I looked at it then, and I read what it said, too.  It was lovely.  Why, I hadn’t any idea Father was so big.  I was prouder than ever of him.  It told all about the stars and comets he’d discovered, and the books he’d written on astronomy, and how he was president of the college at Andersonville, and that he was going to give an address the next day.  And I read it all—­every word.  And I made up my mind right there and then that I’d cut out that piece and save it.

But that night, when I went to the library cupboard to get the paper, I couldn’t do it, after all.  Oh, the paper was there, but that page was gone.  There wasn’t a bit of it left.  Somebody had taken it right out.  I never thought then of Mother.  But I believe now that it was Mother, for—­

But I mustn’t tell you that part now.  Stories are just like meals.  You have to eat them—­I mean tell them—­in regular order, and not put the ice-cream in where the soup ought to be.  So I’m not going to tell yet why I suspect it was Mother that cut out that page of the paper with Father’s picture in it.

Well, the next morning was Father’s lecture, and I went with Mother.  Of course Grandfather was there, too, but he was with the other astronomers, I guess.  Anyhow, he didn’t sit with us.  And Aunt Hattie didn’t go at all.  So Mother and I were alone.

We sat back—­a long ways back.  I wanted to go up front, real far front—­the front seat, if I could get it; and I told Mother so.  But she said, “Mercy, no!” and shuddered, and went back two more rows from where she was, and got behind a big post.

I guess she was afraid Father would see us, but that’s what I wanted.  I wanted him to see us.  I wanted him to be right in the middle of his lecture and look down and see right there before him his little girl Mary, and she that had been the wife of his bosom.  Now that would have been what I called thrilling, real thrilling, especially if he jumped or grew red, or white, or stammered, or stopped short, or anything to show that he’d seen us—­and cared.

I’d have loved that.

But we sat back where Mother wanted to, behind the post.  And, of course, Father never saw us at all.

It was a lovely lecture.  Oh, of course, I don’t mean to say that I understood it.  I didn’t.  But his voice was fine, and he looked just too grand for anything, with the light on his noble brow, and he used the loveliest big words that I ever heard.  And folks clapped, and looked at each other, and nodded, and once or twice they laughed.  And when he was all through they clapped again, harder than ever.  And I was so proud of him I wanted to stand right up and holler, “He’s my father!  He’s my father!” just as loud as I could.  But, of course, I didn’t.  I just clapped like the rest; only I wished my hands were big like the man’s next to me, so I could have made more noise.

Another man spoke then, a little (not near so good as Father), and then it was all over, and everybody got up to go; and I saw that a lot of folks were crowding down the aisle, and I looked and there was Father right in front of the platform shaking hands with folks.