Hy Eleanor H. Porter
1. H. Livingstone
PREFACE 'Mary Marie" expUIns her
apparent "double personality" and Jual
why she la a cross-current and a contra
diction;" she also tells her reasons for
writing the diary later to lie a novel. The
diary Is commence! at AndersonviUe.
CHAPTER I. Mary begins with Nurse
8arah'a account of her t.Ury btith.
which seemingly interested her father,
who Is a famous sstronomer. 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 oil Abigail Jane. The
child quickly learned that her home was
in some way different from those of her
small friends, and was puzzled thereat.
Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother s ar
rival at Andersonviile as a bride and how
astonished they all were at the Bight of
the dainty eiahleen-year old girl whom
the sedate professor had chosen for a
CHAPTER Jl.-Contlnulng her story,
Nurse Sarah makes It plain why the
household seemed a strange one to the
child and homier 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 Uo heri unacountahle behavior.
By the court's decree the rlillj 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 Andersonviile for that lit lo spend
the first six months.
CHAPTER IV. At Boston Mary be.
cornea "Marie." She is delighted with her
new home, so different from the gloomy
house at Andersonviile. The number of
fentiemen who call on her mother leads
er to speculate on the possibility of s
new father. She classes the callers as
"prospective suitors." finally deciding the
choice is to be between "the violinist"
nd a Mr. Harlow. A conversation she
overhears between her mother and Mr.
Harlow convinces her that it will not he
that gentleman, and "to violinist" seems
to be the likely man. Mrs. Anderson re
ceives a letter from "Aunt Abigail Ander
son, her former husband's sister, whi is
keeping house for him. reminding her that
"Mary" Is expected at Andersonviile for
the six months she is to spend witii her
father. Her mother Is distressed, but
has no alternative, and "Marie" depart'
Aunt Jane Mined them around with
the, tip of her fingers, all the tlm.
sighing and shaking her Iitrml. When
I'd brought, them nil out, she shook
het head again, and snid they would
not do at all not In Atnlersonville:
that they were extravagant, and much
too elaborate tw u young girl ; that
she wonld see the dressmaker and ar
range thnt I had some serviceable
blue and brown serges at once.
Bine and. brown serge. Indeed! But.
- there, what's the use? I'm Mary now.
1 keep forgetting that ; though I don't
s how I can forget it with Aunt
But, listen. A funny thing happened
this morning. Something came up
about Boston, and Aunt Jane asked
me question. Then she asked tin
other and another, and she kept me
talking till I guess I talked 'most
whole half-hour altout Grandpa Ivs
luoud. Aunt I l:i I lie, Mother, and I lie
housa, ami what we did, anil, oh, a
whole lot of thing. And here, just
two days ilgo, she was telling ine tha:
she wasn't interested in Graudpa Ik s
uiond, his home, ftr his daughter, or
anything that was his!
There' something funny about
ONE WEEK LATER.
Father's come. He -ame yesterday.
But I didn't know. It. and 1 came run
Oilng downstairs, ending with u little
.bourne for the last step. And there,
right lu front of me In the hall was
I guess he was 'us much surprised
as I was. Anyhow, he acted so. He
Just stood siock-still ami stared, his
face turning nil 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? IIoW do
you do. Alary?"
He came up then and held out his
hand, and I thought thut was all he
was going to do. But, after a funny
little hesitation, he stooped and kissed
wy forehead. Then he turned and
went into the library with very quick
steps, and I didn't see him again till
at the supper-tahle.
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 I
glauecd up, I found him looking at me.
But Just ns soon as I looked hack at
him he turned Ids eyes away and
cleared Ids throat, ami begun to eat
or to talk to Aunt Jane.
' After dinner 1 mean supper he
went out to the observatory, just as
he always used to. Aunt Jane said
her head achtd and she was going to
bed. I said I guessed I would step
over to Carrie Heywood's; but Aunt
Jane snid, 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
all! But of course I couldn't go.
