I was calm­ I don’t know when he came. But the
¡Furze Sarah tells her of her mother’s ar­
rival at Andersonville as a bride and how er I could tell Mother all about it
first day of the meeting was day be­
MtonUhed
And I did.
—inlshed they all w__
wore _
at ______
the sight of
fore yesterday, and he was here then.
is dainty elghleen-year old girl whom
I told her how hard I tried to be The paper said he was, and his picture
tM sedate professor had choaen for a
Mary all the way up to Andersonville was there, too. There were a lot of
site
and after I got there; and how then pictures, but his was away ahead of
CHAPTER IL—Continuing her___
story,
..
Mur»- Sarah makes it plain why the I found out, all of a sudden one day. the others. It was the very best one
sousebold seemed a strange one to the that father had got ready for Marie,
on the page. (I told you it would be
eklld and howher father and mother
drifted apart through misunderstanding, and he didn't want me to be Mary, that way.)
He Saw Me.
tech too proud to in any way attempt to and that was why he had got Cousin
Mother saw it first. That is, I think
mooth over the situation.
cn'ri Lil ill.—Mary tells of the time Grace and the automobile and the she did.
She had the paper in her Ing at once, and telling each other hov.
int out west” where the "perfectly
geraniums in the window, and, oh, hand, looking at it, when I came into glad we were to see each other.
right and genteel and respectable''
But he was looking for Mother—I
occe was being arranged for, and her everything that made it nice and com­ the room; but as soon as she taw me
Ether's (to her) unacountable behavior
know he was; for the next minute aft­
fy
and
homey.
And
then
Is
when
they
she
laid
It
right
down
quick
on
the
the court's decree the child is to spend
months of the year with her mother bought me the new white dresses and table.
If she hadn't been quite to er he saw me, he looked right over my
and six months with her father. Boston
the little white shoes. And I told quick about it, and If she hadn’t looked head at the woman back of me. And
h Mother’s home, and she and Mary
■eve Andersonville for that city to spend Mother, of course, it was lovely to be quite so queer when she did It, I all the while he was talking with me,
the first six months
Marie, and I liked it, only I knew she wouldn't have thought anything at all. hfs eyes would look at me and then
CHAPTER IV—At Boston Mary be- would feel bad to think, after all her But when I went over to the table after leap as swift as lightning first here,
oom-s "Marla*1 She la delighted with her pains to make me Mary, Father didn't
the had gone, and saw th« paper with and then there, all over the hall. But
la* homo, so different from the gloomy
ieese at Andersonville. The number of want me Mary at all.
Father's picture right on the first be didn't see her. I knew he didn't
Ctiemen who call on her mother leads
“I don't think you need to worry— page—and the biggest picture there— see her. by the look on his face. And
Mr to speculate on the possibility
poeetMtity of _
a
sew father, ghe classes the callers as ■bout that," stammered Mother. "But. I knew then, of course, wbat she’d pretty quick I said I'd have to go.
Srcepective suitors.” dually deciding the tell me. why—why did—your father
And then he said:
been looking at.
molce Is to be between Athe violinist*'
“Your mother—perhaps she didn't—
Md a Mr. Harlow. A conversation she want you to be Marie and not Mary?”
I looked at it then, and I read what
overhears between her mother aad Mr.
And then I told her how he said he'd it said, too. It was lovely. Why, I did she come?" And his face grew all
Hariow convinces h
remembered what I'd said to him In hadn't any idea Father was so big. I rad and rosy as he asked the question
last gentleman, ant
to be ths likely mat
And I said yes, and she was waiting,
the parlor that day—how tired I got ■ was prouder than ever of him. It told
Mves a tetter from
being Mary, and how I'd put on Ma­ all about the stars and comets he'd and that was why I had to go back
. her former hu
bouse for hi
rie's things just to get a little vacation discovered, and the books he'd written right away.
rv le expected at Andersonville for
And he said, "Yes. yes, to be sura."
six months she ts to spend with her from her; and he said he'd never for­ on astronomy, and how he was presi­
er. Her mother Is distressed, but gotten. And so when It came near dent of the college at Andersonville, and, “good-by.” But he still held my
no alternative, aad "Marie" departs time for me to come again, he deter-
A n dersonvUla
and that he was going to give an ad- hand tight, and his eyes were still rov-
all »ver the huUx«. AuJ I is*to«i i*
■slBed
to;
te
H
•»
I
weulte't
teve
«e
|
toress
the Mxt day. AMI I rend tl
CTtAPTBR
AS SoAnssatWii Aval t
tell him again that I really had to go;
Kne meets bar at the ata lion Her fa- be Mary at all. And so that was why. all—every word. And I made up my
thsr la away somewhere. studying an And I told Mother It was all right, mind right there and then that Fd
and I had to pull real determined at
eclipse of the moon.
Marte— "Mary"
my hand, before I could break away.
now-Inatlactlvely comparea Aunt Jana, and of course I liked it; only it did cut out that piece and save it
I went back to Mother then. The
prim and severe. with her beautiful, dainty mix me up awfully, not knowing which
But that night, when I went to the
mother, much to the former’s dlaadvan-
ta*e Aunt Jane disapproves of the dain­ wanted me to be Mary now. and which . library cupboard to get the paper, I hall was almost empty, and she wasn't
ty clothea which the cnlld la wearing, and Marie, when they were both telling me couldn't do it, after all. Oh. the paper anywhere in sight at all; but 1 found
replacea them with "oorvtceable” serges different from what they ever had be­
was there, but that page was gone. her just outside the door. I knew then
and thlck-colad shoes Her father arrives
home and seems surprised to see her The fore. And that it was hard, when you There wasn’t a bit of it left. Some­ why Father's face showed that he
child noon begins to notice that the girls
at s<hoot seem to avoid her Her father were trying just the best you knew body had taken it right out. I never hadn't found her. She wasn’t there to
appears Interested In the life Mrs. An­ how.
thought then of Mother. But I believe find. I suspect she had looked out for
derson leads at Boston and asks many
that.
And I began to cry again.
now that It was Mother, for—
questions In a queer manner which
Her face was still pinky-white, and
And she said there, there, once
puszles Mary. She flnde out that her
But
I
mustn't
tell
you
that
part
now.
schoolmates do not associate with her more, and patted me on my shoulder,
Stories are just like meals. You have her eyes were shining; and she wanted
on account of her parents being divorced,
and «he refuses to attend school. Angry and told me I needn't worry any more. to eat them—I mean tell them—In reg­ to know everything we had said—
at first. Mr Anderson, when he learns And that she understood it. if 1
So she found out. of
ular order, and not put the Ice cream everything.
the reason for her determination, decides
In fact, she was beginning in where the soup ought to be. So course, that he had asked If she was
that she need not go He will hear her didn't.
lessons Tn Aunt Jane's and her father*e
there. But she didn't any anything her­
abs-nce Mary dresses In the pretty clothes to understand a lot of things that I'm not going to tell .vet why I susjiect
Bh- brought from Boston and playa the she'd never understood before. And It was Mother that cut out that page self. not anything.
thelieat tunes she knows, on the little-
In the afternoon I went to walk with
used piano. Then, overcome by her lone- she said It was very, very dear of the paper with Father's picture In
one of the girls; and when I <nme In
someness. she Indulges In a crying spell of Father to do what lie did. and that It.
which her father’s unexpected appear­ I needn't worry about her being dis­
Well, the next morning wns Father’s I couldn't find Mother. She wasn’t
ance Interrupts. She sobs out the story
of her unhappiness, and In a clumsy way pleased at It, That she was pleased
lecture, and I went with Mother. Of anywhere downstairs, nor in her room,
he comforts her After that he appears and that she believed he meant her
course Grandfather was there, too. nor mine, nor anywhere else on that
to desire to make her stay more pleasant
floor. Aunt Hattie Mild no, she wasn’t
Her mother writes asking that Mary be to be. And she said I needli i think but he was with the other astronomers
allowed to come to Boston for the begin­ any more whether to lie Mary or Mn
I guess. Anyhow, he didn't sit with us. out. but that she was sure she dl<|xx!l
ning of the school term, and Mr. Ander-
know where she was. She must be
son consents, though from an expression rle; but to lie Just, a good, loving little And Aunt Hattie didn't go at all. So
b* lets fall Mary believes he Is sorry she daughter to both of them; and tlm
somewhere In the house.
