Now just my writing that down that way shows that I expected to hear from him, though I don’t really see why I should, either.  Of course, he never has written to me; and, of course, I understand that I’m nothing but his daughter by order of the court.  But, some way, I did think maybe he’d write me just a little bit of a note in answer to mine—­my bread-and-butter letter, I mean; for of course, Mother had me write that to him as soon as I got here.

But he hasn’t.

I wonder how he’s getting along, and if he misses me any.  But of course, he doesn’t do that.  If I was a star, now—!

* * * * *

Two days after Thanksgiving.

The violinist has got a rival.  I’m sure he has.  It’s Mr. Easterbrook.  He’s old—­much as forty—­and bald-headed and fat, and has got lots of money.  And he’s a very estimable man. (I heard Aunt Hattie say that.) He’s awfully jolly, and I like him.  He brings me the loveliest boxes of candy, and calls me Puss. (I don’t like that, particularly.  I’d prefer him to call me Miss Anderson.) He’s not nearly so good-looking as the violinist.  The violinist is lots more thrilling, but I shouldn’t wonder if Mr. Easterbrook was more comfortable to live with.

The violinist is the kind of a man that makes you want to sit up and take notice, and have your hair and finger nails and shoes just right; but with Mr. Easterbrook you wouldn’t mind a bit sitting in a big chair before the fire with a pair of old slippers on, if your feet were tired.

Mr. Easterbrook doesn’t care for music.  He’s a broker.  He looks awfully bored when the violinist is playing, and he fidgets with his watch-chain, and clears his throat very loudly just before he speaks every time.  His automobile is bigger and handsomer than the violinist’s. (Aunt Hattie says the violinist’s automobile is a hired one.) And Mr. Easterbrook’s flowers that he sends to Mother are handsomer, too, and lots more of them, than the violinist’s.  Aunt Hattie has noticed that, too.  In fact, I guess there isn’t anything about Mr. Easterbrook that she doesn’t notice.

Aunt Hattie likes Mr. Easterbrook lots better than she does the violinist.  I heard her talking to Mother one day.  She said that any one that would look twice at a lazy, shiftless fiddler with probably not a dollar laid by for a rainy day, when all the while there was just waiting to be picked an estimable gentleman of independent fortune and stable position like Mr. Easterbrook—­well, she had her opinion of her; that’s all.  She meant Mother, of course. I knew that.  I’m no child.

Mother knew it, too; and she didn’t like it.  She flushed up and bit her lip, and answered back, cold, like ice.

“I understand, of course, what you mean, Hattie; but even if I acknowledged that this very estimable, unimpeachable gentleman was waiting to be picked (which I do not), I should have to remind you that I’ve already had one experience with an estimable, unimpeachable gentleman of independent fortune and stable position, and I do not care for another.”