Now wasn’t that funny?  But I just loved it, all the same.  I always love Mother when she’s superb and haughty and disdainful.

Well, after she had gone Aunt Hattie looked at Grandpa and Grandpa looked at Aunt Hattie.  Grandpa shrugged his shoulders, and gave his hands a funny little flourish; and Aunt Hattie lifted her eyebrows and said: 

“Well, what do you know about that?” (Aunt Hattie forgot I was in the room, I know, or she’d never in the world have used slang like that!) “And after all the things she’s said about how unhappy she was!” finished Aunt Hattie.

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, and it’s growing nicer all 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, and the little fern-dish on the dining-room table, the books and magazines just lying around ready to be picked up; Baby Lester laughing and singing all over the house, and lovely ladies and gentlemen in the drawing-room having music and tea and little cakes when I come home from school in the afternoon.  And I love it not to have to look up and watch and listen for fear Father’s coming in and I’ll be making a noise.  And best of all I love Mother with her dancing eyes and her laugh, and her just being happy, with no going in and finding her crying or looking long and fixedly at 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, and they said they were.  They called her “Poor Madge,” and “Dear Madge,” and they said it was a shame that she should have had such a wretched experience, and that they for one should try to do everything 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 comes to see her, so that Mother is in just one whirl 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 forgetting, 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 sometimes 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.