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ZMARIE Viy Eleanor H. Porter Illustrations by H. Livingstone SYNOPSIS PREFACE. 'Mary Marie" explains her apparent "daftible personality" anil 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 la commenced at AnueraonvlUe. CHAPTER I. Mary begins with Nurse Sarah's account of her (Mary'sj birth; which seemingly interested her father, who Is a famous astronomer, less than a new star which wus discovered the same night. - Her name is a compromise, her mother wanted to call her Viola and l er father insisting on Abigail Jane. The child quickly learned that her home was in some way different from those of her eirrau mends, and was puzzleJ thereat. Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's ar rival at Andersonvilld as a bride and how astonished they all were at the sight of .the dainty eighteen-year old girl whom the sedate professor had chosen for a wife. CHAPTER II. Continuing her story. Nurse Sarah makes It plain why the household seemed a strange one to tue ' child and howher father and mother drifted apart through misunderstanding, each too proud to In any way attempt to smooth over the situation. CHAPTER III. 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 siie and Mary leave Andersonville for that city to spend the first six months. Then theie's the man that paints pictures. He's tall ami slim, and wears queer ties i.nd long hair. He's always standing back and looking at thing with his head on one side, and ex claiming "Oh !" and "Ah !" with n long breath. He says Mother's coloring is wonderful. I heard him. And I didn't like It very well, either. Why, it sounded as If she put it on herself out of a box on her bureau, same as some other ladies do ! Still, he's not so had, maybe; though I'm not sure but what his paints and pictures would be- just as tiresome to live with as Father's stars, when it came right down to wanting a husband to Jive with you and talk to you every day in the year. You know you have to think of such things when it conies to choosing a new father I mean a new husband. (I keep forgetting that it's Mother and not me that's doing the choosing.) Well, to resume and go on. There's the . violinist. I mustn't forget him. But," then," nobody could forget him. He's lovely: so handsome and distinguished-looking with his perfectly .. beautiful dark eyes and while teeth. And he plays well, I'm simply c-razy ver his playing. I only wish Carrie :Heywood could hear him. She think Iher brother can play. He's a traveling violinist with a show? and he came 'home once to Andersonville. And I 3iear,d him. But he's not the real thing at all. Not a bit. Why, he might be anybody, our grocer, or the butcher, up there playing that violin. His eyes are little and blue, and his hair is red and very short. I wish she could hear our violinist play ! And there's another man that comes to the parties and teas ; h, of course there are others, lots of them, married men with wives, and unmarried men with and without sisters. But I mean another man specially. His name is Harlow. He's a little man with a brown pointed heard and big soft brown eyes. He's really awfully good looking, too. I don't know what ha floes do; but he's married. I know that. He never brings his wife, though ; but Mother's always asking fur her, clear and distinct, and she always smiles, and her voice kind of tinkles like little silver hells. But just the same he never brings her. He never takes her anywhere. I leard Aunt Hattie tell Mother so at the very first, when he came. She :SaId they weren't n bit happy together, . and that there'd probably be a divorce before long. But Mother asked for lier Just the same the very nest time. .And she's done it ever since. I think I know now why she does. I found out, and I was simply thrilled. It was so exciting! You see. they were lovers once themselves Mother :and this Mr. Harlow. Then something happened and they' quarreled. That was just before Father came. Of course Mother didn't tell me this, nor Aunt Hattie. It was two ladies. I heard them talking at a tea one day. I was right behind them, and I couldn't get away, so I just couldn't help hear ing what they said. They were looking across the room at Mother. Mr. Harlow was talking to her. He was leaning forward In his chair and talking so earnestly to Mother; and he looked just as if he thought there wasn't another soul in the room but just tl:ey two. But Mother Mother was just listening to be polite to company. Anybody could see that. And the very first chance she got she turned and began to talk to a lady who was standing near. And she never so much us looked toward Mr. Harlow again. The ladies In front of me laughed then, and one of them said, with a lit- tie nod of her head, "I guess Madge : Desmond Anderson can look out for herself all right." Then they got up and went away ' without