for Christmas, I suspect it is no more than a fair turnabout to tell you what I did.  I suppose I had a very good time.  Your Aunt Jane says I did.  I heard her telling one of the neighbors that last night.  She said she left no stone unturned to give me a good time.  So, of course, I must have had a good time.

She had a very fine dinner, and she invited Mrs. Darling and Miss Snow and Miss Sanborn to eat it with us.  She said she didn’t want me to feel lonesome.  But you can feel real lonesome in a crowd sometimes.  Did you know that, Mary?

But I left them to their chatter after dinner and went out to the observatory.  I think I must have fallen asleep on the couch there, for it was quite dark when I awoke.  But I didn’t mind that, for there were some observations I wanted to take.  It was a beautifully clear night, so I stayed there till nearly morning.

How about it?  I suppose Marie plays the piano every day now, doesn’t she?  The piano here hasn’t been touched since you went away.  Oh, yes, it was touched once.  Your aunt played hymns on it for a missionary meeting.

    Well, what did you do Christmas?  Suppose you write and tell

    Your

    FATHER

I’d been reading the letter out loud, and when I got through Mother was pacing up and down the room.  For a minute she didn’t say anything; then she whirled ’round suddenly and faced me, and said, just as if something inside of her was making her say it: 

“I notice there is no mention of your mother in that letter, Marie.  I suppose—­your father has quite forgotten that there is such a person in the world as—­I.”

But I told her no, oh, no, and that I was sure he remembered her, for he used to ask me questions often about what she did, and the violinist and all.

“The violinist!” cried Mother, whirling around on me again. (She’d begun to walk up and down once more.) “You don’t mean to say you ever told your father about him!”

“Oh, no, not everything,” I explained, trying to show how patient I was, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn’t work.) “I couldn’t tell him everything because everything hadn’t happened then.  But I told about his being here, and about the others, too; but, of course, I said I didn’t know which you’d take, and—­”

“You told him you didn’t know which I’d take!” gasped Mother.

Just like that she interrupted, and she looked so shocked.  And she didn’t look much better when I explained very carefully what I did say, even though I assured her over and over again that Father was interested, very much interested.  When I said that, she just muttered, “Interested, indeed!” under her breath.  Then she began to walk again, up and down, up and down.  Then, all of a sudden, she flung herself on the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break.  And when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for she threw her arms around me and cried: