And it’s all that Stella Mayhew—­the new girl.  Her mother found out I was divorced (I mean Mother was) and she told Stella not to play with me, nor speak to me, nor have a thing to do with me.  And I said to Carrie, all right!  Who cared? I didn’t.  That I never had liked that Mayhew girl, anyway.  But Carrie said that wasn’t all.  She said Stella had got to be real popular before I came; that her folks had lots of money, and she always had candy and could treat to ice-cream and auto rides, and everybody with her was sure of a good time.  She had parties, too—­lots of them; and of course, all the girls and boys liked that.

Well, when I came everything was all right till Stella’s mother found out about the divorce, and then—­well, then things were different.  First Stella contented herself with making fun of me, Carrie said.  She laughed at the serge dresses and big homely shoes, and then she began on my name, and said the idea of being called Mary by Father and Marie by Mother, and that ’t was just like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (That’s a story, Carrie says.  I’m going to read it, if Father’s got it.  If there ever was another Mary and Marie all in one in the world I want to know what she did.) But Carrie says the poking fun at me didn’t make much difference with the girls, so Stella tried something else.  She not only wouldn’t speak to me herself, or invite me, or anything, but she told all the girls that they couldn’t go with her and me, too.  That they might take their choice.  And Carrie said some of them did choose and stayed with me; but they lost all the good times and ice-cream and parties and rides and everything; and so one by one they dropped me and went back to Stella, and now there wasn’t anybody left, only her, Carrie.  And then she began to cry.

And when she stopped speaking, and I knew all, and saw her crying there before me, and thought of my dear blessed mother, I was so angry I could scarcely speak.  I just shook with righteous indignation.  And in my most superb, haughty, and disdainful manner I told Carrie Heywood to dry her tears; that she needn’t trouble herself any further, nor worry about losing any more ice-cream nor parties.  That I would hereto declare our friendship null and void, and this day set my hand and seal to never speak to her again, if she liked, and considered that necessary to keeping the acquaintance of the precious Stella.

But she cried all the more at that, and flung herself upon me, and, of course, I began to cry, too—­and you can’t stay superb and haughty and disdainful when you’re all the time trying to hunt up a handkerchief to wipe away the tears that are coursing down your wan cheeks.  And of course I didn’t.  We had a real good cry together, and vowed we loved each other better than ever, and nobody could come between us, not even bringing a chocolate-fudge-marshmallow college ice—­which we both adore.  But I told her that she would be all right, just the same, for of course I should never step my foot inside of that schoolhouse again.  That I couldn’t, out of respect to Mother.  That I should tell Aunt Jane that to-morrow morning.  There isn’t any other school here, so they can’t send me anywhere else.  But it’s ’most time for school to close, anyway.  There are only two weeks more.