Mother
and
I
were
alone.
is going
f went upstairs then, another flight.
was all she asked, and she was very
We sat back—a long ways back. 1
CHAPTER VI.-Marv Is surprised at sure it was all Father would ask. t« <
wanted to go up front, real far front— There wasn’t anywhere else to go, and
the tenderness her father displays tvhen
I told oer then how I thought he the front «eat. If I could get It: and Mother must he somewhere, of course
he puts her on the train for Boston.
She discovers "the violinist” making did care a little about having me there,
And it seemed suddenly to me aa If
I told Mother so.
But she «aid
love to her mother's maid. Thereat, but
I'd Just got to find her. 1 wanted
«•■■■« nothing. Later, however, she over- and that 1 knew he was going to miss “Mercy, no!" and shuddered, and went
h. trs him making a proposal of marriage me. And I told her why—what he'd
hack two more rows from where she her ao.
to her mother, and tells what she saw
And I found her.
"The violinist” Is dismissed
An unac­ said that morning In the Junction— was. and got behind a big post.
countable chance in her mother aston- about appreciating love, and not miss­
In the little-back room where Aunt
I
guess
she
was
afraid
Father
would
i»hes her. The child Is given to under­
Hattie keeps her trunks and mothball
stand she Is being taught self-discipline ing things or people until you didn't see ns. but that's what I wanted. 1
and she has less good times and fewer have them; and,how he'd learned his wanted him to «ee ns. I wanted him
bags. Mother was on the floor In the
pretty things to wear. As the time for
her return to Andersonville approaches. lesson, and all that.
to be right In the middle of his lecture corner crying. And when I exclaimed
Mrs. Anderson equips her In plain
And Mother grew all flushed and and look down anti see right there be­ out and ran over to her. I found she
dresses and "sensible" shoe»—"Mary”
rosy again, but she was pleased. I fore him his little girl Mary, and she was sitting beside an old trunk that
things, the child complains.
knew she was. And she said some that had been the wife of Ills bosom. was oj»en; ami across her lap was a
HAFV e R VTL—At the Andersonville
perfectly lovely pale-blue satin dress
station Mary is met by her father In a beautiful things about making other Now that would have been what I
ntw automobile, and finds Instead of the people happy. Instead of looking to called thrilling, real thrilling, especial­ all trimmed with «liver lace that had
prim and angular Aunt Jane a young and
grown black. And Mother was crying
»’tractive woman who she learns Is ourselves all the time, just as she had ly If he Jumped, or grew red. or white,
and crying as If her heart would break.
isin Grace.” Mary writes her mother talked once, before I went «way. Ami or stammered, or stopped short, or
of the change, and is astonished at the
Of course. I tried and tried to stop
I felt again that hushed, stained-win­ anything to show that he'd seen us—
many questions she Is called on to twt
her, and I begged her to tell me what
swer concerning her father’s new house­ dow, soft-music, every body-kneeling and cared.
keeper Mary decides that he Intends to
was the matter. But I couldn't do a
I’d have loved that.
m.trrv "Cousin Grace." In a moment of kind of a way; and 1 was so happy!
r.filence she asks him If that Is not And It last-A all the rest of that eve­
But we «at back where Mother thing, not a thing not for a long (line.
his intention He tells her it Is not, and
wanted to. belilnd the post. And. of Then I happened to say wlJl a lovely
’• dumfounded when she Informs him she ning till I went to sleep.
dreaa, only what a pity it was that the
has written to her mother telling her her
An<l for the first time a beautlfnl course. Father never «aw us at all.
Ilea of the situation. A few days later
idea
came
to
me,
when
I
thought
how
It was a lovely lectuie. Oh. of lace was all black.
Mary goes back to Boston.
She ga've a little choking cry then
Mother was .-trying to please Father, course. I don't mean to »ay that I
CHAPTER VIII.—Mr. Anderson visits and he was trying to please her
and began to talk—little short sen­
understood
It.
I
didn't.
But
his
voice
Poston to deliver a lecture Mrs Ander-
tences all choked up with aobto. so that
• n i nd Marie hear him and Marie talk» Wouldn't it be perfectly lovely and was fine and he looked just too grand
with him Later that day Marie finds her wonderful if Father and Mother should
for anything, with the light on bls m>- j I could hardly tell wbat «he was talk­
mother crying over some old finery in the
ing about« Then, little hy little, I be­
• ttl' . and she learns the things were con­ fall in love with each other all over hie brow, and he used the loveliest
nected with Mrs Anderson's first meet­ again, and get married? I guess then
gan to understand.
big
words
that
I
ever
heard.
