Dear Sir,—­Eleven weeks and two days ago I heard you did not know I was living.  I am.  I live in the Yorkburg Female Orphan Asylum, and have been living here for nine years and four months and almost a week.  If you had known I was living all these years and had not made yourself acquainted with me, I would not now write you.  But I heard, by accident, you did not know I had been born, so I am writing to tell you I was.  It happened in Natchez, Miss.  I know that much, but little more, except my father was an actor.  I worship his memory.  My mother was named Mary Alden, and you are her brother.  If you would like to know more, and will write and ask me, I think you will learn something of interest.  Not about me, but there are other people in this world.

     Respectfully,

     Mary Cary.

Three days have passed since I sent that letter off secret.  I wouldn’t let Miss Katherine know for a billion dollars that I’d sent it, but I’m glad I did.  I’m sure she’s got something in her heart she don’t talk about, for last night, when she didn’t know I was looking, I saw that same quiet proudness come in her face I saw the night of the ball.

I don’t know how long it takes to go to Michigan, not knowing much about travelling, as I’ve never been out of Yorkburg since I came in.  But some day I’m going around the world, and I’m going to see everything anybody else has ever seen before I marry my children’s father.  Of course, after I get married he will be busy, and there will be always some excuse that will make you tired.  I’m going beforehand.  Miss Webb says marriage is very uncertain.

This is a grand day.  The crocuses are peeping up just as pert and pretty.  The little brown buds on the trees have turned green and getting bigger every day, and even the air feels like it’s had a bath.  I just love the spring.  Everything says to you:  “Good-morning!  Here we are again.  Let’s begin all over.”  And inside I say, “All right,” and I mean it; but oh, Mary Cary, you’re so unreliable.  There are times when your future looks very much like a worm of the dust.

Miss Bray is real sick.  She hasn’t been well for a long time, and she looks like she’s shrivelling, though still fat.  She has nervous dyspepsia, which they say is ruinous to dispositions, and Miss Bray’s isn’t the kind for any sort of sickness to be free with.

It certainly is making her queer, for she’s changed from sharpness to tearfulness, and she weeps any time.  A thing I never thought I’d live to see.

Poor creature, I feel real sorry for her.  Miss Jones says she’s worn out, but I don’t believe it’s that.  I believe it’s conscience and coffee.  Miss Bray isn’t an all-over bad person.  If it wasn’t I knew she told stories, I could have stood the other things.  But when a person tells stories, what have you got to hold on to?  Nothing.

I believe it’s those stories that’s giving her trouble in her stomach.  Anything on your mind does, and Miss Bray looks at me so curious and so nervous, sometimes, that I can’t help feeling sorry for her.