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MARIE By Eleanor H. Porter Illustrations by H. Livingstone CawrtsStftrSto SYNOPSIS PREFACE. 'Mary Marie" explains her apparent "double personality" and Just why she Is a "cross-current and a contra diction:" she also tells her reasons for writing the diary later to be a novel. The diary 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 tne same night. Her name is a compromise, her mother wanted to call her Viola and ber father insisting on Abigail Jane. The child qulcKly learned that her home was in some war diiferent from those of hsr mall friends, and was puzzled thereat. Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's ar rival at Andersonville as a bride and how astonished thev all were at the sii;ht 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 the child and howher father and mother drifted apart through mlsunderstanuii.g. each too proud to in any way aitempt to smooth over the situation. CHAPTER ni.-M.try 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 hen unacoumable behavior. By the court's decree the child is to spend lz 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 tne first six months. HAr-l r.R IV. At Boston Mary be. comes "Marie." She is delighted with her new home, bo difierent from the gioomy house at Andersonville. The number or gentlemen who call on her mother leads her 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" and a Mr. Harlow. A conversation she overhears between her mother and Mr. Harlow convinces her that it will not be that gentleman, and "to violinist" seem 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 Andersonville for the six months she is to spnd with her father. Her mother is distressed, but has no alternative, and "Marie" depart' for Andersonville. CHAPTER V.-At Andersonville Aunt Jane meets her t the station. Her fa ther Is away somewhere, studying an eclipse of the moon. Marie "Mary" now Instinctively compares Aunt Jane, prim and severe, with tier beautiful, dainty mother, much to the former's disadvan tage. Aunt Jane disapproves of the dain ty clothes which the child is wearing, and replaces them with "serviceable" series and thick-coled shoes. Her father arrives borne and seems surprised to see her. The child soon begins to notice that the girls at school seem to avoid her. Her father appears interested In the life Mrs. An derson leads at Boston and asks many questions in a queer manner which puzzles Mary. She finds out that her schoolmates do not associate with her on account of her parents being divorced, and she refuses to attend school. Angry av first. Mr. Anderson, when he .earns the reason for her determination, decide? that she need not go. He will h"ar her lessons. In Aunt Jane's and her father's absence Mary dresses In the pretty clothes she brought from Boston and plays the liveliest tunes she knows, on the little used piano. Then, overcome by her lone someness. she Indulges in a crying spell which her father's unexpected appear ance interrupts. She sobs nut the story of her unhappiness, and in a clunisv way he comforts her. After that he appears to desire to make he.' stay more pleasant Her mother writes asking that Mary be allowed to come to Boston for the begin ning of the school term, and Mr. Ander son consents, though from an expression he lets fall Mary believes he is sorry sh is coin. Well, after dinner Father sent for me to come down to the library. 80 I knew then, of course, that Aunt Jane had told hint. I didn't know hut she would wait until night. Father usu ally spends li.is hour after dinner reading In the library und mustn't be disturbed. But evidently ttb-.y Aunt Jane- thought I was mure consequence than his rending. Anyhow, she told him, and lie sent for me. My! but I hated to go! Fit! hers and Aunt Janes are two different propo sitions. Fathers hnve uior rights and privileges, of course, F.verjbody knows Hint. Well. I went Into the lihriry. Fn Iher stood wlih his back to the fire- I Went Into the Library. Father Stood With Hi Back to the Fireplace and His Hands in His Pockets. EVERY FAMILY SHOULD place and his hands In his pockets. He was plainly angry at being dis turbed. Anybody couid see that. He began speaking at once, the minute I got iuto the room very cold and dig nified. "Mary, your aunt tells me you have heen disobedient and disrespectful to her. Have yon anything to say?" I shook my head and said. "No. sir." What" could I say? Old folks ask such senseless questions, sometimes. Naturally I wasn't going to say I had been disrespectful and disobedient when I hadn't ; and of course. I couldn't say I hadn't beeu when Aunt Jane said I had. That would be Just like saying Aunt June lied. So. of course. I had nothing to say. And I said so. "But