But he’s been queer.  He’s been awfully queer.  Some days he’s been just as he was when I first came this time—­real talky and folksy, and as if he liked to be with us.  Then for whole days at a time he’d be more as he used to—­stern, and stirring his coffee when there isn’t any coffee there; and staying all the evening and half the night out in his observatory.

Some days he’s talked a lot with me—­asked me questions just as he used to, all about what I did in Boston, and Mother, and the people that came there to see her, and everything.  And he spoke of the violinist again, and, of course, this time I told him all about him, and that he didn’t come any more, nor Mr. Easterbrook, either; and Father was so interested!  Why, it seemed sometimes as if he just couldn’t hear enough about things.  Then, all of a sudden, at times, he’d get right up in the middle of something I was saying and act as if he was just waiting for me to finish my sentence so he could go.  And he did go, just as soon as I had finished my sentence.  And after that, maybe, he wouldn’t hardly speak to me again for a whole day.

And so that’s why I say he’s been so queer since that night on the piazza.  But most of the time he’s been lovely, perfectly lovely.  And so has Cousin Grace, And I’ve had a beautiful time.

But I do wish they would marry—­Father and Cousin Grace, I mean.  And I’m not talking now entirely for the sake of the book.  It’s for their sakes—­especially for Father’s sake.  I’ve been thinking what Mother used to say about him, when she was talking about my being Mary—­how he was lonely, and needed a good, kind woman to make a home for him.  And while I’ve been thinking of it, I’ve been watching him; and I think he does need a good, kind woman to make a home for him.  I’d be willing to have a new mother for his sake!

Oh, yes, I know he’s got Cousin Grace, but he may not have her always.  Maybe she’ll be sent for same as Aunt Jane was. Then what’s he going to do, I should like to know?

CHAPTER VIII

WHICH IS THE REAL LOVE STORY

BOSTON. Four days later.

Well, here I am again in Boston.  Mother and the rest met me at the station, and everybody seemed glad to see me, just as they did before.  And I was glad to see them.  But I didn’t feel anywhere near so excited, and sort of crazy, as I did last year.  I tried to, but I couldn’t.  I don’t know why.  Maybe it was because I’d been Marie all summer, anyway, so I wasn’t so crazy to be Marie now, not needing any rest from being Mary.  Maybe it was ’cause I sort of hated to leave Father.

And I did hate to leave him, especially when I found he hated to have me leave him.  And he did.  He told me so at the junction.  You see, our train was late, and we had to wait for it; and there was where he told me.