seeing me. And all of a sud den I felt almost sorry, for I wanted them to see me. I wanted them to see that I knew my mother could take care of herself, too, and that I was proud of it. If they had turned I'd have said so. But they didn't turn. I shouldn't like Mr. Harlow for a father. I know I shouldn't. But then, there's no danger, of course, even if he and Mother were lovers once. He's gut a wife now, and even if he got n divorce, I don't believe Mother would choose him. But of course there's no telling 1 which one she will lake. As I said before, I don't know. It's too soon, I anyway, to tell. I suspect it isn't any . more proper to hurry up about getting married again when you ve been tin ! married !v a divorce than it Is when vou've been unmarried by your hus band's dying. I asked Peter one day how soon folks did get married after a divorce, but he didn't seem to know. Anyway, all he said was to stammer "Kr ves. miss no. miss, I mean. I don't know, miss." Peter is awfully funny. But he's nice. I like him, only I can't find out much by htm. He's very good-looting, though he's quite old. He's almost thirty. He told me. I asked him. He fnJ-es me back and forth to school ev ery day, so I see quite a lot of him And, really, he's about the-oiily one 1 can ask questions of here, anyway. There isn't anybody like Nurse Sarah used to I.e. Olgit, the cook, talks sc funnv I can't understand a word she says, hardly. Besides, the only twe times I've been down to the kitchen Aunt Hattie sent for me, and she told me the last time not to go any more. She didn't say why. Aunt Hut tie never says why not to do things. She just says, "Don't." Sometimes it seems to me as if my whole life had been made up of "don'ts." If they'd only tell us j;art of the time things to "do," maybe we wouldn't have so much time to do the "don'ts." (That sounds funny, but I guess folks'll know what I mean.) Well, what was I saying? Oh, 1 know about asking questions, As I said, there isn't anybody like Nurse Surah here. I can't understand Olga. and Theresa, the other maid, is just about as had. Aunt Hutfie's lovely, but I can't ask questions of her. She isn't the kind. Besides, Lester's al ways there, too; and you can't discuss family affairs before children. Of course there's Mother and Grandpa iH'smond. But questions like when It's proper for Mother to have lovers I can't ask of them, of course. So there's no one but Peter left to nsk. Peter's all right and very nice, but he doesn't seem to know anything that I want to know. So he doesn't amount to so very much, after all. I'm not sure, anyway, that Mother'll want to get married again. From lit tle things she says I rather guess she doesn't think much of marriage, any way. One day I heard her say tc Aunt Hattie that it was a very p-etly theory that marriages were made in heaven, but that the real facts of the case were that they were made on earth. And another day I heard her say that one trouble with marriage was that the husband and wife didn't know how to play together and to rest together. And lots of times I've heard her say little tilings to Aunt Hattie that showed bow unhappy her mar riage had been. But last night a funny thing hap pened. We were all In the library reading after dinner, and Grandpa looked up from his paper and said something about a woman that was sentenced to be hanged and how a whole lot of men were writing letters protesting against having a woimtn hanged; but there were only one or two letters from women. And Grand pa said that only went to prove how much more lacking in a sense f fit ness of things women were than men. And lie was Just going to say more when Aunt Hattie bristled up and tossed her chin, and said, real Indig nantly : "A sense of fitness of thing's, in deed! Oil, yes, that's all very well to say. There are plenty of men, no doubt, who are shocked beyond any thing at tin.' idea of hanging a woman; hut those same men will think noth ing of going straight home and mak ing life for some other woman so ab solutely miserable that she'd think hanging would be a lucky escape froai something worse." "Harriet!" exclaimed Grandpa In a shocked voice. "Well. 1 mean it!" declared Aunt Hattie emphatically. "Look at poor Madge here, and that wretch of a hus band of hers!" And just here is where the funny thing happened. Mother bristled up Mother! and evn more than Aunt ; Hattie had. She turned red and tlita white, and her eyes blazed. "That will do, Hattie, please, in my presence," she said, very odd, like ice. "Pr. Anderson is not a wretch at nil. lie is an honorable, scholarly gentle man. Without doubt he meant to be kind and considerate, lie simply did not understand inc. We weren't suited to each other. That's all." And she got up and swept out of the room. Now, wasn't that funny? But I Just loved it, all the same. I always love Mot iter when she's superb and