she says you refused to go back to school. Mary," said Father then. "Yes. sir." "Then you did refuse?" "Yes, sir." "Well, you may go and tell her now, please, that you are sorry, and that you will go to school this afternoon. You may go now." Aud he turned to the table and picked up his book. I didn't go. of course. I Just stood there twisting ray handkerchief In my fingers: and.' of course, right away he saw me. He hail sat down then. "Mary, didn't you hear me?" he de manded. "Yes, sir, but Father, I can't go back to that school," I choked. And I began to cry. "But I tell you that you must." I shook my head. "I can't." "Do you mean that you defy me as you did your Aunt Jane this morn ing? that you refuse to go back to school?" "Yes. sir." For a minute lie sat aud stared at me Just as Aunt Jane had done; then he lifted his head and threw back his shoulders as if he was throwing off n heavy weight. "Come, come, Mary." he said stern ly. "I am not a patient man, anil my temper has reached the breaking point. You will go back to school and you will go now. I mean that. Mury." "But. Father. I can't.' I choked: and I guess there was something In my face this time that made even him see. For again he Just stared for a minute, and then said : "Mary- what In the world does this mean? Why can't you go back? Have yon been exielled? "Oh, 110. sir." "Then you .mean yon won't go back." "I mean I can't n account of Mother." I wouldn't have said it If I hadn't had to. I didn't want to tell him. but I knew from the very first that I'd have to tell him before I got through. I could see it in his face. And so, now. with his eyes blazing as he jumped al most out of his chair and exclaimed : "Your mother!'' I let It out and got It over as soon as possible. "I mean, on account of Mother that not for you, or Aunt Jane, or anybody will I go back to that school ii ml associate with folks that won't associate with me on account of Mother." And then I told It all about the girls, Stella Mayhew, Carrie, aud how they acted, and what they said about my being Lr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde because I was a Mary and a Marie, aud the Ice-cream, and the parties they had to give up If they went with tne. And I know I was cry ing so I could hardly speak, before I finished; and Father was on his feet trumping up and down the room mut tering something under his breath, anil lookit.g oh, I can't begin to tell how lie looked. But it was awful. "And so that's why I wish," I fin ished chokingly, "that It would hurry up and be a je.tr, so Mother could gel married." "Married !" I.Ike a flash he turned ind stopped short, staring at me. "Why, yes." I explained ; "for If she lid get married, she wouldn't he :l vorced any longer, would she?" But he wouldn't answer. With a queer little noise In his throat he turned again and began to walk up and down, up and down, until I thought for a minute he'd forgotten I was there. But he hadn't. For after a while he stopped again right In frn.it of me. "So your mother Is thinking of gct ling marrl-.'d." he said In a voice so queer It sounded as If It had come from away off somewhere. lint I shook my ieud and said no. of course; and that I was very sure she wouldn't till her year was up. and even then I didn't know which she'd take, so I couldn't tell for sure any thing about it. But I hoped she'd take one of them, so she wouldn't be di vorced any longer. Father niiu.d, and began lo walk t:p and down again, with his hands in bis pockets; and I didn't know whether to go away or to stay, and I suppose I'd have been there now if Aunt Jane hadn't suddenly appeared in tiie library doorway. "Charles, If Mary is going to school at till today It is high time she was starting." she said. But Father didn't seem to hear. He was still tramping up and down the room, his hands in his pockets. "diaries!" Aunt Jane raised her voice and spoke again. "I said if Mary Is going to school at nil today it Is lii-'li time she was starting." "F.h? What?" If you'll believe It, that man looked as dazed as if he'd never even heard of my going to school. Then suddenly his face changed. "Oh, yes, to be sure. Well, er Mary Is not going to school to day." he said. Then he looked at his wuK-li, und without another word strode into the hall, got his hut, and left the house, leaving Aunt Jane and me stilling into each other's faces. But I didn't stay much longer than Father did. I strode In to the hall, too, by Aunt Jane. But I didn't leave the house. I came up here to my owu room ; and ever since I've been writ iiig it all down in my book. of course, I don't know now what's going to happen nest. But I wish you could have seen Aunt Jane's face when Father suid I wasn't going to school today! I don't believe she's sure yet that