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ELEANOR H. PORTER
ILLUSTRATIONS BY , R.H. LIVINGSTONE. 1 ' :.i ' / \-V ■4 • ; t~ (Copyright by ELEANOR H. PORTER) I t ' SYNOPSIS PREFACE—'Mary Marie” explains her anparent "double personality" and just Why she Is a "cross-current and a contra diction ” she also tolls her reasons for writing the diary-later to be a novel. The diary Is commenced at Andersonville. CHAPTER I.—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 rilght 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 ft some way different from those of her •mall friends, 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 elghteemyear old girl whom the sedate professor bad chosen for a wife. CHAPTER II.—Continuing her story, Nurse Sarah makes It plain why the household seemed a strange one to the child and howher father and mother drifted apart through misunderstanding, each too proud to In any way attempt to smooth over the situation, CHAPTER HI — Mary tells of the time spent "out w'est” where the “perfectly •11 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 IX —The diary takes a Jump of twelve years, during which Marie (always Marie then* hae the usual harm less love affairs inseparable from girl hood. Then she meets THE man—Gerald Weston, young, wealthy, and already a successful portrait painter. They are deeply In love and the wedding follows Quickly. With the coming of the baby, Eunice, thing* seem to change with Marl* ghd Gerald, and they In a manner drift dpart. When Eunice If five years old. Marl* decides to part from Gerald. In 3ndlng to break tne news to her mother. i* Is reminded of her own frequently unhappy childhood and how her action ft parting from her husband will subject Eunice to the same humiliations. Her ♦yes opened, Ma,rle gives up her Idea of i • separation, and returns to her husband, I her duty, and her love. e CHAPTER V When I Am Mary. Andersonville. Well, here I am. I’ve been here two days now, and 1 guess I’d better write down what’s happened so-far, before I forget it. First, about my leaving Boston. Poor, dear Mother did take on dread fully, and I thought she just wouldn't let me go. She went with me to the Junction where I had to change, and asked the conductor to look out for me. (As if I needed that—a young lady like me! I'm fourteen now. I had a birthday last week.) But 1 thought at ttie last she just wouldn't let me go, she clung to me so, and begged me to forgive her for all she’d brought upon me; and said it was a cruel, cruel shame, when there were children, and people ought to stop and think and remember, and he willing to stand anything. And then, In the next breath, she’d beg me not to forget her, and not to love Feather bet ter thnn I did her. (As if there was any danger of that !) And to write to her every few minutes. Then the conductor cried, “All aboard!’’ and the hell rang, and she had to go and leave me. But the Inst 1 saw of her she was waving her hand kerchief, and smiling the kind of a smile that's worse than crying right out loud. Mother's always like that. No matter how had she feels, at the last minute she comes up bright and smiling, and Just as brave as can be. I had a wonderful trip to Anderson ville. Everybody was very kind to me, and there were lovely things to see out of the window. The conductor came in and spoke to me several times •—not the way you would look nfter a child, but the way a gentleman would tend to a lady. I liked ntm very much. There was a young gentleman In tire ! scat in front, too, who was very nice. He loaned me a magazine, and bought some candy for me; hut I didn’t see much more of him, for the second time the conductor came in he told me he'd found a nice seat hack in the car on the shady side. lie noticed the sun eanic in where I sat, lie said. (I hadn’t noticed it specially.) But he picked np my bag and magazine—but I guess he forgot the candy box the nice young gentleman in front had just put on my window-sill, for when I got into my : new seat the candy wasn’t anywhere; Then the Conductor Called "All Aboard!” and the Bell Rang, and She Had to Go and Leave Me. and of course I didn't like to go back for it. But the conductor was very nice and kind, and came in twice again to see if I liked my new seat; and of course I said I did. It was very nice and sliady, and there was a lady and a baby in the next seat, and 1 played with the baby quite a