And she said if she could only have her life to live over
again she'd do so differently--oh, so differently.
Then she began to cry again, and I couldn't do a thing with her; and
of course, that worked me all up and I began to cry.
She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely with
her wet ball of a handkerchief. And she asked what was she thinking
of, and didn't she know any better than to talk like this to me. Then
she said, come, we'd go for a ride.
And we did.
And all the rest of that day Mother was so gay and lively you'd think
she didn't know how to cry.
Now, wasn't that funny?
Of course, I shall answer Father's letter right away, but I haven't
the faintest idea _what_ to say.
* * * * *
_One week later._
I answered it--Father's letter, I mean--yesterday, and it's gone now.
But I had an awful time over it. I just didn't know what in the world
to say. I'd start out all right, and I'd think I was going to get
along beautifully. Then, all of a sudden, it would come over me, what
I was doing--_writing a letter to my father_! And I could imagine just
how he'd look when he got it, all stern and dignified, sitting in
his chair in the library, and opening the letter _just so_ with his
paper-cutter; and I'd imagine his eyes looking down and reading what I
wrote.
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