haughty and disdainful. Well, after she had gone Aunt Hat tie looked at Grandpa nnd Grandpa ' looked nt Aunt Hattie. Grandpa shrugged his shoulders, and gave Ids hands a funny little flourish; and Aunt Hattie lifted her eyebrows and said: "Well, what do you know about that?" (Aunt Hattie forgot I wns in j the room, I know, or she'd never in the ' world have used slang like that!) "And after e!l the things she's said about how unhappy she was!'' finished Aunt name. Grandpa didn't say anything, but Just gave his funny little shrug again. And it was kind of queer, when you come to think of it about Mother, I mean, wasn't it? ONE MONTH LATER Well, I've been here another whole month, nnd it's growing nicer nil the time. I Just love It here. I love the sunshine everywhere, and the curtains up to let it in. And the flowers in the rooms, mid the little fern-dish on the dining-room table, the hooks and mag azines Just lying around ready to he picked up; Baby Lester laughing and singing all over the house, and love ly ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room having music and ten and little cakes when I come home from school in (lie afternoon. And I love it not to have to look up and wutcli and listen for fear Father's coming in and I'll be making a noise. And best of nil I love Mother with her dancing eyes nnd her laugh, and her Just be ing happy, with no going In and find ing her crying or looking long and fix edly nt nothing, and then turning to me with a great big sigh, and a "Well, dear?" that Just makes you want to go and cry because It's so hurt and heart-broken. Oh, I do Just love It all! And Mother Is happy, I'm sure she is. Somebody Is doing something for her every moment seems so. They are so glad to get her back again. I know they are. I heard two ladies talking one day, nnd they snid they were. They called her "Poor Madge," and "Dear Madge," nnd they said it was n shame that she should have had such a wretched experience, and that they for one should try to do ev erything they could to make her forget. And that's what they all seem to be trying to do to make her forget. There isn't a day goes by but that somebody sends flowers or books or candy, or Invites her somewhere, or takes her to ride or to the theater, or conies to see her, so that Mother is in just one wldrl of good times from morning till night. Why, she'd Just have to forget. She doesn't have any time to remember. I think she is for getting, too. Oh, of course she gets tired, and sometimes rainy days or twilights I find her on the sofa In her room not reading or anything, and her face looks 'most as It used to some times after they'd been having one of their Incompatibility times. But I don't find her that way very often, and it doesn't last long. So I really think she is forgetting. About the prospective suitors I found Tliat "prospective suitor" in a story a week ago, nnd I just love it. It means you probably will want to marry her, you know. I use it all the time now in wy mind when I'm thinking about those gentlemen that come here (the unmarried ones). I forgot and used it out loud one day to Aunt Hattie; but I si in n't again. She said, "Mercy!" and threw up her hands ajid looked over to Grandpa the way she does r. hen I've said something she thinks is perfectly awful. But I wns firm nnd dignified but very polite nnd pleasant and I said that I didn't see why she should act like that, for of course they were pro spective suitors, the unmarried ones, anyway, and even some of the married ones, maybe, like Mr. Harlow, for of course they could get divorces, and "Marie!" inlerrt'pted Aunt Hattie then, before I could say another word. or go on to explain that of course Mother couldn't be expected to stay unmarried always, though I was very sure she wouldn't gt married again until it was perfectly proper and gen teel for her to take unto herself an. ither husband. But Aunt Hattie wouldn't even listen. And she threw up her hands and said, "Marie!" again with the emphasis on the last part of the name the way I simply loathe. And she told me never. a ver to let her hear me make such a speech ns that again. And I snid I would be very careful not to. And you may be sure I shall. I don't want to go through a scene like that again ! She told Mother about It, though, I think. Anyhow, they were talking very busily together when they came into !he library after dinner that night. and Mother looked sort of flushed and plagued, and I heard her say, "Per haps the child does read too many novels, Hattie." And Aunt Hattie answered, "Of course she does !" Then she said some thing else which I didn't catch, only the words "silly" and "romantic" and pre-co-shus." (I don't know what that last means, but I put It down the way it sounded, and I'm going to look it up) Then they turned and saw me, and they didn't say anything more. Bui the next morning the