“Dear me!  How shall I ever remember not to run and skip and laugh loud or sing, or ask questions, or do anything that Marie wants to do?” I thought to myself.

And I wondered if Aunt Jane would meet me, and what she would be like.  She came once when I was a little girl, Mother said; but I didn’t remember her.

Well, at last we got to Andersonville.  John was there with the horses, and Aunt Jane, too.  Of course I knew she must be Aunt Jane, because she was with John.  The conductor was awfully nice and polite, and didn’t leave me till he’d seen me safe in the hands of Aunt Jane and John.  Then he went back to his train, and the next minute it had whizzed out of the station, and I was alone with the beginning of my next six months.

The first beginning was a nice smile, and a “Glad to see ye home, Miss,” from John, as he touched his hat, and the next was a “How do you do, Mary?” from Aunt Jane.  And I knew 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 head to foot.

Aunt Jane 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 surprised 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 is some gray, and doesn’t kink or curl anywhere; 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 that 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 carriage and 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 thinking 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 interrupted—­Aunt Jane did. (Funny how old folks can do what they won’t let you do.  Now if I’d interrupted anybody 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 taste, indeed, for you to make constant reference to things you may have been doing while not under his roof.  The situation is deplorable enough, however you take it, without making it positively unbearable.  You will remember, Mary?”