she heard aright though s'ie didn't try to stop me, or even speak when I left aud came upstairs. But I Just know she's keeping up a power ful thinking. For that matter, so am I. What is going to happen next? Have I got to go to school tomorrow? But then, of course. I shan't do that. Besides, I don't believe Father'!) ask me to, aft er what I said about Mother. He didn't like that what those girls said any better than I did. I'm sure of that. Why, he looked simply furious. Bet there Isn't any other school here that I can be sent to, and But w hut's the use? I might sur mise and speculate all day and not come auywhere near the truth. I must uwait what the night will bring forth, as they suy In really truly novels. FOUR DAYS LATER And what did the night bring forth? Yea, what did It bring! Verily it brought forth one thing I thought noth ing ever could have brought forth. It .was like this. That night at the supper table Aunt Jane cleared her throat in the I-am-deteriuined-I-wlll-speak kind of a way that she always uses when she speaks to Father. (Aunt Jane doesn't tall: to Father much more than Mother used to.) "Claries," she began. Father had an astronomy paper be side his plate, and he wag so busy rending he didn't hear, so Aunt Jane had to speak again a little louder this lime. "Charles, I have something to say to you." "Kb? What? Oh er yes. Well. Jane, what is it?" Father was looking up with his I'll-he-patient-if-it-kills-me air, and with his forefinger down on his paper to keep his place. As If anybody could talk to a per son who's simply tolerating you for a minute like that, with his forefinger holding on to what he wnts to tend to! Why. I actually found myself being sorry for Aunt Jane. She cleared her throat again. "It Is understood, of course, that Mary is to go to school tomorrow munilng. I suppose," she said. "Why, of course, of course," began Father impatiently, looking down at his paper. "Of course she'll go to" he stopped suddenly. A complete change came lo ids face. He grew red, then white. His eyes sort of flashed. "School?" he said then, in a hard, decided voice. "Oh. no; M:iry is uot going to school tomorrow morn ing." He looked down to his paper and began to read again. For him the subject was very evidently closed. Bui for Aunt Jane it was not closed. "You thm't mean. Charles, that she Is not to go to school at all, any more," she gasped. "Exactly," Father read on In his paper without looking up. Aunt Jane's lips came together hard. "Charles, I'm amazed at you yield ing to that child's whims like this that she doesn't want to go to school t It's the principle of the thing that I'm objecting to. Do you realize what it will lead to what it " "Jane!" with a jerk Father sat up straight. "I realize some things that perhaps you do uot. But that Is neither here nor there. I do not wish Mary to go to school any more tiiis spring. That is all; and I think it is sufficient." "Certainly." Aunt Jane's lips came together again grim and hard. "Per haps you will be good enough to say what site shall do with her time." "Time? Do? Why er what she always does; read, sew, study " "Study?" Aunt Jane asked the ques tion wiih a hateful little smile that Fattier would have been blind not to have understood. And he was equal to it hut I 'most fell over backward when I found how equal to it he was. "Certainly," he says, "study. I I II hear her lessons myself In the li brary, after I come home In the aft ernoon. Now let us hear no more about It." With that he pushed back his plate and left the table without waiting fur dessert. And Aunt Jane and 1 were left alone. I didn't say anything. . Victors shouldn't boast and I was a victor, of course, about the school. But when 1 thought of what Father had said about my reciting my lessons to him every day In the library I wasn't so sure whether I'd wuu out or not. Recife lessons to my father? Why, I couldn't even Imagine such n thing! Aunt Jane didn't say anything either. I guess she didn't know what to say. And it was kind of a queer situation, when you came right down to It. Both of us sitting there and knowing I wasn't going back to school any more, and I knowing why, and knowing Aunt June didn't know why. (Of course I had not told Aunt Jane about Mother and Mrs. Mayhew.) It would be a funny world, wouldn't It, if we all knew what each other was thinking all the time? Why, we'd get so we wouldn't any of us speak to each oth er, I'm afraid, we'd be so angry at what the other was thinking. Well, Aunt Jane and I didn't speak that night at the supper table. We finished in stern silence then ; Aunt Jane went upstairs to her room and I went up to mine, (You see what a perfectly wildly exciting life Mary Is living! And wheu I think of how full of eood times Mother wanted every HAVE THE HOME PAPER-$3.00 THE HOLBROOK NEWS, Holbrook Arizona. 