I can’t see as Father has changed much of any these last two weeks.  He still doesn’t pay much of any attention to me, though I do find 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 and Mother.

The last time I told him all about Mr. Harlow, and he was so interested!  I just happened to mention his name, and he wanted to know right away if it was Mr. Carl Harlow, and if I knew whether Mother had ever known him before.  And of course I told him right away that it was—­the same one she was engaged to before she was engaged to him.

Father looked funny and kind of grunted and said, yes, yes, he knew.  Then he said, “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 walked around the room, picking out books from the bookcases and putting them right back, and picking up things from the mantel and putting them right back.  Then he turned to me and asked with a kind of of-course-I-don’t-care air: 

“Did 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 careful not to call Mr. Harlow a prospective suitor, of course.  I remembered too well what Aunt Hattie had said.  Father didn’t say anything when I got through.  He just got up and left the 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 the suitor.) He doesn’t go anywhere, 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 prospective suitor to any one, she’d be my new mother, maybe.  And I’m going to be awfully particular about any new mother coming into the house.

A whole lot more, even, depends on mothers than on fathers, you know; and if you’re going to have one all ready-made thrust upon you, you are sort of anxious to 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; and 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 the schools, and some nice unmarried ladies in the church.  And there’s Miss Parmelia Snow.  She’s Professor Snow’s sister.  She wears glasses and is terribly learned.  Maybe he would like her.  But, mercy!  I shouldn’t.