Aunt Jane weht upstairs, and I was
left alone. I didn't feel a hit Ilk
reading; besides, there wasn't a book
or a magazine anywho'i asking yoti
WHOLE YEAR-THAT MEANS ONE FULL YEAR OF
to read, lliey just shrieked, "Touch
me not !" behind the glass door in the
ilbra-y. I hate sewing. I menu Marie
hates it. Aunt Jane says Mary's got
For a lime I just walked around the
different rooms downstairs, looking at
the chairs and tables and rugs all Just
so, hs if they'd been measured with a
yardstick. Marie Jerked up a shade
and pushed a chair crooked and kicked
a rug up at one corner'; but Mary put
them till back properly so there
wasn't any fun in that for Ion.
After a while 1 opened the parlor
door and peeked In. They used to
keep It open when Mother was here;
but Aunt Jane doesn't use It. I knew
where the electric push, button was.
though, and I turned on the light.
Before I got ihe light on. the chairs'
and sofas loomed up like gliosis In
their linen covers. And when the
light did come on, I saw that all the
old shiver places were there. Not one
was missing. Great Grandfather An
derson's cotiln plate on black velvet,
the wax cros iind flowers that bad
iH'en used at three Anderson funerals,
the hair wreath made of all Ihe hair
of seventeen dead Andersons and live
live ones no. no, I don't mean all the
hair, but hair from all seventeen and
live. Nurse Sarah ued to tell luv
Well, as I said, nil the shiver place.'
were then1, an.! 1 shivered again as I
looked at them; then I crossed over to
Mother's old pin no. opened it, and
touched the keys. I love to play.
There wasn't any music th?re, but I
don't need music for lots of my pieces.
I know them by heart only they're all
gay uiul lively, and twtukly-toe dancy.
.Marie music. I don't know a one that
would be proper for Mary to play.
But I was Just tingling to play some
thing, and I remembered that Father
was in the observatory, and Auiil Jane
upstairs in the other part of I lie house
where she couldn't possibly hear. S-
I began to play. I played the very
slowest piece I had. ami I played
softly at first; but I know I forgot,
ninl I know I hadn't pla.ed lw .
0B m m
!'W-r3j? r n
I Was Having the Best Time Ever,
and Making All the Noise I Wanted
before I was having the best time
ever, and making all the noise I want
Then all of a sudden I had a funny
feeling as if somebody somewhere was
watching me; Inn I Just couldn't turn
around. I stopped playing, though, at
lie end of that piece, and then I
looked; but there wasn't anybody in
sight. But the was cross was there,
and the collin plate, ninl 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
t lie 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 l)io
hall in the library iu the big chair be
fore the lire sat Father! And for
'most a whole half-hour I hail been
banging away at that piano on
marches and dance music! My! But
I held my hrculh and slopped short. I
(nil tell you. But he didn't move nor
turn, and a minute later I was safely
by the dHir and halfway up die
1 slaved iu my room the rest of that
evening; and for the second t'.me since
I've been here I cried myself to sleep.
ANOTHER WEEK LATER
Well, I've got them those brown
and blue serge dresses and the calf
skin boots. My, but I hope "they're
stilf and homely enough all of them!
And hot, loo. Aunt Jane did say to
day that she didn't know but what
she'd made a mistake not to get ging
ham dresses. But, then, she'd have to
get Ihe gingham later, anyway, she
said; then I'd have both.
Well, they citn't be worse than Ihe
serge. That's sure. I hate the serge.
They're awfully homely. Slill, I don't !
know but It's Jnsi as well, t'ertaii.ly
it's lots easier to re .Mary in a blown
serge and clumpy lcols than it is in
ihe soft, fluffy things Marie used to
wear. You couldn't be Marie iu lhese
tilings. II. molly, I'm feeling real
Maryisli these days. j
I wonder it that's why the girls
seem so queer at school. They are
queer. Three times lately I've come
up lo a crowd of irl.s and heard them
j l op lathing right off short. They col
ored up. too-v-ioi prelt.v uulck ihev Ju-
YOU CAN GET YOUR NAME ON THE
n to sTip'atfdy. one by oile, 'till "there
wasn't anybody left but just me, just
as they used to do In Boston. But of
course It can't be for the same reason
here, for they've known all along
about the divorce and haven't minded
It at all.