'inutile Fo 1 TT Bui thai was for Marie, of course.) The next morning after breakfast Aunt June said : , "Yon will spend your forenopn study ing, Mary. See that you learn well your lessons, so as uot to annoy your father." "Yes, Annt Jane," said Mary, po lite and proper, and went upstairs obediently; but even Mary didn't know exactly how to study those les sons. Carrie had brought me all my books from school. I hud asked her to when I knew that I was not going back. There were the lessons that had been assigned for the next day. of course, mid I supposed probably Father would want me to study those. But I couldn't Imagine Father teaching me all alone. I couldn't Imagine my self reciting lessons to Father! But I needn't have worried. If 1 could only have known. Little did I think But, there, this is no way to tell a story. I read in a hook. "How to Write a Novel." that you mustn't "anticipate." (I thought folks always anticipated novels. I do. I thought you wanted them to.) Well, to go on. Father got home at four o'clock. I saw him come up the walk, and I united till I was sure he'd got settled in the library, then I went dawn. lie wasn't there. A mintile later I saw him crossing the lawn to the observatory. Well, what to do I didn't know. Mary said to go after hlni; but Murle said nay. nay. And In spite of being Mary Just now. I let Marie have her way. Kush after him and tell him he'd forgotten to hear my lessons? Fa ther? Well. I guess not! Besides, II wasn't my fault. I was there all ready. It wasn't my blame that he wasn't there to hear me. But he nii'ht remember and come back. Well. If he did. I'tl he there. So I went to one of lliosp bookcases and pulled out a toiii'li-me-not book from behind the glass door. Then I sat down and read till the slipper bell rang. Father was five minutes late to sup per. I don't know whether he looked at me or not. I didn't dare to look at him until Aunt Jane suid. in her chilliest manner: "I trust your daughter had good lessons, Charles." I had to look at him then. 1 Just couldn't look anywhere else. So I was looking straight at him when he gave thai runny little startled glance into my eyes. And into his eyes then there crept the funniest, dearest little understanding twinkle and I sudden ly rrulized lhal Father, Father, was laughing with me at a little secret be tween us. But "t was .only for a sec ond. The next moment his eyes were very grave and looking at Annt Jane. "1 have no cause to complain of my daughter's lessons today," he said very quietly. Then he glanced over at me again. Cut I had to look away quick, or I would have laughed right out. When he got up from the table he said to tne: "I shall expect to see you tomorrow hi the library at four, Mary." And Mary answered : "Yes, Father," polite and proper, as she should; but Marie Inside was Just chuckling with the Joke of It nil. The next day I watched again at four for Father to come up the walk ; and when lie had come in I went down to the library. He was there In his pet seat before the fireplace. (Father always sits before the fireplace, whether there's a fire there or not. And S''ietlmcs lie looks so funny sit ting there, staring into .those gray ashes Just ns if It was the liveliest kind of a fire he was watching.) As I said, lie was there, but I had to speak twice before lie looked up. Then, for a minute, he stored vaguely. "I Have No Cause to Complain of My . Daughter's Lessons Today," He Said Very Quietly. "Eli? Oh! Ah er yes, to he sure," he muttered then. "You have come with your books. Yes, I remember." But there wasn't any twinkle In his eyes, nor the least little bit of an un derstanding smile; and I was disap pointed. I had been looking for it. I knew then, when I felt so suddenly lost and heai't-nchey, that I had been 'expecting and planning all day on that twinkly understanding smile. You know you feel worse when you've Just found a father and then lost hi 111 ! And I had lost him. I knew it the minute he sighed and frowned and got tip from his sent and said, "Oh, yes, to be sure." He was Just Doctor Auderson then the inau who knew all about the stars, and who haft lieen unmarried to fell MAY, 5, 1922 Moliier, ana who called me "Mary" In an of-course-you're-my-daughter tone of voice. Well, he took my books and heard my lessons, and told me what I was to study next day." He's done that two days uow. Oh, I'm so tired of being Mary! And I've got more than four whole months of It left. I didn't get Moth er's letter today. Maybe that's why I'm specially lonesome tonight. JULY FIRST. School Is done, both the regular school and my school. Not that my school has amounted to much. Really It hasn't." Oh, for three or four days lie asked