Two weeks later.

A queer thing happened last night.  It was like this: 

I think I said before what an awfully stupid time Mary is having of it, and how I couldn’t play now, or make any noise, ’cause Father has taken to hanging around the house so much.  Well, listen what happened.

Yesterday Aunt Jane went to spend the day with her best friend.  She said for me not to leave the house, as some member of the family should be there.  She told me to sew an hour, weed an hour, dust the house downstairs and upstairs, and read some improving book an hour.  The rest of the time I might amuse myself.

Amuse myself!  A jolly time I could have all by myself!  Even Father wasn’t to be home for dinner, so I wouldn’t have that excitement.  He was out of town, and was not to come home till six o’clock.

It was an awfully hot day.  The sun just beat down, and there wasn’t a breath of air.  By noon I was simply crazy with my stuffy, long-sleeved, high-necked blue gingham dress and my great clumpy shoes.  It seemed all of a sudden as if I couldn’t stand it—­not another minute—­not a single minute more—­to be Mary, I mean.  And suddenly I determined that for a while, just a little while, I’d be Marie again.  Why couldn’t I?  There wasn’t anybody going to be there but just myself, all day long.

I ran then upstairs to the guest-room closet where Aunt Jane had made me put all my Marie dresses and things when the Mary ones came.  Well, I got out the very fluffiest, softest white dress there was there, and the little white slippers and the silk stockings that I loved, and the blue silk sash, and the little gold locket and chain that Mother gave me that Aunt Jane wouldn’t let me wear.  And I dressed up.  My, didn’t I dress up?  And I just threw those old heavy shoes and black cotton stockings into the corner, and the blue gingham dress after them (though Mary went right away and picked the dress up, and hung it in the closet, of course); but I had the fun of throwing it, anyway.

Oh, how good those Marie things did feel to Mary’s hot, tired flesh and bones, and how I did dance and sing around the room in those light little slippers!  Then Susie rang the dinner-bell and I went down to the dining-room feeling like a really truly young lady, I can tell you.

Susie stared, of course and said, “My, how fine we are to-day!” But I didn’t mind Susie.

After dinner I went out into the hall and I sang; I sang all over the house.  And I ran upstairs and I ran down; and I jumped all the last three steps, even if it was so warm.  Then I went into the parlor and played every lively thing that I could think of on the piano.  And I sang there, too—­silly little songs that Marie used to sing to Lester.  And I tried to think I was really down there to Boston, singing to Lester; and that Mother was right in the next room waiting for me.