d me so.

Well, I shall have to tell her to-morrow, of course.

* * * * *

_To-morrow_--_which has become to-day._

I wonder if Mother _knew_ what I had come into her little sitting-room
this morning to say. It seems as if she must have known. And yet--I
had wondered how I was going to begin, but, before I knew it, I was
right in the middle of it--the subject, I mean. That's why I thought
perhaps that Mother--

But I'm getting as bad as little Mary Marie of the long ago. I'll try
now to tell what did happen.

I was wetting my lips, and swallowing, and wondering how I was going
to begin to tell her that I was planning not to go back to Jerry, when
all of a sudden I found myself saying something about little Eunice.
And then Mother said:

"Yes, my dear; and that's what comforts me most of anything--because
you _are_ so devoted to Eunice. You see, I have feared sometimes--for
you and Jerry; that you might separate. But I know, on account of
Eunice, that you never will."

"But, Mother, that's the very reason--I mean, it would be the reason,"
I stammered. Then I stopped. My tongue just wouldn't move, my throat
and lips were so dry.

To think that Mother suspected--_knew already_--about Jerry and me;
and yet to say that _on account_ of Eunice I would not do it. Why, it
was _for_ Eunice, largely, that I was _going_ to do it. To let that
child grow up thinking that dancing and motoring was all of life,
and--

But Mother was speaking again.

"Eunice--yes. You mean that you never would make her go through what
you went through when you were her age."

"Why, Mother, I--I--" And then I stopped again. And I was so angry and
indignant with myself because I had to stop, when there were so many,
many things that I wanted to say, if only my dry lips could articulate
the words.

Mother drew her breath in with a little catch. She had grown rather
white.

"I wonder if you remember--if you ever think of--your childhood," she
said.

"Why, yes, of--of course--sometimes." It was my turn to stammer. I was
thinking of that diary that I had just read--and added to.

Mother drew in her breath again, this time with a catch that was
almost a sob. And then she began to talk--at first haltingly, with
half-finished sentences; then hurriedly, with a rush of words that
seemed not able to utter themselves fast enough to keep up with the
thoughts behind them.

She told of her youth and marriage, and o