questions quite like just a teacher. Then he got to talking. Sometimes It would be about some thing in the lessons; sometimes It would be about a star, or the moon. And he'd get so interested that I'd think for a minute that maybe the un derstanding twinkle would come Into his eyes again. But it never did. Sometimes it wasn't stars and moons, though, thaf he talked about. It was Boston, and Mother. Yes, he did. He talked a lot about Mother. As I look back at It now, I can see that he did. He asked me all over again what she did, and about the parties, and the folks that came to see her. He asked again about Mr. Harlow, and about the concert, and the young man who played the violin,- and what was his name, and how old was he, and did 1 like him. And then, right in the mid dle of some question, or rather, right in the middle of some answer I was giving him, he would stiddenly remem ber he was hearing my lessons, and he would say, "Come, come, Mary, what lias this to do with-your les sons?" Just as if I was to blame! (But. then, we women always get the blame. I notice.) And then he'd attend strict ly to the hooks' for maybe five whole minutes before he asked another question about that party, or the vio linist. Naturally the lessons haven't umounted to much, as you can Imagine. But the term was nearly finished, any way; and my real school Is In Boston, of course. It's vacation now. I do hope that will amount to something! AUGUST FIRST. It hasn't, so far I mean vacation. Iteally, what a world of disappoint ment this Is! How on earth I'm go ing to stand being Mary for three months more I don't know. But I've got to, I suppose. I've been here May, June, and July; and that leaves Au gust, September, and October yet to come. And when I think of Mother and Boston and Marie, and the darling good times down there where you're really wanted, I am simply crazy. If Father wanted me, really wanted me, I wouldn't care a bit. I'd be will ing to be Mary six whole months. Yes, I'd be glad to. But he doesn't I'at Just here by order of the court. And what can you do when you're noth ing but a daughter by order of the court? Since the lessons have stopped. Father's gone back to his "Good-morning. Mary," and "Good-night," and nothing else, day In and day out. Lately he's got so he hangs around the house an awful lot, too, so I can't even do the things I did the first of the month. I mean that I'd been play ing some on the piano, along at the first, after school closed. Aunt Jane was out In the garden a lot, and Father out to the observatory, so I Just reveled In piano-playing till I found almost every time I did it that lie bad come back, and was In the library with the door open. so I don't dare to play now. And there Isn't a blessed thing to do. Oh, I have to sew an hour, and now I have to weed an hour, too; and Aunt Jane trleu to have me learn to cook; but Susie (In the kitchen) flatly refused to have me "messing around," so Aunt Jane bad to give that up. Susie's the one person Aunt Jane's afraid of, you see. She always threatens to leave If anything goes across her wishes. So Aunt Jane has fo be careful. I heard her tell Mrs. Small next door thnt good hired girls were awfully scarce In Andersonville. As I said before. If only there was somebody here that wanted me. But there Isn't. Of course Father doesn't That goes without saying. And Aunt Jane doesn't That goes, too, without saying. Carrie Heywood has gone away for all summer, so I can't have eveu her, and of course, I wouldn't associate with any of the other girls, even if they would associate with me which they -won't. That leaves only Mother's letters. They are dear, and I love them. I don't kuow what I'd do without them. And yet, sometimes I think maybe they're worse than If I didn't hnve them. They make me so homesick, and I always cry so after I get them. Still, I know I just couldn't live a minute If 't wasn't for Mother's let ters. a Besides being so lonesome there's another thing that worries me, too; and that Is, this what I'm writing, I mean. The novel. It's getting awful ly stupid. Nothing happens. Noth ing! Of course, if 'twas just a story I could make up things lots of them exciting, Interesting things, like having Mother elope with the violin ist, and Father shoot him and fall in love with Mother all over again, or else with somebody else, and shoot that one's lover. Or maybe somehody'd try to shoot Father, and I'd get there Just in time to save him. Oh, I'd love that ! But this Is a real story, so, of course, I can't put In anything only just what happens; and nothing happens. And that's another thing. About the love story I'm afraid there isn't going to be one. Anyway, there isn't a bit of a sign of one. yet. unless It's BRIGS IT TO YOU Mother. And' of course, 