And
ing with her divorced husband. At a re-
She said yes. it was all black—tar
»pt; n tendered Professor Anderson Ma­ this would be a love story all right
folks dapped, and looked at each
rie leads her father to admit that he all right!
other, and nodded, and once or twice Dished’, and that It was just like every
regrets the separation, and Marie Is sure
from her observations that her mother
the' to" ,'hed. And when he was all thing that she had had anything to do
still loves him. She suggests that he call OCTOBER
through they clapped again, harder with—tarnished; her life and her mar
st the house and she will arrange for her
riage. and Father's life, anti mine—
mother to meet him without first know­
Oh, how 1 wish that stained-window, than ever.
ing «ho the visitor la Marie Is confi-
everything «»• tarnished Just like that
Another
man
spoke
then,
a
little
i
everybody-kneeling
feeling
would
last.
■’■*' that if they meet a reconciliation
sliver lace on that dr»««. And «he had
wf follow Her intuition is correct, mu-
But it never does. Just the nett (not ne.ir •«» good as lather) and then
•al misunderstandings are explained,
done It by her thrmghtleM selfishness
and the two, Who have really always morping. when 1 woke up, it rained. It was all over, and everybody got up to ! and lack of «elf-di* ipllne
red one another, are remarried
Ami I didn't feet pleased a bit. Still go; and I saw that a lot of folks wer.
And when I tri«) ami tried to tell
juried just as hard as TTould to for 1 remembered what had happened the crowding down the aisle, and I looked , her no. It wasn't, aiel that I didn't
and
there
was
Father
right
In
front
» t him—no account of Mother, so as night before, and a real glow came of the platform shaking hands with j feel tarnished S Mt. and that ah»
tn he loyal to her. And 1 did 'most over me at the beautiful idea I had
wasn't, nor Father either, she only
folks.
f rget him by th« time I’d got home. gone to sleep with.
cried all the more, and »hook her heed
I
looked
at
Mother
then.
Her
face
I wanted to tell Mother, and ask
Rut it all came back again a little later
and began again ail choked up.
her if it couldn't be, and wouldn't abe was all pinky white, and her eyes were
’ben we were unpacking my trunk.
She «aid this little dress was th«
shining 1 guess she thought I spoke
let
It
be.
If
Father
would.
So.
without
You see. Mother found the two new
one she wore at the big reception
for
a'l
of
•
«mlden
she
<h<>ok
her
white ireaaea, and the dear little waiting to dress me. 1 hurried across
where »he first met Fa« L Ami she
head and said :
•hoes. I knew then, of count». that the hall to her room and told her all
“No. no I couldn't I couldn’t! But waa so proud and happy when Father
about
it
—
my
Idea,
and
everything.
•he'd have to know all—I mean, how
—and he waa fine ami aplendid and
But she said. "Nonsense” and. you may. dear Run along and speak handsome then. too. she said—Bngled
•he hadn't pleased Father, even after'
to
uim;
but
don't
stay.
Remember
*11 her pains trying to have me go as "Hush, hush.” when I asked her If she Mother Is waiting, and come right her out. and juat couldn't seem to stay
and Father couldn't .fall in love all
Mary.
away from her a minute all the eve-
I
Why Marla, what la the world la over again and get married. And at» , rknew than that H ■«» have been Bln*. And then four days late» he
wild not to get willy notions to to my
¿MARY
¿MARIE
kt
-r
I»
fc
•_
L
Page Five
----------
T
asked her to mnrry him; and she waa
still more proud and happy.
And she said their married life, when
they started out, wgs just like that
beautiful dress nil shining and spot­
less and perfect; but that it wasn't
two months before a little bit vf tar
*«h appeared, and then another and
another.
She said she was selfish and willful
and exacting, ami wanted Father all to
herself; and she didn't stop to think
that be had his work to do, and his
place to make in the world: and that
all of living, to him. wasn’t just in be­
ing married to her, and attending to
her every whim. She said she could
•ee It all now, but that she couldn’t
then, she waa too young, and undis­
ciplined. and she'd never been denied
a thing In the world she wanted.
