“Oh, my darling, my darling, don’t you see how dreadful it is, how dreadful it is?”

And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and unmarried as we were.  She held me close again and began to sob and cry.

“Oh, my darling, don’t you see how dreadful it all is—­how unnatural it is for us to live—­this way?  And for you—­you poor child!—­what could be worse for you?  And here I am, jealous—­jealous of your own father, for fear you’ll love him better than you do me!

“Oh, I know I ought not to say all this to you—­I know I ought not to.  But I can’t—­help it.  I want you!  I want you every minute; but I have to give you up—­six whole months of every year I have to give you up to him.  And he’s your father, Marie.  And he’s a good man.  I know he’s a good man.  I know it all the better now since I’ve seen—­other men.  And I ought to tell you to love him.  But I’m so afraid—­you’ll love him better than you do me, and want to leave—­me.  And I can’t give you up!  I can’t give you up!”

Then I tried to tell her, of course, that she wouldn’t have to give me up, and that I loved her a whole lot better than I did Father.  But even that didn’t comfort her, ’cause she said I ought to love him.  That he was lonesome and needed me.  He needed me just as much as she needed me, and maybe more.  And then she went on again about how unnatural and awful it was to live the way we were living.  And she called herself a wicked woman that she’d ever allowed things to get to such a pass.  And she said if she could only have her life to live over again she’d do so differently—­oh, so differently.

Then she began to cry again, and I couldn’t do a thing with her; and of course, that worked me all up and I began to cry.

She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely with her wet ball of a handkerchief.  And she asked what was she thinking of, and didn’t she know any better than to talk like this to me.  Then she said, come, we’d go for a ride.

And we did.

And all the rest of that day Mother was so gay and lively you’d think she didn’t know how to cry.

Now, wasn’t that funny?

Of course, I shall answer Father’s letter right away, but I haven’t the faintest idea what to say.

* * * * *

One week later.

I answered it—­Father’s letter, I mean—­yesterday, and it’s gone now.  But I had an awful time over it.  I just didn’t know what in the world to say.  I’d start out all right, and I’d think I was going to get along beautifully.  Then, all of a sudden, it would come over me, what I was doing—­writing a letter to my father!  And I could imagine just how he’d look when he got it, all stern and dignified, sitting in his chair in the library, and opening the letter just so with his paper-cutter; and I’d imagine his eyes looking down and reading what I wrote.  And when I thought of that, my pen just wouldn’t go.  The idea of my writing anything my father would want to read!