But Mother is queer.  Honestly she is.  And I can’t help wondering—­is she getting to be like Aunt Jane?

Now, listen to this: 

Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect darling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match.  And I knew I’d look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would have got it for me.  But not this time.  She got a horrid white muslin with dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child—­for any child.

Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it—­some.  In fact, I’m afraid I showed it a whole lot.  Mother didn’t say anything then; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and said: 

“I’m sorry about the pink dress, dear.  I knew you wanted it.  But it was not suitable at all for you—­not until you’re older, dear.”

She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug: 

“Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn’t getting to be vain, and too fond of dress.”

I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that self-discipline business.

But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline.

Is she getting to be like Aunt Jane?

* * * * *

One week later.

She is.

I know she is now.

I’m learning to cook—­to cook!  And it’s Mother that says I must.  She told Aunt Hattie—­I heard her—­that she thought every girl should know how to cook and to keep house; and that if she had learned those things when she was a girl, her life would have been quite different, she was sure.

Of course, I’m not learning in Aunt Hattie’s kitchen.  Aunt Hattie’s got a new cook, and she’s worse than Olga used to be—­about not wanting folks messing around, I mean.  So Aunt Hattie said right off that we couldn’t do it there.  I am learning at a Domestic Science School, and Mother is going with me.  I didn’t mind so much when she said she’d go, too.  And, really, it is quite a lot of fun—­really it is.  But it is queer—­Mother and I going to school together to learn how to make bread and cake and boil potatoes!  And, of course, Aunt Hattie laughs at us.  But I don’t mind.  And Mother doesn’t, either.  But, oh, how Aunt Jane would love it, if she only knew!

* * * * *

May.

Something is the matter with Mother, certainly.  She’s acting queerer and queerer, and she is getting to be like Aunt Jane.  Why, only this morning she hushed me up from laughing so loud, and stopped my romping up and down the stairs with Lester.  She said it was noisy and unladylike—­and only just a little while ago she just loved to have me laugh and play and be happy!  And when I said so to her this morning, she said, yes, yes, of course, and she wanted me to be happy now, only she wished to remind me that very soon I was going back to my father in Andersonville, and that I ought to begin now to learn to be more quiet, so as not to trouble him when I got there.