I heard this morning that Stella
Muyhew had a party last night. But I
didu't get Invited. Of course, you
can't always ask everybody to your
parties, but this was a real bfg party,
and I haveu't found a girl In school,
yet, that wasn't Invited but me. But
I guess It wusn't anything, after all.
Stella Is a new girl that has come
here to live since I went away. Her
folks are rich, and she's very popular,
and of course she has loads of friends
she had lo invite; and she doesn't
know me very well. Probably that was
it. And maybe I Just imagine it about
the other girls, too. Perhaps It's the
brown serge dress. Still. It can't be
that, for this Is the first day I've worn
it. But. us I said, I feel Maryish al
ready. I haven't dared to touch the piano
since thai liight u week ago, only once
u hen Aunt Jane was at a missioiiury
meeting, and I knew Father was over
to the college. But didn't I have a
good time then? 1 just guess I did!
Aunt June doesn't care for music.
Besides, it's noisy, she says, and would
be likely to disturb Falher. So I'm not
to keep on with my music lessons here.
Site's going to tench me to seW In
stead. She says sewing Is much more
si nsihle and useful.
Sensible and useful ! I wonder how
many limes I've heard those words
since I've been here. And durable,
loo. And nourishing. That's another
word. Honestly. Marie is getting aw
fully tired of Mary's sensible sewing
and iiis;)ng. and her durable clumpy
shoes and liif!' dresses, niid her n -
Ishjng oatmeal and whole-wheat
bread. But there, what can ypu do?
I'm trying to remember that l' differ
ent, anyway, ami 1 tint I said I liked
I don't see much of Father. Still,
there's somclhlng kind of queer about
It, after all. He only speaks to me
uboui twice a day Just "Good-inorn-ing.
Maty." and "Good night." And
so fur as most of bis actions are Con
cerned you wouldn't think by them
that he knew I was in the house. Vet.
over and over again at the tuble. and
at times when I didn't even know he
was 'round. I've found him watching
me, and with such a queer, funny look
In his eyes, Then, very quickly al
ways, he looks right away.
But last night he didn't. And that's
especially what I wanted to write
about today. And this Is the way It
It was sifter supper, and I had gone
Into the library. Father had gone out
to ihe observ ulory as usual, and Aunt
Jute had gone upstairs to her room as
usual, and us usual 1 was wandering
'round looking for something to do. I
wanted lo play on the. piano, hut I
didn't dure lo not with all those
dead-hair and wax-flower folks In the
parlor watching me, and the chauce of
Father's coming in as he did before.
I was standing iu the wfcidow star
ing out at nothing it wasn't quite
dark yet when again I had that queer
feeling that somebody was looking at
me. I turned and there was Father.
He had come In and was sitting in the
big chair by the table. But this lime
he didu't look right away as usual and
give me a chance to slip quietly out
of the room, as 1 always had before.
Instead he said :
"What are you doing there. Mary?"
"N-iioihlng !" Father frowned and
hitched in his clialr. Father always
hitches iu Ids chair when he's Irritat
ed and nervous. "You can't be doing
nothing. Nobody but a dead man does
nothing and we aren't so sure about
him. What are you doing, Mary?"
"Jusi l-lookiug out the window."
"Come here. I want to talk to yon."
I weld, of course, at once, and sat
down i! ihe chair near him. He
hitched again in his seat.