perfectly lovely story I was reading, that Theresa let me take, called "The Hidden Secret," I couldn't find anywhere. And when I asked Mother if she'd seen it, she said she'd given it hack to Theresa, mid that I mustn't nsk for It again. That I wasn't old enough yet to read such stories. There it is again! I'm not old enough. When will I be allowed to take my proper pluce in life? Echo answers when. Well, to resume nnd go on. What was I. talking about? Oh, I know the prospective suitors. (Aunt Hattie can't hear me when I just write it, anyway.) Well, they all come just as they used to, ofily there are more of them now two fat men, one slim cue, and a man with a halo of bait round a bald spot. Oh, I don't mean that any of them are really suitors yet. They Just come to call nnd to i lea, and send her flowers and candy. J And Mother isn't a mite nicer to one j than she is to any of the others. Any- body can see that. And she shows very plainly she's no notion of Dick- HolbrookNews. Holbrook. Arizona. April 21, 1922 ! nig anybody iXii yet. nut ot course I can t neip being interesteu anu watching. It won't le Mr. Harlow, anyway. I'm pretty sure of that, even If he has started in to get his divorce. (And he has. I heard Aunt Hallie tell Mother vo last week.) But Mother doesn't like him. I'm sure she doesn't. He makes her awfully nervous. Oh, she laughs and talks with him seems ns if she laughs even more with him limn she does willi anybody else. But she's always looking around for some body else to talk to; and I've seen her get up and move off just ns he was coming across the room toward her. and I'm just sure she saw him. There's another reason, too, why I think Moth er isn't going to choose him for iier lover. I heard something she said to him one day. She was sitting before the fire In the library, nnd he came in. There were other people there, quite n lot of them; but Mother was all alone by the fireplace, her eyes looking fixed and dreamy into the fire. I was in the window-seat around the corner of the chimney rending; and I could see Mother in (lie mirror just as plain as could he. She could have seen me, too, of course, If she'd looked up. But she didn't. I never even thought of hearing nnyth'ng I hadn't ought, and I wns Jum going to get down and speak to Mother myself, when Mr. Harlow crossed the room nnd fat Cown ou the sofa beside her. 'Dreaming. Madge?" he said, low and soft, ids soulful eyes Just devour ing her lovely face. (I read that, too, in a book last week. I just loved It!) Mother started and flushed up. "Oh, Mr. Harlow!" she cried. (Mother always calls him ."Mr." "That's another thing. He always calls her "Madge," you know.) "How do you dof Then she gave her quick little look around to see If there wasn't somebody else near for her to talk to. But there wasn't. "But you do dream of the old days, sometimes, Madge, don't you?" ho be gan again, soft and low, leaning a lit tle nearer. "Of when I was a child nnd played dol's before this very fireplace? Well, yes, perhaps I do," laughed Mother. And I could see she drew awny a lit tle. "There was one dull with a brok en head that" "I was speaking of broken hearts." Interrupted Mr. Harlow, very -meaningfully. "Broken hearts! Nonsense! As' If there were such things in the world !" cried Mother, with a little toss to her head, looking around again with a quick little glance for some one else to talk to. But st(ll there wasn't anybody there. They were all over to the other side of the room talking, and paying no at tention to Mother and Mr. Harlow, only the violinist. He looked and looked, nnd acted nervous with his watch-chain. But he didn't come over. I felt, some way, that I ought to go away and not hear any more; but I couldn't without showing them that I had been there. So I thought it was better to stay just where I was. They could see mc, anyway, If they'd Just look in the mirror. So I didn't feel that I, was sneaking. And I stayed. Then Mr. Harlow spoke again. His eyes grew even more soulful and de vouring. I could see thein In the mir ror. . "Madge, it seems so strange that we should both have had to trail through the tragedy of broken hearts and lives before we came to our real happiness. For we shall be happy, Madge. You know I'm to be free, too, soon, dear, and then we " But he didn't finish. Mother put up her band and stopped him. Her face wasn't flushed any more. It wns very white. "Carl," she began in a still, quiet voice, and I was so thrilled. I knew something was going to happen this time she'd called him by his first name. "I'm sorry," she went on. "I've tried to show you. I've tried very hard to show you without speaking. But if you make me say It I shall have to say it. Whether you are free or not matters not to me. It can make no difference in our relationship. Now. will you come with me to the other side of the room, or must I be so rude