“But, my dear Madge,” began Aunt Hattie again, “to marry a man without any money—­”

“I haven’t married him yet,” cut in Mother, cold again, like ice.  “But let me tell you this, Hattie.  I’d rather live on bread and water in a log cabin with the man I loved than in a palace with an estimable, unimpeachable gentleman who gave me the shivers every time he came into the room.”

And it was just after she said this that I interrupted.  I was right in plain, sight in the window-seat reading; but I guess they’d forgotten I was there, for they both jumped a lot when I spoke.  And yet I’ll leave it to you if what I said wasn’t perfectly natural.

“Of course, you would, Mother!” I cried.  “And, anyhow, if you did marry the violinist, and you found out afterward you didn’t like him, that wouldn’t matter a mite, for you could unmarry him at any time, just as you did Father, and—­”

But they wouldn’t let me finish.  They wouldn’t let me say anything more.  Mother cried, “Marie!” in her most I’m-shocked-at-you voice; and Aunt Hattie cried, “Child—­child!” And she seemed shocked, too.  And both of them threw up their hands and looked at each other in the did-you-ever-hear-such-a-dreadful-thing? way that old folks do when young folks have displeased them.  And them they both went right out of the room, talking about the unfortunate effect on a child’s mind, and perverted morals, and Mother reproaching Aunt Hattie for talking about those things before that child (meaning me, of course).  Then they got too far down the hall for me to hear any more.  But I don’t see why they needed to have made such a fuss.  It wasn’t any secret that Mother got a divorce; and if she got one once, of course she could again.  (That’s what I’m going to do when I’m married, if I grow tired of him—­my husband, I mean.) Oh, yes, I know Mrs. Mayhew and her crowd don’t seem to think divorces are very nice; but there needn’t anybody try to make me think that anything my mother does isn’t perfectly nice and all right.  And she got a divorce.  So, there!

* * * * *

One week later.

There hasn’t much happened—­only one or two things.  But maybe I’d better tell them before I forget it, especially as they have a good deal to do with the love part of the story.  And I’m always so glad to get anything of that kind.  I’ve been so afraid this wouldn’t be much of a love story, after all.  But I guess it will be, all right.  Anyhow, I know Mother’s part will be, for it’s getting more and more exciting—­about Mr. Easterbrook and the violinist, I mean.

They both want Mother.  Anybody can see that now, and, of course, Mother sees it.  But which she’ll take I don’t know.  Nobody knows.  It’s perfectly plain to be seen, though, which one Grandfather and Aunt Hattie want her to take!  It’s Mr. Easterbrook.