1 haven't seen ,ier for three months, so I can't say anything about that. ' Father doesn't like ladies. I know he doesn't. He always runs away from them. But they don't run away from him ! Listen. Quite a lot of them call here to see Aunt Jane, and they come lots of times evenings and late afternoons, and I know now why they do It. They come then because they think Faf her'll be at home at that time ;and they want to see him. I know it now, but I never thought of it till the other day when I heard our hired girl, Susie, talking about it with Eridget, the Smalls' hired girl, over the fence when I was weeding the garden one day. Then I knew. It was like this: Mrs. Darling had been over the night before as usual, and had stayed an awfully long time talking to Aunt Jane on the front piazza. Father had been there," too, awhile. She stopped him on his way into the house. I was there and I heard her. She said : 'Oh, Mr. Anderson, I'm so glad I saw you ! I wanted to ask your ad vice about selling poor dear Mr. Darling's law library." And then she went on to tell him how she'd had an offer, but she wasn't sure whether It was a good one or not. And she told him how highly she prized his opinion, and he was a man of such splendid judgment, and she felt so alone now with no strong man's shoulder to lean upon, and she would be so much obliged If he only would tell her whether he considered that offer a good one or not. Father hitched and ahernmed and moved nearer the door all the time she was talking, and he didn't seem to hear her when she pushed a chair toward him and asked him to please sit down and tell her what to do; that she was so alone in the world since poor dear Mr. Darling had gone. (She always calls him poor dear Mr. Dar ling now, but Susie says she didn't when he was alive; she called him something quite different. I wonder what it was.) Well, as I said, Father hitched and fidgeted, and said he didn't know, -he was sure ; that she'd better take wiser counsel than his, and that he was very sorry, but she really must excuse him. And he got through the door while he was talking just as fast as he could himself, so that she couldn't get in a single word to keep hlni. Then he was gone. Mrs. Darling stayed on the piazza two whole hours longer, but Father never came out at all again. It was the next morning that Susie said this over the back-yard fence to Bridget: "It does beat all how popular this house Is with the ladles after college hours!" And Bridget chuckled and answered back : "Sure It Is! An I do be thlnkln' the Widder Darllu' is a heap fonder of Miss Jane now than she would have been had poor dear Mr. Darllu' lived !" And she chuckled again, and so did Susie. Aud then, ail of a sudden, I knew. It was Father Mrs. Darling wanted. They came here to see him. They wanted to marry him. As If I didu't know what Susie and Bridtet meant ! I'm no child ! But ail this doesn't make Father like tliein. I'm not sure but it makes him dislike them. Anyhow, he won't have anything to do with them. He always runs away over to the observa tory, or somewhere, and won't see them ; and I've heard him say things about them to Aunt Jane, too words that sound all rigiit, but that don't mean what they say, aud everybody knows they don't. So, ns I said before, I don't see any chance of Father's hav ing a love story to help out this book not right away, anyhow. As for my love story I don't see any chance of that's beginning, either. Yet, seems as if there ought to be the beginning of it by this time I'm goirg on fifteen. Oh, there have been be ginnings, lots of them only Aunt Jane wouldn't let them go on and be endings, though I told her good and plain that I thought it perfectly all right ; and I reminded her about the brook and river meeting where I stood, and all that. But I couldn't make her see it at all. She said, "Stuff and nonsense" and when Aunt Jane says both stuff and nonsense I know there's nothing doing. (Oh, dear, that's slang! Aunt Jane says she does wish I would eliminate the slang from my vocabu lary. Well, I wish she'd eliminate some of the long words from hers. Marie said that not Mary.) Well, Aunt Jane said stuff and non sense, and that I was much too young to- run around 'with silly hoys. You see, Charlie Smith had walked home from school with me twice, but I had to stop that Aud Fred Small was get ting so he was over here a lot. Aunt Jane stopped lilra. Paul Mayhew yes. Paul Mayhew, Stella's brother! came home with me, too, and asked me to go with him auto-riding. My, how I did want to go! I wanted the ride, of course, but especially I wanted fo go because he was Mrs. Mayhew's son. I just wanted to show Mrs. May hew! But Aunt Jtme wouldn't let me. That's tiie time she talked specially about ruHtiing around with