But she said, “Nonsense,” and, “Hush, hush,” when I asked her if she and Father couldn’t fall in love all over again and get married.  And she said not to get silly notions into my head.  And she wasn’t a bit flushed and teary, as she had been the night before, and she didn’t talk at all as she had then, either.  And it’s been that way ever since.  Things have gone along in just the usual humdrum way, and she’s never been the same as she was that night I came.

Something—­a little something—­did happen yesterday, though.  There’s going to be another big astronomy meeting here in Boston this month, just as there was when Father found Mother years ago; and Grandfather brought home word that Father was going to be one of the chief speakers.  And he told Mother he supposed she’d go and hear him.

I couldn’t make out whether he was joking or not. (I never can tell when Grandfather’s joking.) But Aunt Hattie took it right up in earnest, and said, “Pooh, pooh,” she guessed not.  She could see Madge going down to that hall to hear Dr. Anderson speak!

And then a funny thing happened.  I looked at Mother, and I saw her head come up with a queer little jerk.

“Well, yes, I am thinking of going,” she said, just as calm and cool as could be.  “When does he speak, Father?”

And when Aunt Hattie pooh-poohed some more, and asked how could she do such a thing, Mother answered: 

“Because Charles Anderson is the father of my little girl, and I think she should hear him speak.  Therefore, Hattie, I intend to take her.”

And then she asked Grandfather again when Father was going to speak.

I’m so excited!  Only think of seeing my father up on a big platform with a lot of big men, and hearing him speak!  And he’ll be the very smartest and handsomest one there, too.  You see if he isn’t!

* * * * *

Two weeks and one day later.

Oh, I’ve got a lot to write this time—­I mean, a lot has happened.  Still, I don’t know as it’s going to take so very long to tell it.  Besides, I’m almost too excited to write, anyway.  But I’m going to do the best I can to tell it, just as it happened.

Father’s here—­right here in Boston.  I don’t know when he came.  But the first day of the meeting was day before yesterday, and he was here then.  The paper said he was, and his picture was there, too.  There were a lot of pictures, but his was away ahead of the others.  It was the very best one on the page. (I told you it would be that way.)

Mother saw it first.  That is, I think she did.  She had the paper in her hand, looking at it, when I came into the room; but as soon as she saw me she laid it right down quick on the table.  If she hadn’t been quite so quick about it, and if she hadn’t looked quite so queer when she did it, I wouldn’t have thought anything at all.  But when I went over to the table after she had gone, and saw the paper with Father’s picture right on the first page—­and the biggest picture there—­I knew then, of course, what she’d been looking at.