as to go and leave you?" She got up then, and he got up, too. He said something I couldn't hear what it was; but it-was sad and re proachful I'm sure of that by the look in his eyes. Then they both walked across the room to the others. I was sorry for him. I do not want lilm for a father, but I couldn't help being sorry for him, he looked so snd nnd mournful and handsome; and he's got perfectly beautiful eyes. (Oh, I do hope mine will have nice eyes wheu I find him !) As I said before, I don't believe Mother'll choose Mr. Harlow, anyway, even when the time comes. As for any of the others I can't tell. She treats them all just exactly alike, as far as I can see. Polite tnd pleasant, but not nt all loverlike. I wns talking to Pe ter one day about it, and I asked him. But he didn't seem to know, either, which one she will be likely to take, if any. . Peter's about the only one I enn nsk. Of course I couldn't ask Moth er, or Aunt Hattie And Grandfather well, I should never think of asking Grandpa n question like that. But Ptter Peter's a real comfort. I'm sure I don't know what I should do for somebody to talk to and ask questions about things down here, if it wasn't for him. He takes me to school and bnck again every day; so of course I see lii.it quite a lot. Speaking of school, it's all right, nnd of course I like it, though not quite so well as I did. There are smut of the gir'.s well, they net queer. I don't know what is the matter with them. "They stop "taTkTiig soiiieof'theih when I come up, nnd they make me feel, sometimes, as If I didn't belong. Maybe It's because I came from a little country town like Andersonville. But they've known that all along, from the very first. And they didn't act at all like that at the beginning. Maybe It's just their way down here. If I think of it I'll ask Peter tomorrow. Well, I guess that's all I can think of this time. MOST FOUR MONTHS LATER It's been ages since I've written here, I know. But there's nothing spe cial happened. Everything hns been going along just about as it did at the first. Oil, there Is one thing different Peter's gone. He went two months ago. We've got an nwfully old chauf feur npw. One with gray hair nnd glnsses, nnd homely, too. His name is Charles. The very first day he came, Aunt Hattie told me never to talk to Charles, or bother him with ques tions; that It was better he should keep his mind entirely on his driving. She needn't hnve worried. I should never drenm of asking 1dm the things I did Peter. lie's too stupid. Now I'eter and I got to be real good friends until all of a sudden Grandpa told him he plight go, I don't know why. J don't see as I'm any nearer finding out who Mother's lover will be than I wps four months ago. I suppose It's still too soon, Peter snid one day he thought widows ought to wait at least a year, and he guessed grass-widows were Just the same. My, how mad I was at him for using that name about my mother! Oh, I knew what he meant. I'd heard it at school. (I i know now what It was that made j those girls act so queer nnd horrid.) There was a girl I never liked her, , and I suspect she didn't like me, either. Well, she found out Mother ' lind a divorce. (You seo, I hadn't ! told It, I remembered how those girls out West bragged.) And she told a lot of the others. But It didn't work J at nil ns It had In the West. None of j the girls In this school here had a dl- j vorce In their families; and, If you'll '' believe-it, they acted some of them as If it was a disgrace, even after I told them good nnd plain that ours wns a perfectly respectable nnd gen- . teel divorce. Nothing I could say made a mite of difference, with some of the girls, and then Is when I first heard that perfectly horrid word, : "grass-widow." So I knew what Pe- I ter meant, though I was furious at him for using it. And I let him see It good aud plain. j Of course I changed schools. I knew Mother'd want me to, when she knew, and so I told her right away. I , thought she'd be superb and haughty . nnd disdainful sure this time. But she wasn't. First she grew so white I thought she was going to faint away. Then she began to cry and kiss and hug me. And that night I henrd her tnlking to Aunt Hattie and saying, "To think that that poor innocent child hns to smfer, too!" and soni more which I couldn't henr, because her voice was all choked up and shaky. Mother Is crying now quite a lot : You see, her six months are 'most up, nnd I've got to go back to Father. And I'm afraid Mother is awfully, unhappy about It. She hnd a letter Inst week from Aunt Jnne, Fnther's sister. I henrd her read It out loud to Aunt Hattie and Grandpa in the library. It wns very stiff and cold and dignified, and ran something like this: "Dear Madam: Dr. Anderson de sires me to say that he trusts you are hearing In mind the fact that, accord ing to the decision of the court, his daughter Mary