lot. It was heaps of fun to be grown tip and traveling alone! I sat hack in my seat and wondered and wondered what the next six months were going to be like. And I wondered, too, if I'd forgotten how to be “Mary.” "Dear me! How shall I ever re member not to run and skip and laugh loud or sing, or ask questions, or do anything that Marie wants to do?” I thought to myself. And I wondered if Aunt Jane would meet me, and what she would be like. She came once when I was a little girl, Mother said; but I didn’t remember her. Well, at last we got to Anderson ville. John was there with the horses, and Aunt Jane, too. Of course I knew she must be Aunt Jane, because she was with John. The conductor was awfully nice and polite, and didn’t leave me till he'd seen me safe in the hands of Aunt Jane and John. Then he went back to his train, nnd the next minute it had whizzed out of the sta tion, and I was alone with the begin ning of my next six month*. The first beginning was a m<e smile, and a “Glad to see ye home, Miss,” from John, as he touched his hat, and the next was a “How do you do, Mary?” from Aunt Jane. And I knew rigid off that first minute that I wasn’t going to like Aunt Jane—just the way she <*ald that “Mary," and the way she looked me over from head to foot. Aunt Jane is tall and thin, and wears blaek—not the pretty, stylish black, but the “I-don’t-care” rusty black—and a stiff white collar. Her eyes are the kind that says, I m sur prised at you!” ull the time, and her mouth Is the kind that never shows any teeth when it smiles, and doesn’t indie much, anyway. Her hair is some gray, and doesn’t kink or curl any where; and I knew rigid off the first minute she looked at me that she didn't like mine, ’cause it did curl. I was pretty sure she didn’t like mv clothes, either. I’ve since found out she didn’t—but more of that anon. (I just love that word “anon.’’) And I just knew she disapproved of my hat. Hut siie didn't say anything— n„t in words—and after we'd attended to my trunk, we went along to the.car riage and got In. My stars! I didn t suppose horses could go so slow. Why, we were ages Just going a Mock. lou see I’d forgotten: and without think lug I spoke right out. “My! Horses are slow, aren’t they? I cried. “You see, Grandpa lias an auto, and—’ “Mary!”—just like that she inter rupt‘.'i^Auiit Jb,ie 'i'll- '(J uu'Li’ Ldiw old folks can Jo wITat tEIty fTfih’f Tet you do. Now if I’d interrupted any body like that!) “You may as well understand at once,” went on Aunt Jane, “that we are not interested in your grandfather’s auto, or his house, ! or anything that is his.” (I felt as If | I was hearing the catechism in church!) "And that the less reference ! you make to your lif* in Boston the better we shall he pleased. As I said before, we are not interested. Besides, while under your father’s roof, It would seem to me very poor taste, In | deed, for you to make constant refer ence to things you may have been do ing while not under his roof. The situation is deplorable enough, how ever you take it. without making it positively unbearable. You will re meiiiher, Mary?” Mary said. “Yes, Aunt Jane,” very polite and proper; but I can tell you that Inside of Mary, Marie was just boiling. Unbearable, indeed! We didn’t say anything more all the way home. Naturally, I was t*>t going to, after that speech ; and Aunt Jane said nothing. So silence reigned su preme. Then we got home. Tilings looked quite natural, only there was a new j maid in the kitchen, and Nurse Sarah ; wasn't there. Father wasn’t there, either. And,,just as I suspected, 'twas a star that was to blame, only this time the star was the moon—an eclipse; and he’d gone somewhere out west so he could see it better. He isn't coming hack till next week; and when I think how he made me come on the first day, so as to get in the whole six months, when all the time he did not care enough about it to be here himself, I’m just mad—I mean, the righteously Indignant kind of mad—for I can’t help thinking how poor Mother would have loved these extra days with her. Aunt Jane said I was to have my old room, and so, as soon as I got here, I went right up and took off my hat and coat, and pretty quick they brought up my trunk, and I unpacked it; and I didn't hurry about it, either. I wasn't a bit anxious to get down stairs again to Aunt Jane. Besides, I may as well own up. I was crying— a little. Mother’s room was. right