Well, Aunt Jane and I didn’t speak that night at the supper-table.  We finished in stern silence; then Aunt Jane went upstairs to her room and I went up to mine. (You see what a perfectly wildly exciting life Mary is living!  And when I think of how full of good times Mother wanted every minute to be.  But that was for Marie, of course.)

The next morning after breakfast Aunt Jane said: 

“You will spend your forenoon studying, Mary.  See that you learn well your lessons, so as not to annoy your father.”

“Yes, Aunt Jane,” said Mary, polite and proper, and went upstairs obediently; but even Mary didn’t know exactly how to study those lessons.

Carrie had brought me all my books from school.  I had asked her to when I knew that I was not going back.  There were the lessons that had been assigned for the next day, of course, and I supposed probably Father would want me to study those.  But I couldn’t imagine Father teaching me all alone.  And how was I ever going to ask him questions, if there were things I didn’t understand?  Besides, I couldn’t imagine myself reciting lessons to Father—­Father!

But I needn’t have worried.  If I could only have known.  Little did I think—­But, there, this is no way to tell a story.  I read in a book, “How to Write a Novel,” that you mustn’t “anticipate.” (I thought folks always anticipated novels.  I do.  I thought you wanted them to.)

Well, to go on.

Father got home at four o’clock.  I saw him come up the walk, and I waited till I was sure he’d got settled in the library, then I went down.

He wasn’t there.

A minute later I saw him crossing the lawn to the observatory.  Well, what to do I didn’t know.  Mary said to go after him; but Marie said nay, nay.  And in spite of being Mary just now, I let Marie have her way.

Rush after him and tell him he’d forgotten to hear my lessons? Father?  Well, I guess not!  Besides, it wasn’t my fault. I was there all ready.  It wasn’t my blame that he wasn’t there to hear me.  But he might remember and come back.  Well, if he did, I’d be there.  So I went to one of those bookcases and pulled out a touch-me-not book from behind the glass door.  Then I sat down and read till the supper-bell rang.

Father was five minutes late to supper.  I don’t know whether he looked at me or not.  I didn’t dare to look at him—­until Aunt Jane said, in her chilliest manner: 

“I trust your daughter had good lessons, Charles.”

I had to look at him then.  I just couldn’t look anywhere else.  So I was looking straight at him when he gave that funny little startled glance into my eyes.  And into his eyes then there crept the funniest, dearest little understanding twinkle—­and I suddenly realized that Father, Father, was laughing with me at a little secret between us.  But ’t was only for a second.  The next moment his eyes were very grave and looking at Aunt Jane.