"Why don't you do something rend,
sew, knit?" he demanded. "Why do I
always liml you moping around, doing
.hist like that he said it; and when I
he had just told me I
"Why. Father!' I cried; and I know '
tha? 1 showed how surprised I was. I
"1 thought voi i just suid I couldn't do 1
nothing that nobody could!" j
"F-h? What ! Tut, tut!" He seemed
very angry at fust; then suddenly he!
looked sharply Into mv foce. Next. If i
you'll believe it, he laughed the .
queer Utile chuckle nailer bis breath
that I've beard him give tvo or three
times when there was Something he I
thought was funny. "Humph!" he'
grniiied. Then he gave me another ;
sharp h.ok out of his exes, and said: i
"I don't think you meant that to be '
quite so impertinent as it sounded, '
Mary, so we'll lei it pass this lime. '
I'll put mv quest ion this way: Don't
you ccr Ik it i f or read or sew?" j
"I do sew every day iu Aunt Jane's '
room, ten minutes hemming, ten lain- '
ules se.-inii.i-, and ten minutes basting
patchwork squares together. I don't
know how" to knit."
"How about reading? Ioli't you
are for reading?"
"Why. of course I do. I love it' I
cried. "And I do read lots at
"At home?" I
I knew, then, of course, that I'd
made another awful break. There
v.j.sn't any smile around Father's eyes
now, mid Ids lips came together hurd
mid thin over that last word.
"At at my home," I stammered. "I
mean, my other home."
"Humph!" grunted Father. Then,'
after a minute: "Hut why, pray, can't
you read here? I'm sure there are j
books enough." He nourished his
hands erd ihe bookcases nl.
NEWS. Holbrook Arizona.
around the room.
"Oh, I do a little; but, "you see,
I'm so afraid I'll leave some of them
out wheu I'm through." I explained.
"Well, what of it? What if you do?"
"Why, Father!" 1 tried to show by
the way I said It that he knew of
course he knew. But he made me tell
him right out that Aunt Jane wouldn't
like it, and that the books always had
to be kept exactly where they be
longed. "Well, why not? Why shouldn't
they? Aren't books down there lu
Boston kept where they belong,
It was the first time since I'd come
that he'd ever mentioned Boston; and
I almost Jumped out of my chair when
I heard him. But I soon saw It wasn't
going to be the last, for right then
and there he began to question me.
even worse than Aunt Jane had,
He wanted to know everything,
everything; all about the house, with
Its cushions and cozy corners and cur
taius 'way up, and books left around
easy to get, and magazines, and Baby
I.estea, and the. fun we had romping
with him. and everything. Only, of
course, I didn't mention Mother. Aunt
Jane hud told me not to not any
where; and to be specially careful be
fore Father. But what can you do
when he asks you himself, right out
plain? And that's what he did.
Jle'd been up on his feet, tramping
up and Uowi) the ronni al( the time
I'd been talking j and how, ail Of a
sudden, he wheels around and stops
"How Is your mother. Mary'" he
asks. And It was Just as tf he'd
opened the door to another room, he
had such a whole lot of questions to
a.sk after thut. And when he'd fin
ished he knew everything: what time
we got up and went to bed, and what
we did all day, and the parties and
dinners and auto rides, and the folks
that came such a lot to see Mother?
Then a'l of a sudden be stopped
Baking qiiesttuiis, I mean. He stopped
Just us suddenly as he'd begun. Why,
I wus right in the middle of telling
about a concert for charity we got up
Just before I camp away, and how
Mother hud practiced for days and
days with the young man who played
the violin, when all of a sudden Fa
ther Jerked bis watch from his pocket
and said :
"There, there, Mary, It's getting
late. You've talked enough too
much. Now go to bed. Good night."
Talked too much. Indeed! And
who'd been making me uo all the
talking, I should like to know? But,
of course, I couldn't say anything.
Thai's the unfair part of It. Old folks
can say anything, anything they want
to to you. but you can't say a thing
back to l hem not a thing.
And so I went to bed. And the
nct day all that Father said to me
was, "Good-morning, Mary," and
"Good-night." just as he had ever
since I came. And that's all he's said
yesterday and today. But he' looked
tit me a lot, I know, because at meal
times and others, when he's been In
the room with me, I've looked up and
found his eyes on me. Funny, Isn't It?
