olumbia, and we ran across each other constantly in the library. I
fairly lived there, for I found myself, for the first time, among a
wealth of books, and I read everything--autobiographies, histories, and
novels good and bad.

Tom's family and most of his friends were out of town for July and
August. I had never met any one like him, and he had never dreamed of
any one like me. We were friends in a week and sweethearts in a month.

Instead of joining his family, Tom stayed in New York and showed me the
town. He took me to my first plays. Even now I know that "If I Were
King" and "The Idol's Eye", with Frank Daniels, were good.

One day we went driving in an open carriage--his. It was upholstered in
soft fawn color, the coachman wore fawn-colored livery, and the horses
were beautiful. I was very happy. When we reached my boarding house
again, I jumped out. I was used to hopping from spring wagons.

"Please don't do that again, Mary," reproved Tom, very gently. "You
might hurt yourself." That amused me, until a look from the coachman
suddenly conveyed to me that I had made a _faux pas_. Not long after I
hurried off a street car ahead of Tom. This time he said nothing, but I
have not forgotten the look on his face.

Over our marvelous meals in marvelous restaurants Tom delighted to get
me started about home. Great-Aunt Martha's "personal belongings" amused
him hugely. He never tired of the visiting shoemaker, nor of the
carpenter who declared indignantly that if we wore decent clothes we
wouldn't need our bench seats planed smooth. But some things I never
told--about the table napkins, for instance.

We were married in September. Our honeymoon we spent fishing and
"roughing it" in the Canadian wilds. I felt at home and blissful.
I could cook and fish and make a bed in the open as well as any man.
It was heaven; but it left me entirely unprepared for the world I was
about to enter.

Not once did Tom say: "Mary, we do this [or that] in our family." He
was too happy, and I suppose he never thought of it. As for me, I
wasted no worry on his family. They would be kind and sympathetic and
simple, like Tom. They would love me and I would love them.

The day after we returned from Canada to New York I spent looking over
Tom's "personal belongings"--as great a revelation as Aunt
Martha's. His richly bound books, his beautiful furniture, his
pictures--everything was perfect. That night Tom made an