Is to come to him on tlie first day of May. If you will kind ly Inform hhn as to the hour of her expected arrival, he will see that she is properly met at the station." Then she signed her nnme, Abignil Jane Anderson. (She wns named for her mother, Grandma Anderson, same ns Father wanted them to name me. Mercy 1 Tm glad they didn't "Mary" is bad enough, but "Abigail Jane" I) Well, Mother read the letter aloud, then she began to talk about it how she felt, and how awful It was to think of giving me up six whole months, and sending her bright little sunny-hearted Marie Into that -tomb-like place with only nn Abignil Jane to flee to for refuge. And she said that she almost wished Nurse Sarah was back again that she, at least, was human. " 'And see that she's properly met,' Indeed!" went on Mother, with nn In dignant little choke In her voice. "Oh, yes, I know! Now, If it were a star or a comet that he expected, he'd go himself and sit for hours and hours watching for it. But when his daugh ter comes, he'll send John with the horses, like enough, and possibly that precious Abigail Jane of his. Or, may be that Is too much to expect. Oh, Hattie, I can't let her go I can't, I can't !" I wns In the window-sent around the ! corner of the chimney, rending; nnd I don't know ns she knew I wns there. But I wns, and I heard. And -I've heard other things, too, all this week. I'm to go next Monday, and as It comes nearer the time Mother's get ting worse nnd worse. She's so un happy over It. And of course that makes me unhappy, too. But I try not to show it. Only yesterday, when she was crying and hugging me, and telling me how awful it wns thnt her little girl should hnve to suffer, too, I told her not to worry a bit nbout me; thnt I wnsn't suffering nt nil. I liked it. It wns ever so much more exciting to hnve two homes instend of one. But she only cried all the more, and ; sobbed, "Oh, my baby, my baby!" so j nothing I could say seemed to do onej mite of good. But I meant It, and I told the truth. I am excited. And I can't help won dering how It's all going to be nt Fa ther s. on, of course, t know it won't be so much fun, and I'll have to be "Mary," and all that; but it'll be something different, and I always did like different things. Besides, there's Father's love story to watch. Maybe he's found somebody. Maybe he didn't wait a year. Anyhow, If he did find somebody I'm sure he wouldn't be so willing to wait as Mother would. You know Nurse Sarah said Fnther never wanted to wait for any thing. That's why he married Mother so quick, in the first place. But If there Is somebody, of course I'll find out when I'in there. So that'll be In teresting. And, anyway, there'll be the girls. I shnll have them. I'll close now, and make this the end of the chapter, it'll be Anderson ville next time. CHAPTER V When I Am Mary. Andersonville. Well, here I am. I've been here two days now, nnd I 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 blrthduy last week.) But I thought at the lust she just wouldn't let me go, she clung to me so, and begged me to forgive her for nil 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 be willing to stand anything. And then, In the next breath, she'd beg me not to forget her, and not to love Father bet ter than 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 bell rang, and she had to go and leave me. But the last I saw of her she was waving her hand kerchief, nnd smiling the kind of a smile that's worse than crying right out loud. Mother's always like that. No matter how bad she feels, at the lust 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 after a child, but the way a gentleman would tend to a lady. I liked him very much. There was a young gentleman In the seat in front, too, who was very nice. He loaned me n magazine, and bought some candy for me; but I didn't seAJ much more of him, for the second time the conductor came In he told me he'd found a nice seat back in the car on the shady side. He noticed the sun came in where I sat, he said. (I hndn't noticed It speclnlly.) But he picked up my bag nnd ningazine but I guess he forgot the candy box the nice young gentleman in front hnd just put on my window-sill, -for when I got Into my new sent the candy wasn't anywhere; Then the Conductor Called "All Aboard!" and the Bell Rang, and She Had to Go and Leave Me. nnd of course I didn't like to go bnck for it. But the conductor was very nice and kind, nnd enme in twice ngain to see if I liked my new seat; and of course I said I did. It was very nice nnd shady, nnd there was n lady and a bnby n the next seat, and I played with the baby quite a lot. It was heaps of fun to be grown up and traveling alone! I snt back in my seat and wondered nnd 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 nnd laugh loud or sing, or nsk questions, or do anything that Marie wants to do?" I thought