TWO WEEKS LATER
Well, I don't know as I have any
thing very special to say. Still, I sup
pose I ought to write something; so
I'll put down what little there Is.
tif course, there doesn't so much
happen here, nnyway, as there does at
home I mean iu Boston. (I must stop
calling it home down to Boston as If
tiis wasn't home at all. It makes Aunt
June very, very angry, and I dotrt
think Fiithur likes It very well.) But.
as 1 wa saying, there really doesn't
so much happen here as there does
down to Boston; and It Isn't nearly so
Interesting: But, there! I suppose I
mustn't expect It to be interesting. I'm
Mary now, not Marie.
There aren't any teas and dinners
and pretty ladles and music and soulful-eyed
prospective suitors here. My!
Wouldn't Aunt June have four fits?
And Father, too. But I'd just like to
put one of Mother's teas with the little
cakes and flowers and talk and tink
ling laughs down in Aunt Jane's par
lor, and then watch what happened.
( Hi. of course, the party couldn't stand
it long not iu there with the hair
wreath and the coffin plate. But they
could stand it long enough for Father
to thunder frnlil the library, "Jane,
what in Heaven's name is the mean
ing of all this?" And for Aunt Jane to
give one look at the kind of clothes
real folks wear, and then flee with
her hands to her ears and her eyes up
raised to the celling. Wouldn't It be
But, there! What's the use of Imag
ining perfectly crazy. Impossible
things like that? We haven't had a
thing here iu that parlor since I came
but one missionary meeting and one
Ladles' Aid Sewing circle; and after
the last one (the sewing circle) Aunt
.Ihne worked a whole day picking
threads off the carpet, and smooth
ing down the linen covers because
they'd got so mussed up. And I
heard her tell the hired girl that she
shouldn't have that sewing circle here
again in a hurry, and when she did
have them they'd have to sew In the
dining room with a sheet spread down
to catch the threads. My ! but I would
like to see Aunt Jane with one of i
Mother's teas in her parlor!
I can't see as Father has changed :
much If any these last two weeks. He j
still doesn't pay much of any attention
to me, though I do And him looking at
me sometimes, just as If he was trying
to make up his mind about something.
He doesn't say hardly anything to me,
only once or twice when he got to
asking questions again about Boston j
and Mother. I
The last time I told him all about
Mr. Harlow, and he was so interested!
I hist happened to mention his name.
ami ae wanteo to know right away If
it was Mr. Carl Harlow, and If I knew
I Do Find Him Looking at Me Some
times, Just as If He Was Trying p
niaK? yp nil mina Jtqgui someming.
whether Mother had ever known him
before. And of course I fold him right
away that it was the same one she
was engaged to before she was en
gaged to hi in.
Father looked funny and kind of
grunted and said, yes, yes, he knew.
Then he suid, "That will do, Mary."
And he began to read his book again.
But he never turned a page, and It
wasn't five minutes before he got up
and wplked around the room, picking'
out books from the bookcases and put
ling them right back. Then he turned
to me and psked with a kind of of-course-I-don't-care
'!ld you say you saw quite a little
of this Harlow fellow?"
But he did care. I know he did. He
was real interested. I could see that
he was. And so I told him everything,
all about how he came there to the
teas, and sent her flowers and candy,
and was getting a divorce himself, and
what he said on the sofa that day, and
how Mother answered. As I said, I
told him everything, only I was care
ful not to call Mr. Harlow a prospec
tive suitor, of course. I remembered
too well what Aunt Hattle had suid.
Father didu't say anything when I
got through. He just got up and left
Ihe room, and pretty quick I saw him
crossing the lawn to the observatory.
I guess there aren't any prospective
suitors here. I mean, I guess Father
isn't a prospective suitor anyhow,
not yet. (Of course, it's the man that
has to be suitor.) He doesn't go any
where, only over to the college and
out to the observatory. I've watched
so to see. I wanted specially to know,
for of course If he was being a pro
spective suitor to any one, she'd be
my new mother, maybe. And I'm go
ing to be awfully particular about any
new mother coming into the bouse.
