brary cupboard to get the paper,
I couldn't do it, after all. Oh, the paper was there, but that page
was gone. There wasn't a bit of it left. Somebody had taken it right
out. I never thought then of Mother. But I believe now that it _was_
Mother, for--

But I mustn't tell you that part now. Stories are just like meals. You
have to eat them--I mean tell them--in regular order, and not put the
ice-cream in where the soup ought to be. So I'm not going to tell yet
why I suspect it was Mother that cut out that page of the paper with
Father's picture in it.

Well, the next morning was Father's lecture, and I went with Mother.
Of course Grandfather was there, too, but he was with the other
astronomers, I guess. Anyhow, he didn't sit with us. And Aunt Hattie
didn't go at all. So Mother and I were alone.

We sat back--a long ways back. I wanted to go up front, real far
front--the front seat, if I could get it; and I told Mother so. But
she said, "Mercy, no!" and shuddered, and went back two more rows from
where she was, and got behind a big post.

I guess she was afraid Father would see us, but that's what _I_
wanted. I wanted him to see us. I wanted him to be right in the middle
of his lecture and look down and see right there before him his little
girl Mary, and she that had been the wife of his bosom. Now _that_
would have been what I called thrilling, real thrilling, especially if
he jumped or grew red, or white, or stammered, or stopped short, or
anything to show that he'd seen us--and cared.

I'd have loved that.

But we sat back where Mother wanted to, behind the post. And, of
course, Father never saw us at all.

It was a lovely lecture. Oh, of course, I don't mean to say that I
understood it. I didn't. But his voice was fine, and he looked just
too grand for anything, with the light on his noble brow, and he used
the loveliest big words that I ever heard. And folks clapped, and
looked at each other, and nodded, and once or twice they laughed. And
when he was all through they clapped again, harder than ever. And I
was so proud of him I wanted to stand right up and holler, "He's my
father! He's my father!" just as loud as I could. But, of course, I
didn't. I just clapped like the rest; only I wished my hands were big
like the man's next to me, so I could have made more noise.

Another man spoke then, a little (not near so good as Father), and
then it was all over, and everybody got up to go; and I saw that a
lot