Oh, I don’t know!  This is some love story, after all!

* * * * *

Two days later.

Well, I should say it was!  What do you suppose has happened now?  Why, that wretched violinist is nothing but a deep-dyed villain!  Listen what he did.  He proposed to Mother—­actually proposed to her—­and after all he’d said to that Theresa girl, about his being perfectly happy if he could marry her.  And Mother—­Mother all the time not knowing!  Oh, I’m so glad I was there to rescue her!  I don’t mean at the proposal—­I didn’t hear that.  But afterward.

It was like this.

They had been out automobiling—­Mother and the violinist.  He came for her at three o’clock.  He said it was a beautiful warm day, and maybe the last one they’d have this year; and she must go.  And she went.

I was in my favorite window-seat, reading, when they came home and walked into the library.  They never looked my way at all, but just walked toward the fireplace.  And there he took hold of both her hands and said: 

“Why must you wait, darling?  Why can’t you give me my answer now, and make me the happiest man in all the world?”

“Yes, yes, I know,” answered Mother; and I knew by her voice that she was all shaky and trembly.  “But if I could only be sure—­sure of myself.”

“But, dearest, you’re sure of me!” cried the violinist.  “You know how I love you.  You know you’re the only woman I have ever loved, or ever could love!”

Yes, just like that he said it—­that awful lie—­and to my mother.  My stars!  Do you suppose I waited to hear any more?  I guess not!

[Illustration:  “WHY MUST YOU WAIT, DARLING?”]

I fairly tumbled off my seat, and my book dropped with a bang, as I ran forward.  Dear, dear, but how they did jump—­both of them!  And I guess they were surprised.  I never thought how ’twas going to affect them—­my breaking in like that.  But I didn’t wait—­not a minute.  And I didn’t apologize, or say “Excuse me,” or any of those things that I suppose I ought to have done.  I just started right in and began to talk.  And I talked hard and fast, and lots of it.

I don’t know now what I said, but I know I asked him what he meant by saying such an awful lie to my mother, when he’d just said the same thing, exactly ’most, to Theresa, and he’d hugged her and kissed her, and everything.  I’d seen him.  And—­

But I didn’t get a chance to say half I wanted to.  I was going on to tell him what I thought of him; but Mother gasped out, “Marie! Marie!  Stop!”

And then I stopped.  I had to, of course.  Then she said that would do, and I might go to my room.  And I went.  And that’s all I know about it, except that she came up, after a little, and said for me not to talk any more about it, to her, or to any one else; and to please try to forget it.