across the ball, and it looked so 1 •ie sotue, and I couldn’t help remember ing how different this homecoming was from the one in Boston, six months ago. Well, at last I had to go down to dinner—I mean supper—and, by the way, I made another break on that. I called it dinner right out loud, and never thought—till I saw Aunt Jane’s face. “Supper w ill be ready directly,’’ s’* said, with cold and icy emphasis. "And may I ask you to remember, Mary, please, that Andersonvllle has dinner at noon, not at six o’clock.” “Yes, Aunt Jane,’’ said Mary, po lite and proper again. (I shan’t say what Marie said inside.) We didn’t do anything In the eve ning but read and go to bed at nine o'clock. I wanted to run over to Car rie Heywood's; but Aunt Jane suld no. not till morning. (I wonder why young folks never can do things when they want to do them, but must al ways wait till morning or night or noon, or some other time!) In the morning I went up to the schoolliouse. I planned it so us to get there at recess, and I saw all the girls except one that was sick, and one that wub away. We had a perfectly lovely time, only everybody wus tulklng all at once so that I don't know now what was said. But they seemed glad to see me. I know that. Maybe I’ll go to school next week. Aunt Jane says she thinks I ought to, when it's only the first of May. She's going to speak to Father when he comes next week. She was going to speak to him about my clothes; then she decided to attend to those herself, and not bother biin. She doesn’t like my dresses. She rame into my room and asked to see j my things. My! But didn't I hatP to show them to her? Murle said she wouldn’t; but Mary obediently trotted to the closet and brought them out one by one. Aunt Jane turned them around with the tips of her fingers, all the time sighing and shaking her head. When I’d brought them all out, she shook her head again and said they would not do at all—not In AndCrsonvlll#; that they were extravagant, and much too elaborate for a young girl; that she would see the dressmaker and ar range that I had some serviceable , blue and brown serges at once. Blue and brown serge, Indeed! But, there, what’s the use? I’m Mary now. 1 keep forgetting that; though 1 don’t see how I can forget it—with Aunt Jane around. But, listen. A funny tiling happened this morning. Something came up about Boston, and Aunt Jane asked me a question. Then she asked an other and another, and she kept me talking till I guess I talked ’most a : whole half-hour about Grandpa I>es- j moral, Aunt Hattie, Mother, and the house, and what we did, and, oh, a whole lot of things. And here, just : two days ago, she was telling me that j she wasn’t interested in Grandpa Des mond. his home, or his daughter, or j anything that wit a his! - | "Who said Kellogg's Cam Flakes? Oh, goody, Jana, bet we’re going to haem KELLOGGTS lor our aup per.'nen we won't dream!m } Leave it to the kiddies to pick Kelloggs Com Flakes they are never fcuqh orleaihery! Put a bowl of KELLOGG’S Corn Flakes and a bowl of imitations in front of any youngster 1 Then see KELLOGG Sdisappear! Trythecxperimentyourself 1 It’s great to know the difference in corn flakes—the difference between the genuine and the “just-as goods”! Kellogg’s have a wonderful flavor that would win your favor by itself—but when you know that Kellogg **11-the-time crispness! Well—they just make you glad! Kellogg’s are never tough or leathery or hard to eat! J Kellogg’s will snap-up kiddie appe ^ tites something wonderful! And. our word for it—let the littlest have their Iki | ^ Just Daddy must have his! ft/) You’11 never know how delicious jjfcs-fj corn flakes can be until ycu eat (By ^OP^2 f ^E^LOGG’S! You will know the vl/nrs I KELLOGG package because it is RED v* FLAKES I and GREEN! Look for it! ** CORN FLAKES AUo m«k«n Of KELLOGG S KRUMBLES »od KELLOGG’S BRAN, cooked ..d knurled TTTlres Something funny about Aunt Jane. ONE WEEK LATER. Father's come. He came yesterday. But I didn’t know it, and I caine run ning downstairs, ending with a little bounce for the last step. And there, right in front of me In the hull was Father. I guess he was as much surprised ns I was. Anyhow, he acted so. He just stood stock-still and stared, his face turning all kinds of colors. “You?” he gasped, Just above his breath. Then suddenly he seemed to remember. “Why. yes, yes, to be sure. You are here, aren’t you? llow do you