I’ve just been writing her again, and I could tell her more now, of course, than I could in that first letter.  I’ve been here a whole week, and, of course, I know more about things, and have done more.

I told her that Cousin Grace wasn’t really Father’s cousin at all, so it wasn’t any wonder she hadn’t ever heard of her.  She was the wife of Father’s third cousin who went to South America six years ago and caught the fever and died there.  So this Mrs. Whitney isn’t really any relation of his at all.  But he’d always known her, even before she married his cousin; and so, when her husband died, and she didn’t have any home, he asked her to come here.

I don’t know why Aunt Jane went away, but she’s been gone ’most four months now, they say here.  Nellie told me.  Nellie is the maid—­I mean hired girl—­here now. (I will keep forgetting that I’m Mary now and must use the Mary words here.)

I told Mother that she (Cousin Grace) was quite old, but not so old as Aunt Jane. (I asked Nellie, and Nellie said she guessed she was thirty-five, but she didn’t look a day over twenty-five.) And she is pretty, and everybody loves her.  I think even Father likes to have her around better than he did his own sister Jane, for he sometimes stays around quite a lot now—­after meals, and in the evening, I mean.  And that’s what I told Mother.  Oh, of course, he still likes his stars the best of anything, but not quite as well as he used to, maybe—­not to give all his time to them.

I haven’t anything especial to write.  I’m just having a beautiful time.  Of course, I miss Mother, but I know I’m going to have her again in just September—­I forgot to say that Father is going to let me go back to school again this year ahead of his time, just as he did last year.

So you see, really, I’m here only a little bit of a while, as it is now, and it’s no wonder I keep forgetting I am Mary.

I haven’t got anything new for the love part of my story.  I am sorry about that.  But there just isn’t anything, so I’m afraid the book never will be a love story, anyway.

Of course, I’m not with Mother now, so I don’t know whether there’s anything there, or not; but I don’t think there will be.  And as for Father—­I’ve pretty nearly given him up.  Anyhow, there never used to be any signs of hope for me there.  As for myself—­well, I’ve about given that up, too.  I don’t believe they’re going to give me any chance to have anybody till I’m real old—­probably not till I’m twenty-one or two.  And I can’t wait all that time to finish this book.

* * * * *

One week later.

Things are awfully funny here this time.  I wonder if it’s all Cousin Grace that makes it so.  Anyhow, she’s just as different as different can be from Aunt Jane.  And things are different, everywhere.

Why, I forget half the time that I’m Mary.  Honestly, I do.  I try to be Mary.  I try to move quietly, speak gently, and laugh softly, just as Mother told me to.  But before I know it I’m acting natural again—­just like Marie, you know.