She said things went on worse au<1
worse—and it was all her fault. She
grew sour and cross and disagreeable.
She could see now that she did. But
she di<l not realize at all then what
she was doing. She wns Just thinking
of herself—always herself; her rights,
her wrongs, her hurt feelings, her
wants and wishes. She never once
thought that hq 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;
' and that was the worst of all, she
«aid—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 di­
vided home. She began to cry ngain
then, and begged me to forgive her;
and I cried ami tried to tell her I didn't
mind It; but, of course, I'm older now,
and I know I do mind It, though I'm try­
ing 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 nmttera
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 certain­
ly nothing of the whole wretch««d busi­
ness was my fault.
She thrust the dress back Into the
trunk then, and shut the lid. And
she began to talk and laugh and tell
stories, and be gayer and jollier than
I’d 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 goiug.
She flushed up red then, oh, so red!
and »aid, “Certainly not.” Then ah«
4dde«l wMct. wills a fanny
«raw*
Ing-ln of her breath, that she should
let Marie go, though, with her Aunt
Hattie. It was the only chance Fa­
ther would have to see me, and she
didn't feel that she had any right to
deprive him of that privilege, and ahe
didn't think It would d<> me any hnrm
to he out this once late In the evening
And she Intended to let me go.
TWO DAY8 LATER
Well, now I guess something's doing
nil right ! And my hand Is shuklug ao
I can hnrdly write—It wants to get
ahead so fast and tell. But 1'iu going
to keep it sternly back and tell It just
as It happened, and not begin at the
le« cream instead of the soup.
At the reception I sa,w Father right
away, but he didn’t see me for a long
time. He stood in a corner, and lot«
of folks came np and spoke to him and
shook hantls; and he bowed ami «mihil
—but In between, when there wasn't
anybody noticing, he looked so tired
and bored. After a time he «tirred and
changed bls 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 ! hut Juat didn't I love the way
he came through that crowd, straight
toward me, without paying one bit of
attention to the folks that trie<l to
stop him on the way. And when he
Then Ha Bagan to Talk and Tall tota
ria«, Juat aa If I Waa a Young Lady
to Ba Entertained
got to me he looked eo glad to «** me,
only there waa the same quick search­
ing with hla eyes, beyond and arouod
me. aa If he waa looking for somebody
else, just aa he had done the morning (
of the tortura
And I knew It waa
Mother af course ao I said:
-No. si>o dida't eatoto.”
"So 1 see,” he answered. And there
wa- such n hurt, sorry look away back
In his e). «. But right away he smiled,
and said: "Hut you eatne! I've got
you."
Then he began to talk and toll
at or les, Just us If I was a younq lady
to be entertained. And he took me
over to when- they had things to eat,
ami just heaped my plate with chicken
patties and sandwiches and olives and
plnk-and-white frosted cake ami ice
cream (not all at once, of course, but
in order.) And I had a perfectly beauti­
ful time. And Father wmel to like
It pretty well. But after a while he
grew sober again, and his eyes began
to rove all around the room.
He took me to a little «eat In the
corner afterward, and we sat down
and began to talk—only Father didn't
talk much. He just listened to. what
I said, and his eyes grew deeper and
darker and sadder, and they didn’t
rove around so much, after a time, but
just stared fixedly at nothing, away
out across the room. By and by he
stirred and drew a long sigh, and said,
almost under his breath:
"It was just such another night as
this.”
And of course, I asked what was—
an<l then I knew, almost before he had
told me.
"That I first saw your mother, my
dear.”
“Oh, yes. I know!” I cried, eager to
tell him that I did know. “And she
must have looked lovely In that per
fectly beautiful blue silk dress all sil­
ver lace."
He turned and stared at me.
“How did you know that?" he de­
manded.
"I saw it."
“You saw it!”
"Yesterday, yes—the
dress,”
I
nodded.
"But how could you?" he asked,
frowning, and looking so surprised.
"Why, that dress must be—seventeen
years old, or more.”
I nodded again, and I suppose I did
look pleased; It’s such fun to have a
secret, you know, and watch folks
guess and wonder. And I kept him
guessing and wondering for quite a
while. Then, of course, I told him
that It was upstairs In Grandfather's
trunk room; that Mother had got It
out, and I saw It.
