Well, I told him everything (when I got started there was no stopping)—­all about how hard it was to be Mary, and how to-day I had tried to be Marie for just a little while, to rest me.  He interrupted here, and wanted to know if that was why I looked so different to-day—­more as I had when I first came; and I said yes, that these were Marie things that Mary couldn’t wear.  And when he asked, “Why, pray?” in a voice almost cross, I told him, of course, that Aunt Jane wouldn’t let me; that Mary had to wear brown serge and calfskin boots that were durable, and that would wear well.

And when I told him how sorry I was about the music and such a noise as I’d been making, he asked if that was Marie’s fault, too; and I said yes, of course—­that Aunt Jane didn’t like to have Mary play at all, except hymns and funeral marches, and Mary didn’t know any.  And he grunted a queer little grunt, and said, “Well, well, upon my soul, upon my soul!” Then he said, “Go on.”  And I did go on.

I told him how I was afraid it was going to be just like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. (I forgot to say I’ve read it now.  I found it in Father’s library.) Of course not just like it, only one of me was going to be bad, and one good, I was afraid, if I didn’t look out.  I told him how Marie always wanted to kick up rugs, and move the chairs out of their sockets in the carpet, and leave books around handy, and such things.  And so to-day it seemed as if I’d just got to have a vacation from Mary’s hot gingham dresses and clumpy shoes.  And I told him how lonesome I was without anybody, not anybody; and I told about Charlie Smith and Paul Mayhew and Mr. Claude Livingstone, and how Aunt Jane wouldn’t let me have them, either, even if I was standing where the brook and river meet.

Father gave another funny little grunt here, and got up suddenly and walked over to the window.  I thought at first he was angry; but he wasn’t.  He was even more gentle when he came back and sat down again, and he seemed interested, very much interested in everything I told him.  But I stopped just in time from saying again how I wished I could go back to Boston; but I’m not sure but he knew I was going to say it.

But he was very nice and kind and told me not to worry about the music—­that he didn’t mind it at all.  He’d been in several times and heard it.  And I thought almost, by the way he spoke, that he’d come in on purpose to hear it; but I guess that was a mistake.  He just put it that way so I wouldn’t worry over it—­about its bothering him, I mean.

He was going to say more, maybe; but I don’t know, I had to run.  I heard Aunt Jane’s voice on the piazza saying good-bye to the lady that had brought her home; so, of course, I had to run and hang Marie in the closet and get out Mary from the corner before she saw me.  And I did.

By dinner-time I had on the gingham dress and the hot clumpy shoes again; and I had washed my face in cold water so I had got most of the tear spots off.  I didn’t want Aunt Jane to see them and ask questions, of course.  And I guess she didn’t.  Anyway, she didn’t say anything.