Grandfather said it was an admirable address, scholarly and convincing, or something like that.  And he said that he thought Dr. Anderson had improved greatly in looks and manner.  And he looked straight at Mother when he said that; but still Mother never said a word.

In the afternoon I went to walk with one of the girls; and when I came in I couldn’t find Mother.  She wasn’t anywhere downstairs, nor in her room, nor mine, nor anywhere else on that floor.  Aunt Hattie said no, she wasn’t out, but that she was sure she didn’t know where she was.  She must be somewhere in the house.

I went upstairs then, another flight.  There wasn’t anywhere else to go, and Mother must be somewhere, of course.  And it seemed suddenly to me as if I’d just got to find her.  I wanted her so.

And I found her.

In the little back room where Aunt Hattie keeps her trunks and moth-ball bags, Mother was on the floor in the corner crying.  And when I exclaimed out and ran over to her, I found she was sitting beside an old trunk that was open; and across her lap was a perfectly lovely pale-blue satin dress all trimmed with silver lace that had grown black.  And Mother was crying and crying as if her heart would break.

Of course, I tried and tried to stop her, and I begged her to tell me what was the matter.  But I couldn’t do a thing, not a thing, not for a long time.  Then I happened to say what a lovely dress, only what a pity it was that the lace was all black.

She gave a little choking cry then, and began to talk—­little short sentences all choked up with sobs, so that I could hardly tell what she was talking about.  Then, little by little, I began to understand.

She said yes, it was all black—­tarnished; and that it was just like everything that she had had anything to do with—­tarnished:  her life and her marriage, and Father’s life, and mine—­everything was tarnished, just like that silver lace on that dress.  And she had done it by her thoughtless selfishness and lack of self-discipline.

And when I tried and tried to tell her no, it wasn’t, and that I didn’t feel tarnished a bit, and that she wasn’t, nor Father either, she only cried all the more, and shook her head and began again, all choked up.

She said this little dress was the one she wore at the big reception where she first met Father.  It was a beautiful blue then, all shining and spotless, and the silver lace glistened like frost in the sunlight.  And she was so proud and happy when Father—­and he was fine and splendid and handsome then, too, she said—­singled her out, and just couldn’t seem to stay away from her a minute all the evening.  And then four days later he asked her to marry him; and she was still more proud and happy.

And she said their married life, when they started out, was just like that beautiful dress, all shining and spotless and perfect; but that it wasn’t two months before a little bit of tarnish appeared, and then another and another.