silly hoys. But she needn't have. Paul Is no silly hoy. He's old enough to get a license to drive his own car. But it wasn't just because he was young that Aunt Jane refused. I found out afterward. It was because he was any kind of a man paying me attention. I found that out through Mr. Claude Livingstone. Mr. Living stone brings our groceries. He's a real young gentleman tall, black mus tache, and lovely dark eyes. He goes to our church, and he asked me to go to the Sunday-school picnic with him. I was so pleased, And I supposed, of course. A iinf Jane would let me co Paul Is No Silly Boy. He's Old Enough to Get a License to Drive His Own Car. with him. He's no silly boy ! Besides. I knew him real welL. and liked him. I used to talk to him quite a lot when he brought the groceries. But did Aunt Jane let me go? She did not. Why, she seemed almost more shocked than she had been over Charlie Smith and Fred Small, and the others. "Mercy, child!" she exclaimed. "Where In the world do you pick up these people?' And she brought out that "these people" so disagreeably! Why, you'd think Mr. Livingstone was a foreign Japanese, or something. I told her then quietly, and with dignity, and with no temper (showing), that Mr. Livingstone was not a foreign Japanese, but was a very nice gentle man; and that I had not picked him up. He came to her own door himself, almost every day. "My own door!" exclaimed Aunt Jane. And she looked absolutely frightened. "You mean to tell me that that creature has been coming here to see you, and I not know it?" I told her then again quietly and with dignity, and without temper (showing) that he had been coming, not to see me, but in the natural pur suance of his profession of delivering groceries. And I said that he was not a treature. On the contrary, he was, I was sure, an estimable youn ; man. He went to her own church aud Sunday school. Besides, I could vouch for him myself, as I knew him well, having seen and talked with him al most every day for a long while, when he came to the house. But nothing I could say seemed to have the least effect upon her at all, only to make her angrier and angrier. If anything. In fact I think she showed a great deal of temper for a Christian woman about a fellow Chris tian in her own church. But she wouldn't let me go to the picnic ; and not only that, but I think she changed grocers, for Mr. Living stone hasn't been here for a long time, and when I asked Susie where he was she looked funny, and said we weren't getting our groceries where Mr. Liv ingstone worked any longer. Well, of course, that ended that And there hasn't been any other since. That's why I say my love story doesn't seem to be getting along very well. Naturally, when it gets noised around town that your Aunt Jane won't let you go anywhere with a young man, or let a young man come to see you, or even walk home with you after the first time why, the young men aren't going to do very much" toward making, your daily life Into a love story. TWO WEEKS LATER. A queer thing happened last night It was like this: I think I said before what an aw fully stupid time Mary is having of it, and how I couldn't play now, or make any noise, 'cause Father has taken to hanging around the house so much. Well, listen what happened : Yesterday Aunt Jane went to spend the day with her best friend. She said for me not to leave the house, as some member of the family should be there. She told me to sew an hour, weed an hour, dust the house down stairs and upstairs, and read some im proving hook an hour. The rest of the time I might amuse myself. Amuse myself! A jolly time I could have all by myself! Even Father wasn't to he home for dinner, so I wouldn't have that excitement He was out of town, and was not to come home till six o'clock. It was an awfully hot day. The sun just beat down, and there wasn't a breath of air. By noon I was simply crazy with my stuffy, long-sleeved, high-necked blue gingham dress and my great clumpy shoes. It seemed all of a sudden as if I couldn't stand It not another minute not a single min ute more to be Mary, I mean. And suddenly I determined that for a while, just a little while, I'd be Marie again. Why couldn't 1? There wasn't any body going to be there but Just my self, all day long. I ran then upstairs to the guest room closet where Aunt Jane had made me put all my Marie dresses and things when the Mary ones came. Well, I got nut the very fluffiest, soft est white dress there was there, and the little white slippers and the silk stockings that I loved, and the blue silk sash, and the little gold locket and chain that Mother gave me that Aunt Jane wouldn't let me wear. And I dressed up. My, didn't I dress up? (To be continued next week) FOR A YEAR "A Home Paper for Home Folks."