to myself. And I wondered if Aunt Jane would meet me, nnd what she would be like. She came once when I was a little girl. Mother said; but I didn't remember her. Well, at lest we got to Anderson ville. John was there with the horses, nnd Aunt Jane, too. Of course I knew she must be Aunt Jane, because she was with John. The conductor was nwfully nice nnd polite, nnd 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 hnd whizzed out oi ine sta- tion, and I was alone with the begin ning or my next six -months. The first beginning was a nice smile, and a "Glnd to see ye home, Miss," from John, ns he touched his hat, and the next was a "How do you do, Mary?" from Aunt Jane. And I knew right off that first minute that I wasn't going to like Aunt Jane Just the way she said that "Mary," and the way she looked me over from hend to foot. Aunt Jnne Is tall and thin, and wears black 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!" all the time, and her mouth Is the kind that never shows any teeth when it smiles, and doesn't smile much, anyway. Her hair fs some gray, nnd doesn't kink or curl any where; and I knew right 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 my clothes, either. I've since found out she didn't but more of thnt anon. (I Just love that word "anon.") And I just knew she disapproved of my hat. But she didn't say anything not In words and after we'd attended to my trunk, we went along to the enr rlage nnd got In. My stars! I didn't suppose horses could go so slow. Why, we were ages just going a block. You see I'd' forgotten; and without think ing I spoke right out. "My! Horses are slow, aren't they?" I cried. "You see, Grandpa has an auto, and " "Mary!" just like that she Inter rupted Aunt Jane did. (Funny how old folks can do what they won't let 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 life in Boston the better we shall be pleased. As I said before, we are not Interested. Besides, while under your father's roof, It would seem to me very poor tsste. In deed, for you to mnke constant refer ence to things you mny have been do ing while not under his roof. The situntion is deplorable enough, how ever you take it, without making it positively unbearable. You will re member, Mary?" Mary said, "Yes, Aunt Jane," very polite and proper; but I can tell yon that inside of Mary, Marie was just boiling. Unbearable, indeed! We didn't say anything more all the way home. Naturally, I was not going to, after that speech; and Aunt Jane said nothing. So silenoe reigned su preme. Then we got home. Things looked quite natural, only there was a new maid in the kitchen, and Nurse Sarai. wasn't there. Father wasn't there,, either. And, just as 1 suspected, 'twas a star that was to blame, only this time the star was the moon au eclipse; and he'd gone somewhere out west so he could see it better. He isn't coming back till next ?--nnd when I think how he ma ! come on the first day. so ns to . the whole six months, when a ' time ha did not care enou !.- a: to be here himself. I'm j;s mean, the righteously liulV of mad for I can't help tli n . . poor Mother would have bueii extra days with her. Aunt Jane said I w t ' old room, nnd so. as s I went right up an ! t.-: and coat, and p:-::". brought up my tn:;!;. It; and I didn't hurry ).. . I wasn't a bit anxl'c s t.- -- stairs ngain to Aunt Jan. I may as well own up, I was n little. Mother's room was across the hall, nnd it loo'ced : some, nnd I couldn't help rei ing how different this homecii. wns from the one In Boston : . months ago. Well, at last I had to go down t. dinner I mean supper and. by tl , 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 will be ready directly." she said, with cold and icy emphasis. "And may I ask you to remember. Mary, please, that Andersonville has dinner nt noon, not at six o'clock." "Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, po lite nod proper again. (I shan't say what Marie said Inside.) We didn't do anything In the eve ning but read nnd go to bed at nine o'clock. I wnnted to run over to Car rie Heywood's; but Aunt Jnne snid 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 rrorning I went up to the schoolhouse. I planned it so as to get there at recess, and I saw all the girls except one that was sick, and one that wns nw ny. We hnd a perfectly lovely time, only everybody was talking 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 wns going to speak to him about my clothes ; then she decided to attend to those herself, nnd not bother him. She doesn't like my dresses. She came into my room and asked to see my things. My! But didn't I hnte to show them to her? Marie said site wouldn't; out iuary oceaienuj not leu to the closet and brought them out qne by one. (To be continued next week) "Buying- at Home" is also applicable to your HOME PAPER A GOOD PAPER DOES MUCH FOR THE WELFARE OF THE COMMUNITY.