A whole lot more, even, depends ou
mothers than on fathers, you know;
and If you're going to have one all
ready-made thrust upon ypu, yqu are
sort of anxious (o know what kind
she is. Some way, I don't think I'd
like a new mother even as well as I'd
like a new father; a;;d I don't believe
I'd like him very well.
Of course, there are quite a lot of
ladies here that Father could have.
There are several pretty teachers In
ihe schools, and some nice unmarried
ladies iu Ihe church. And there's
Miss I'armelia Snow. She's Professor
Snow's sister. She wears glasses and
is terribly learned. Maybe he would
like her. But, Mercy! I shouldn't
Then there's Miss Grace Ann San
born. She's fat, and awfully jolly.
She comes here a lot lately to see
Aunt June. 1 don't know why. They
don't belong to the same church, or
anything. But she "runs over," us
she calls it, almost every afternoon
just a little before dinner I mean
Mrs. Ihiriiug used to come then, too.
when I first came; but she conies
.jver evenings now more. Maybe it's
because she doesn't like Miss Grace
Ann. 1 don't think she does like her,
for every lime she saw her, she'd say :
"Oh, you? So you're here!" and
pretty quick she'd get up and go. And
now she comes evenings. She's fix
ing over her house, and she runs and
asks Aunt .lane's advice about every
lillle thing. She asks Father's, too,
every chance she gets, when she sees
him In the hall or on the front steps
I heard her tell Aunt Jane she consid
ered Professor Anderson a man of
most excellent taste and judgment.
1 suppose Mrs. Iarllug could be my
new molher. She's a widow. Her hus
band died last year. She is very well
off now that her husband is dead, 1
heard Aunt Jane say one day. She
meant well off in money quite a lot
of It, you know. I thought she meant
well off because he was 'ead and she
didu't have to live with him any
more, and I said so to Aunt Jaue.
(He was a cross man, and very si ens,
as everybody knew.) But, dear suz
me! Aunt June was awfully shocked,
and said certainly not ; that she
meant Mr. I lulling had left his wife a
great deal of money.
Then she talked very stern and sol
emn to me, and said that I must not
think just because my poor dear fa
ther's married life had ended In such
a wretched tragedy that every other
home had such a skeleton iu the
NEWS" SUBSCRIPTION U
REAL NEWSPAPER SERV
I grew stern and dignified and sol
einn then. I knew; of course, what
she meant. I'm no child. She meant
Mother. She meant that Mother, my
dear blessed mother, was the skeleton
in their closet. And of course I wasn't
going to stand there and hear that,
and not say a word.
But I didn't say just a word. I
said a good many words. I won't try
to put them all down here: but I told
her quietly. In a firm voice, and with
uo temper (showing), that I guessed
Father was just as much of a skele
ton In Mother's closet as she was In
his; and that If she could see how
perfectly happy my mother was now
she'd understand a little of what my
father's skeleton had done to her all
those years she'd had to live with it.
I said a lot more, but before I'd got
half finished with what I wanted to
say, I got to crying, so I just had to
run out of the room.
That night I heard Aunt Jane tell
Mrs, Darling that the worst feature
of the whole deplorable situation was
the effect on the child's mind, and the
wretched conception it gave her of the
sacreduess of the marriage tie, or
something like that. And Mrs. Darling
stghed, and said, oh, and ah, and the
Pity of It.
I don't like Mrs. Darling.
Of course, as I said before, Mrs.
Darling could be my new mother, be
ing a widow, so. But. mercy! I hope
she won't. I'd rather have Miss
Grace Ann than her, and I shouldn't
be crBay about having Miss Grace Ann.
Well. I guess there's nothing more
to write. Tilings at school are just
the same, only more so. The girls are
getting so they act almost as bad as
Ihose down to Boston in the school
where I went before I changed. Of
course, maybe it's the divorce here,
same as It was there, But I don't see
haw If can bo that here. Why, they've
known It from the very first!
