ed
and happy over it.

* * * * *

_April_.

Well, the last chocolate drop went yesterday. There were just
seventy-six pieces in that two-pound box. I counted them that first
day. Of course, they were fine and dandy, and I just loved them; but
the trouble is, for the last week I've been eating such snippy little
pieces. You see, every day, without thinking, I'd just naturally pick
out the biggest pieces. So you can imagine what they got down to
toward the last--mostly chocolate almonds.

As for the self-discipline--I don't see as I feel any more disciplined
than I did before, and I _know_ I want chocolates just as much as
ever. And I said so to Mother.

But Mother _is_ queer. Honestly she is. And I can't help wondering--is
she getting to be like Aunt Jane?

Now, listen to this:

Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect
darling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match.
And I knew I'd look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would have
got it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin with
dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child--for any child.

Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it--some. In
fact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot. Mother didn't say anything
_then_; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and
said:

"I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But it
was not suitable at all for you--not until you're older, dear."

She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug:

"Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't getting
to be vain, and too fond of dress."

I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that
self-discipline business.

But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline.

_Is_ she getting to be like Aunt Jane?

* * * * *

_One week later._

She is.

I _know_ she is now.

I'm learning to cook--_to cook_! And it's Mother that says I must. She
told Aunt Hattie--I heard her--that she thought every girl should
know how to cook and to keep house; and that if she had learned those
things when she was a girl, her life would have been quite different,
she was sure.

Of course, I'm not learning in Aunt Hattie's kitchen. Aunt Hattie's
got a new cook, and she's worse than Olga used to be--about not
wanting folks messing around, I mean. So Aunt Hatt