do, Mary?” He came up then and held out his hand, and I thought that was all he was going to do. But, after a funny little hesitation, he stooped and kissed my forehead. Then he turned and went into the library with very quick steps, and 1 didn’t see him again till at the supper table. At the supper-table he said again, “How do you do, Mary?” Then he seemed to forget all about me. At least he didn’t say anything more to me; for three or four times, when 1 glanced up, 1 found him looking at me. But Just as soon as I looked back at him he turned his eyes away and cleared his throat, and began to eat or to tulk to Aunt Jane. After dinner—1 mean supper—ne went out to the observatory, just as he always used to. Aunt Jane said her head ached and she was going to bed. t said I guessed I would step over to Carrie Heywood’s; but Aunt June said, certainly not; that I was much too young to be running around nights in the dark. Nights! And It was only seven o’clock, and not dark at till 1 But of course 1 couldn’t go. Aunt Jnne went upstairs, and I was left alone. I didn’t feel a bit like rending; besides, there wasn’t a book or a magazine anywhere asking you to read. They Just shrieked, "Touch me not!’’ behind the glass doors In the library. I hute sewing. 1 mean Marie hates it. Aunt Jane says Mary’s got to learn. For a time I Just walked around the different rooms downstairs, looking at the chairs und tables and rugs all Just so, as If they’d been measured with a yardstick. Murle jerked up a shade and pushed a chulr crooked und kicked a rug up at one corner; but Mary put them ull 'back properly—so there wasn’t any fun in that for long. After a while I opened the parlor door and peeked In. They used to keep It open when Mother was here; hut Aunt Jane doesn't use It. I knew where the electric push button was, though, and 1 turned on the light. Before I got the light on. the chairs and sofas loomed up like ghosts in their linen covers. And when the light did come on, I saw that ail the old shiver places were there. Not one was missing. Oreat urandfather An derson's coffin plate on black velvet, tjie wax cross and Ijow.ers that h;|d been u^eiPnt TfiFee Xmlersoh" TuneraH tbe hair wreath made of all the hair of seventeen dead Andersons and five live ones—no, no, I don’t meun all the hair, but hair from all seventeen and five. Nurse Sarah used to tell tnd about lt> , Well, as I said, all the shiver places were there, and I shivered again as I looked at them; then I crossed over to Mother's old piano, opened It, and touched the keys. I love to play. There wasn’t any music there, but I don’t need music for lots of my pieces. 1 know them by heart—only they’re all gay and lively, and twlnkly-toe dancy. Marie music. I don't know a one that would he proper for Mury to play. But I was Just tingling to play some thing, and I remembered that Father was In the observatory, and Aunt Jane upstnirs In the other ijnrt of the house •where she couldn’t possibly hear. So I began to play, f played the very slowest piece I had, and I played softly at first; but I know I forgot, and 1 know I hadn’t played two nieces before 1 was having the best time ever, nnd making all the noise I want ed to. Then nil of a sudden I hud a funny feeling us If somebody somewhere was watching me; but I Just couldn’t turn around. I stopped playing, though, at the end of that piece, and then I looked; but there wasn’t anybody in sight. Hut the wax cross was there, and the coffin plate, and that awful hair wreath; and suddenly I felt as If the room was Just full of folks with great staring eyes. I fairly shook with shivers, but I managed to shut the piano and get over to the door where the light was. Then, a minute later, out In the big silent hall, I crept on tiptoe toward the stairs. I knew then, all of a sudden, why I’d felt somebody was listening. There was. Across the hall in the library in the hig chair be-: fore the fire sat—Father! And for^ 'most a whole hulf-hour I had been banging away at that piano onj marches and dance music! My 1 Hut I held my breuth and stopped short, 1 can tell you. Hut he didn't move nor turn, and a minute later I was safely by the door and halfway up the| stairs. I stayed In my room the rest of that evening; and for the second time since I’ve been here I cried myseif to sleep. (Continued next week.) Come in—1 and pay that over dua subscription j account Don’t wait until tha paper stops.