Oh, dear suz me 1 How I do wish J
I could see Mother tonight and have f
her take me In her amis and kiss ine. j
I'm so tired of being Mary 'way off I
up here where nobody cares or wants
Even Father doesn't want me, not
really want me. I know he doesn't, I
don't see why he keeps me, only I
suppose he'd be ashamed not to take
me his six months as long as the
court gave uie to him fur that time.
ANOTHER TWO WEEKS LATER.
I'm so angry I can hardly write, and
at the same time I'm so angry I've
just got to write. I can't talk. There
Isn't anybody to talk to; and I've got
to tell somebody. So I'm going to tell
I've found out now what's the mat
ter with the girls you kuow, I said
there was something the matter with
them; that they acted queer and
stopped talking when I came up, and
faded away till there wasn't anybody
but me left.
Well, it's been getting worse aud
worse. The girls have had parties,
and more and more often the girls
have stopped talking and have looked
queer when I came up. We got up a
secret society and called it the "Tony
Ten," and I was going to he its presi
dent. Then all of a sudden one day
I found there wasn't any Tony Ten-
only Carrie Heywood and me. The
other eight hud formed another soci
ety ' and Stella Mayhew was their
I told Carrie we wouldn't care; that
we'd just change It and call it the
"Touy Two:" and that two was a lot
more exclusive than ten, anyway. But
I did cure, aud Carrie did. I knew
she did. And I know it better now
because last night she told me. i'ou
see things have been getting simply
unbearable these last few days, and
it got so It looked as if I wasn't even
going, to have Carrie left. She begun
to act queer and I accused her of iv
ind told her if she didn't want to be
long to the Tony Two she needn t.
That I didu't care J" thnt I'd be a secret
society all by myself. But I cried.
I couldn't help crying; and she knew
I did care. Then she began to cry:
and today, after school, we went to
walk up on the hill to the big rock;
and there she told me. And it was
And It's ail that. Stella Mayhew
the new girl. Her mother found out
I was divorced (I mean Mother was)
aud she told Stella not to play with
me, nor speak to me. nor have a thing
to do with me. And I said to Carrie.
all right! Who cared? I didn't. That
I never had liked that Mayhew g'ni.
anyway. But Carrie said that wasn'l
all. She said Stella had got to be
real popular before I came; that her
folks had lots of money, and she al
ways had candy and could tre.-'t to
Ice cream suid auto rides, anil every
body with her was sure of a good time.
She had parties, too h.is of them ;
and of course, all the girls and hoys
Well, when I came everything was
all right till Stella's mother found
out about the divorce, and then well,
then things were different. First
Stella contented herself with making
fun of me, Carrie said. She laughed
at the serge dresses and big homely
shoes, and then she began on my
name, and said the idea of being
called Mary by Father and Marie bj
Mother, and that 'twai just like Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (That's a story.
Carrie says. I'm going to read it, it
Father's got it. If there ever was
another Mary and Marie all in one iu
the world I want to know what she
did.) But Canie says the poking fuu
at me didn't make much difference
with the girls, so Slella tried some
thing else. She not only wouldn't
speak to me herself, or invite me, or
anything, but she Jold all Ihe iritis
i tiiat they couldn't 50 with her and
me, too. That they might take their
choice. And Carrie said some of them
did choose and stayed with me; but
they lost all the good tlmflS "and Ice
cream and parties and rides and ev
erything; and so one by one they
dropped me and went back to Stella,
aud now there wasn't anybody left,
only her, Carrie. And then she began
And when she stopped speaking, and
I knew all, and saw her crying there
before me, and thought of my dear
blessed mother, I was so angry I
could scarcely speak. I just shook
with righteous Indignation. And in
my most superb, haughty and disdain
ful manner I told Carrie Heywtjod to
dry her tears ; that she needn't trouble
herself any further, nor worry about
losing any more Ice-cream nor parties.
