Then she asked me a lot of questions about what I did there, and Aunt Jane, and how she looked, and Father, and was he as fond of stars as ever (though she must have known ’most everything, ’cause I’d already written it, but she asked me just the same).  And she seemed real interested in everything I told her.

And she asked was he lonesome; and I told her no, I didn’t think so; and that, anyway, he could have all the ladies’ company he wanted by just being around when they called.  And when she asked what I meant, I told her about Mrs. Darling, and the rest, and how they came evenings and Sundays, and how Father didn’t like them, but would flee to the observatory.  And she laughed and looked funny, for a minute.  But right away she changed and looked very sober, with the kind of expression she has when she stands up in church and says the Apostles’ Creed on Sunday; only this time she said she was very sorry, she was sure; that she hoped my father would find some estimable woman who would make a good home for him.

Then the dinner-gong sounded, and she didn’t say any more.

There was company that evening.  The violinist.  He brought his violin, and he and Mother played a whole hour together.  He’s awfully handsome.  I think he’s lovely.  Oh, I do so hope he’s the one!  Anyhow, I hope there’s some one.  I don’t want this novel to all fizzle out without there being any one to make it a love story!  Besides, as I said before, I’m particularly anxious that Mother shall find somebody to marry her, so she’ll stop being divorced, anyway.

* * * * *

A month later.

Yes, I know it’s been ages since I’ve written here in this book; but there just hasn’t been a minute’s time.

First, of course, school began, and I had to attend to that.  And, of course, I had to tell the girls all about Andersonville—­except the parts I didn’t want to tell, about Stella Mayhew, and my coming out of school.  I didn’t tell that.  And right here let me say how glad I was to get back to this school—­a real school—­so different from that one up in Andersonville!  For that matter, everything’s different here from what it is in Andersonville.  I’d so much rather be Marie than Mary.  I know I won’t ever be Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde here.  I’ll be the good one all the time.

It’s funny how much easier it is to be good in silk stockings and a fluffy white dress than it is in blue gingham and calfskin.  Oh, I’ll own up that Marie forgets sometimes and says things Mary used to say; like calling Olga a hired girl instead of a maid, as Aunt Hattie wants, and saying dinner instead of luncheon at noon, and some other things.

I heard Aunt Hattie tell Mother one day that it was going to take about the whole six months to break Mary Marie of those outlandish country ways of hers. (So, you see, it isn’t all honey and pie even for Marie.  This trying to be Mary and Marie, even six months apart, isn’t the easiest thing ever was!) I don’t think Mother liked it very well—­what Aunt Hattie said about my outlandish ways.  I didn’t hear all Mother said, but I knew by the way she looked and acted, and the little I did hear, that she didn’t care for that word “outlandish” applied to her little girl—­not at all.