I stayed in my room the rest of that evening; and for the second time 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 calfskin boots.  My, but I hope they’re stiff and homely enough—­all of them!  And hot, too.  Aunt Jane did say to-day that she didn’t know but what she’d made a mistake not to get gingham dresses.  But, then, she’d have to get the gingham later, anyway, she said; then I’d have both.

Well, they can’t be worse than the serge.  That’s sure.  I hate the serge.  They’re awfully homely.  Still, I don’t know but it’s just as well.  Certainly it’s lots easier to be Mary in a brown serge and clumpy boots than it is in the soft, fluffy things Marie used to wear.  You couldn’t be Marie in these things.  Honestly, I’m feeling real Maryish these days.

I wonder if that’s why the girls seem so queer at school.  They are queer.  Three times lately I’ve come up to a crowd of girls and heard them stop talking right off short.  They colored up, too; and pretty quick they began to slip away, one by one, 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 Mayhew had a party last night.  But I didn’t get invited.  Of course, you can’t always ask everybody to your parties, but this was a real big party, and I haven’t found a girl in school, yet, that wasn’t invited—­but me.  But I guess it wasn’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 to 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, as I said, I feel Maryish already.

I haven’t dared to touch the piano since that night a week ago, only once when Aunt Jane was at a missionary meeting, and I knew Father was over to the college.  But didn’t I have a good time then?  I just guess I did!

Aunt Jane doesn’t care for music.  Besides, it’s noisy, she says, and would be likely to disturb Father.  So I’m not to keep on with my music lessons here.  She’s going to teach me to sew instead.  She says sewing is much more sensible and useful.

Sensible and useful!  I wonder how many times I’ve heard those words since I’ve been here.  And durable, too.  And nourishing.  That’s another word.  Honestly, Marie is getting awfully tired of Mary’s sensible sewing and dusting, and her durable clumpy shoes and stuffy dresses, and her nourishing oatmeal and whole-wheat bread.  But there, what can you do?  I’m trying to remember that it’s different, anyway, and that I said I liked something different.