“But, what—was your mother doing
with that dress?” he asked then, look­
ing even more puzzled and mystified.
And then suddenly I thought and
remembered that Mother was crying.
And. of course, «he wouldn't want Fa­
ther to know she was crying over It—
that dress she had worn when he first
met her long ago! (I don't think wom­
en ever want men to know such things,
do you? I know I shouldn't!) So I
j didn't tell. Father had begun to talk
i sju I u , «ofti«
If to himself:
"I suppose fonlghf. swing yon, and
all this, brought It back to me so vivid­
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
He laughed with hl« lips, bnt his
eyes didn't tough one bit as he said:
"What a quaint little fancy of yours
that to, child—as If you were two In
one."
"But I am two In one." I declared.
■'Tbnt's why I'm a cross-current and a
contradiction, you know," I explained.
"A what?" he demanded.
“A croqf current and a contradic­
tion.” I explained once more. “Chil­
dren of tin.lkes, you know. Nurse Sa
rnh told me that long ago. Didn't yon
ever hear that -that a child of unlikes
was a cross-current and a contradic­
tion?"
“Well, no- I—hadn’t." answered Fa­
ther, In a queer, half smothered voice
‘T suppoee, Mary, we werer-unllkes
your mother ami I. That's just what
we were: though I never thought of It
before. In Just that way.”
He waited then «ent on. »till half
tn himself III« eyes on the darner«:
“She loved thing« like thl« -music,
laughter gavety I abhorred them. I
remember ho« bore«! I wax that night
her«- Hit T saw her "
“Ami did you fall In love with her
right away?" 1 1««t couldn't help ask­
ing that question <•!> 1 do so adore
love stories'
A queer little «mile cam«1 to Esther's
lip«
"Well yes. I think 1 did. Mary. I
Just looked nt her one«—and then kept
on looking till It seemed a« If I iust
couldn’t tnk«* my «*y«*« «iff her
And
after n little her glance met mlnw—
nn«l tli«* whole throng melt«"1 n«»v.
nn«l th« re wasn't another «onl In the
room but Just ns two
Then «he
tooke«! «'•»». ee«! th«, throng came
back. Put I »till 1ooke«l at her.”
“Wns «he so awfully pretty. Fa­
ther?" I cotlid f'-el the little thrills
tingling «11 over me Now I was get­
ting a 1«o e storv '
“She ««««, my dear. She was very
lovelv Hut It wn«n't lust that It waa
a Joyous something that I could not
describe
It was ns If she were a
bird polaed for flight. I know It now
for «hat It wn« the very Incarnation
of the spirit <>f youth
Ami she waa
young. Why. Mary, ’be waa not so
many yenra ohler thnn yon yourself
now
Yon nreti't sixteen vet
And
vottr mother—I «u«r>*et she ««• too
voting
If she hadn't been quite ao
young—”
lie stopped, and stared again
straight ahead at the dancers—with
out aeefng one of them, I knew Then
he drew a great deep sigh that seemed
to come from th» very bottom of his
hoots.
'But It was my fault, my fault,
•very bit of It," he muttered, still star­
ing atralght ahe»«l "If I hadn't heea
•o fhoughtlese
Aa If I could Im­
prison that bright spirit <>f youth In a
great dull cage of conventionality, sod
net expect It to braise Its wings toy
f uttering against the bar to I"
And right there and tben it came te
me that Mother said it was her fault,
too; and that if only she could live It
«er again, she’d do differently. And
here was Father saying the same thing.
And all of a sudden 1 thought, well,
why cuu't they try U »ver uguiu. 4
1 they both want to, amt If each say»
It was their—no, hts, no. hers—well,
hla and her fault. (How does the
thing go? I hate grammar!) But I
mean, If she says It's her fault, ami he
says it’s his. That's what I thought,
anyway. And I determined right then
and there to give them the chance to
try again, if speaking would do It.
I looked up nt Father. He was still
talking half under his breath, bls eyea
looking straight ahead. He had for­
gotten all about me. That "as plain
to be seen. If I'd been a cup of coffee
without any coffee In It, he'd hav«
been stirring me. I know he would.
He was like that.
“Father. Father!" I had to speak
twice, before he heard me. "Do yoy
really mean that you would like to try
again?” I asked,
“Eh? What?” And just the way he
turned and looked at me showed how
many miles he'd been away from me.
