And then I told her how he said he’d remembered what I’d said to him in the parlor that day—­how tired I got being Mary, and how I’d put on Marie’s things just to get a little vacation from her; and he said he’d never forgotten.  And so when it came near time for me to come again, he determined to fix it so I wouldn’t have to be Mary at all.  And so that was why.  And I told Mother it was all right, and of course I liked it; only it did mix me up awfully, not knowing which wanted me to be Mary now, and which Marie, when they were both telling me different from what they ever had before.  And that it was hard, when you were trying just the best you knew how.

And I began to cry again.

And she said there, there, once more, and patted me on my shoulder, and told me I needn’t worry any more.  And that she understood it, if I didn’t.  In fact, she was beginning to understand a lot of things that she’d never understood before.  And she said it was very, very dear of Father to do what he did, and that I needn’t worry about her being displeased at it.  That she was pleased, and that she believed he meant her to be.  And she said I needn’t think any more whether to be Mary or Marie; but to be just a good, loving little daughter to both of them; and that was all she asked, and she was very sure it was all Father would ask, too.

I told her then how I thought he did care a little about having me there, and that I knew he was going to miss me.  And I told her why—­what he’d said that morning in the junction—­about appreciating love, and not missing things or people until you didn’t have them; and how he’d learned his lesson, and all that.

And Mother grew all flushed and rosy again, but she was pleased.  I knew she was.  And she said some beautiful things about making other people happy, instead of looking to ourselves all the time, just as she had talked once, before I went away.  And I felt again that hushed, stained-window, soft-music, everybody-kneeling kind of a way; and I was so happy!  And it lasted all the rest of that evening till I went to sleep.

And for the first time a beautiful idea came to me, when I thought how Mother was trying to please Father, and he was trying to please her.  Wouldn’t it be perfectly lovely and wonderful if Father and Mother should fall in love with each other all over again, and get married?  I guess then this would be a love story all right, all right!

* * * * *

October.

Oh, how I wish that stained-window, everybody-kneeling feeling would last.  But it never does.  Just the next morning, when I woke up, it rained.  And I didn’t feel pleased a bit.  Still I remembered what had happened the night before, and a real glow came over me at the beautiful idea I had gone to sleep with.

I wanted to tell Mother, and ask her if it couldn’t be, and wouldn’t she let it be, if Father would.  So, without waiting to dress me, I hurried across the hall to her room and told her all about it—­my idea, and everything.