That I would hereto declare our
friendship null and void, and this day
set my hand and seal to never speak
to her again, if she liked, and consid
ered that necessary to keeping the ac
quaintance of the precious Stella,
But she cried all 'the more at that. "
and flung herself upon me, and,- of
course, I began to cry, too and you
can't stay superb and 'haughty and
disdainful when you're all the time
Irving to hunt up a handkerchief to
wipe away the tears that are coara
ing down your wan cheeks. And of
course I didn't. We had a real good
cry together, and yowed we loved
each other better than ever, and no
body could come between us, not
even bringing a chocolate-fudge-marsh-mallow
college- ice which -.we both
adore. But I told her that she would
be all right, just the same, for of
course I should never step my. foot
inside of that schoolhouse again. That
I couldn't, out of respect to Mother.
That I should tell Aunt Jane that to
morrow morning. There isn't any
other school here, so they can't send
ine anywhere else. But it's 'most time
for school to close, anyway. There
nre only two weeks more..--- -'
But I don't think-that, 'will make any
difference to Aunt Jane.i It's Jhe prin
ciple of the thing, "it s always' the
principle of the thing wltlts Ahfifiane,
She'll be very ' angry, I know.;; ifj.v.be;
she'll send me home. Oh, I hope she
will ! " . ': ;
Well. I shall tell her-tomorrow, "any
way. Then we'll see.
ONE DAY LATER.
And, dear, dear, what a day' lt has
I told her this morning. She was'
very angry. She said at first: "Non
sense, Mary, don't be impertinent. ' Of
course you'll go to school!" and all
that kind of talk. But I kept my tem
per. I did not act angry. I was sim
ply firm and dignified. And when sho
saw I really meant what I said, and
that I would not step my foot inside
that schoolroom again that it was a
matter of conscience with me that I
did not think it was tight for me to
do It. she simply stared for a minute,
as If she couldn't believe her eyes and
ears. Then she -gasped :
"Mary, what do you mean by such
talk to me? Do you think I shall per-
mit this sort of thing to go on for a
I thought then she was going to
send me home. Oh, I did so hope she
was. But she didn't. She sent me
to my room.s
"You will stay there until your fa-,
ther comes home this noon," she said.
"This is a matter for hi in to settle." .
Father! And I never .even thought
of her going to him with it. . She was
always telling me never to bother Fa- ;
ther with anything, and I knew she :
didn't usually ask him anything' about '
ine. She settled everything, herself.
But Ibis and the very thing I didn't
want her to ask him, too. But of
course I couldn't help myself. That's
the trouble. Youth is so helpless In
the clutch-rs of old age.
Well, 1 went to my room. Aunt
Jane told me to meditate on my sins.
Hut I didn't. I meditated on other
people's sins. I didu't have any to
meditate on. Was it a sin, pray, for ,
ine lo stand up for my mother and re
fuse to associate with people who
wouldn't assiK-iate with me on account
of her? I guess not!.
I meditated on Stella Mayhew and
her mother, and on those silly, faith
less girls that thought more of Ice
cream soda than they did of justice
and right to their fellow schoolmate.
And I meditated on Aunt Jane and
her never giving me so much as a
single kiss since I came.' And I medi
tated on how much better Father liked
stars and comets than he did his own
daughter; and I meditated on what a .
cruel, heartless world this is, anyway, ;
and what a pity It was that I, so fair I
and young, should have found it out ;
so soon right- ou the bank, as iwere,
or where that brook and. river jiieet...
And I wondered, if I died if anybody
would care; and I thought how beau
tiful and pathetic I would look ..in my
coffin with my lily-white hands folded
on my breast. And I hoped .they'd
have the funeral in the daytime, be
cause if it was at nighttime Fathr'd
be sure to have a star or something to
keep him from coming. And I wnnt
ed him to come. I wanted hiin to feel
bad; and I meditated on how had he
would feel when it was too late.
But even with all this to meditate
on, it was an awfully long time com
ing noon ; and they didn't call me
down to dinner even then. Aunt Jane
sent up two pieces of bread without
any bul ler and a glass of water. How
like Aunt Jane making even my din
ner a sin to meditate on!' Only she "
would call it my sin, and I would call ;
t hers ':
(To be continued next week)
ST FOR ONE
CE TO YOU
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