!
"Try it again, you know—what you
said." I reminded him.
"Oh, that!" Such a funny look came
to hto face, half ashamed, half vexeQ.
“I'm afraid I have been—talking, my
dear.”
"Yes, but would you?" I persisted.
He shook hto head ; then, with such
■ n oli-that-lt-could-be! smile, he said:
"Of course—we all wish thut w»
could go back and do It over again—
differently. But we never can."
"Yes. but, Father, you can go back,
in this case, and so can Mother, 'cause
you both want to." I hurried on, al­
most choking in m.v anxiety to get |t
all out quickly. “And Mother said It
was her fault. I heard her.”
“Her fault!” I could see that Fa­
ther did not quite understand, even
yet.
“Yes, \es. just as you said It waa
yours—about all those things at tba
first, you know, when—when she was
a spirit of youth beating against the
bars."
Father turned square around and
! faced me.
“Mary, what are you talking about?”
he asked then. And I'd have been
> scared of his voice If It hadn’t been
for the great light that was shining
, In his eyes.
But I looked into his eyas.
wasn't scared; and I told hlru avaqb-
thing, avary single thing—all aboM
how Mother had criad over tha llttM
hlu» dress that «toy In the trank-room,
and how she had shown th« tarnished
lace and said that she had tarnished
the happiness of him and of herself
; and of me; and that It was all her
fault; stoat she
thoughtless »nA
willful and exacting and a spoiled
child; and, oh. If she could only try It
over again, how differently she would
do I And there wns a lot more. I
told everything—everything I could
I remember. Some way, I didn't be-
i lleve that Mother would mind now.
after whnt Father tied said. And I
Just knew she wouldn't mind If she
could see the look In Father's eyes as
I I talked.
He didn't interrupt me—not long
Interruptions. He did speak out a
quick little word now and then, at
«ollie of the parts; and once I know I
saw him wipe a tear from his eyea
After that he put up his hand and sat
with hto eyes covereil all the rest of
the time I wns talking. And he didn’t
take It down till I said:
“Ami so, Father, that's why I told
y««u; 'cause It seemed to me If you
wanted t<> try again, and she wanted
to try Hgnln. why can't you do It? Oh,
1'illher, tlilitk how t«erfe«'tly lovely *t
would be If you did. and If It worked!
Why, I wouldn’t care whether I was
Mary or Marie, or what I waa. I'd
have you and Mother both together,
and, <>li, how I should love it I”
It was here that Father's arm came
out and slipped around me In a great
big hug.
“Bless your heart! Hut, Mary, my
dear, how are we going to—to bring
this about?" Tben to when my second
grunt Idea came to me.
"Oh, Father!" I cried, "couldn’t y«ni
come courting her again—calls and
flowers ami candy, and all the i«'«t?
Oh, Father, couldu’t you? Why, Fa­
ther. of course you could!"
This Inst I added In my most per-
smtsive voice, for I c««Ul«l see the "uo”
on his face even before lie began to
shake hl« head
“I'm afraid not, my dear," he «aid,
then. “It « till take more than a
flower or n bonbon to—to win your
mother ba< k now, I fear,"
“But you could try,” I urged.
He «book bls head again
“She Aouldnl
me If 1 called,
my dear,” he a »»were«!.
lie slglietl a» lie «aid It. nn«l I slgl«e<l,
too. Ami for a minute I <lldn t ■ iy
anything. <>f course, It «lie wouldn't
see him—
Then another Men came to me.
"But, Father, If she would see you-—
I mean, If you got n ch.m e, you would
tell her whnt you told me Just now ;
about Its being your fault, 1 mean, and
the spirit of youth letting against the
bars, and all. that
You would,
wouldn't you?"
He didn’t say K’iyt!iliig. not any­
thing. for such a long time I thought
he hadn’t heard me. Then, with a
queer, quick drawl«.» lu ot hl» breath.
be said:
"I think little girl—If—If I ever
got the change I would say—a great
deal more thso I said to you tonight.”
"Go««d!" I just crowed the word, and
I think I dapped my hands, btot right
■ way I straightened up anti
tee an«l dignified, for I saw
H**‘
tie looking at aie from
• *
rouin. ss I said '■
shall has*
"Very good. theo.
the .-baoea.”