re
all summer, and even before I came, I've been wearing stuffy gingham
and clumpy shoes to please Father. And Father isn't pleased at all. He
wanted me to wear the Marie things.

And there you are.

How do you suppose Mother's going to feel when I tell her that after
all her pains Father didn't like it at all. He wanted me to be Marie.
It's a shame, after all the pains she took. But I won't write it to
her, anyway. Maybe I won't have to tell her, unless she _asks_ me.

But _I_ know it. And, pray, what am I to do? Of course, I can _act_
like Marie here all right, if that is what folks want. (I guess I have
been doing it a good deal of the time, anyway, for I kept forgetting
that I was Mary.) But I can't _wear_ Marie, for I haven't a single
Marie thing here. They're all Mary. That's all I brought.

Oh, dear suz me! Why couldn't Father and Mother have been just the
common live-happy-ever-after kind, or else found out before they
married that they were unlikes?

* * * * *

_September_.

Well, vacation is over, and I go back to Boston to-morrow. It's been
very nice and I've had a good time, in spite of being so mixed up as
to whether I was Mary or Marie. It wasn't so bad as I was afraid it
would be. Very soon after Father and I had that talk on the piazza,
Cousin Grace took me down to the store and bought me two new white
dresses, and the dearest little pair of shoes I ever saw. She said
Father wanted me to have them.

And that's all--every single word that's been said about that
Mary-and-Marie business. And even that didn't really _say_
anything--not by name. And Cousin Grace never mentioned it again. And
Father never mentioned it at all. Not a word.

But he's been queer. He's been awfully queer. Some days he's been just
as he was when I first came this time--real talky and folksy, and as
if he liked to be with us. Then for whole days at a time he'd be more
as he used to--stern, and stirring his coffee when there isn't any
coffee there; and staying all the evening and half the night out in
his observatory.

Some days he's talked a lot with me--asked me questions just as he
used to, all about what I did in Boston, and Mother, and the people
that came there to see her, and everything. And he spoke of the
violinist again, and, of course, this time I told him all about him,
and that he didn't come any more, nor Mr. Easterbrook, either; and
Father was _so_ interested! Why, it seemed