I don’t believe she will ever get well until she repents and confesses and crosses her heart that she won’t do it again.  A confession is a grand relief.

Suppose Dr. Parke Alden don’t write, don’t notice me!  I will be that mad and mortified I will wish I was dead.  But if he don’t answer that letter, I will write a few more things to him before dying, for, if I am an Orphan, I oughtn’t to be treated like a piece of imagination.

The black hen has got a lot of little chickens and the jonquils are in bloom.  The sun is as warm as June, but I’m shivering all the time, and Miss Katherine says she don’t understand me.  She gave me a tonic to make me eat more.  I don’t want to eat.  I want a letter.

* * * * *

Jerusalem the Golden!  Now, what do you reckon has happened!  Nothing will evermore surprise Mary Cary, mostly Martha.

If the moon ever burns, or the stars come to town, or the Pope marries a wife, or the dead come to life, I will just say, “Is that so?” and in my heart I will know a stranger thing than that.

Yesterday Miss Bray sent for me to come to her room.  She was sick in bed, and her frizzes weren’t frizzed, and she looked so old and pitiful that I took hold of her hand and said, “I’m awful sorry you are sick, Miss Bray.”

And what did she do but begin to cry, and such a long crying I never saw anybody have.  I knew there was a lot to come out and she’d better get rid of it, so I let it keep on without remarks, and after a while she told me to shut the door, and get her a clean handkerchief out of her top bureau-drawer.

I did it.  Then she told me to sit down.  I did that, too, and it’s well I did.  If I hadn’t I’d have fell.  Her words would have made me.

“Mary Cary,” she said, “you have given me a great deal of trouble, and at times you’ve nearly worried me to death.  But never since you’ve been here have you ever told a story, and that’s what I’ve done.”  And she put her head down in her pillow, and I tell you she nearly shook herself, out of bed she cried so.

I was so surprised and confused I didn’t know whether I was awake or asleep.  But all of a sudden it came to me what she meant, and I put my arms around her neck and kissed her.  That’s what I did, Martha or no Martha; I kissed her.  Then I said: 

“Miss Bray, I’m awful glad you are sorry you did it.  If you’re sorry it’s like a sponge that wipes it off, and don’t anybody but you and me and God know about that particular one.  And we can all forget it, if there’s never any more.”

And then she cried harder than ever.  Regular rivers.  I didn’t know the top of your head could hold so much water.

But she said there would never be any more, for she’d never had any peace since the way I looked at her that day, and she couldn’t stand it any longer.  She didn’t know why I had that effect on her, but I did, and she’d sent for me to talk about it.