It was as if something that had been on it for years
had dropped off and left it clear where before it had been blurred and
indistinct. No, that doesn't exactly describe it either. I _can't_
describe it. But I'll go on and say what he said.
After Mrs. Small had gone into the house, and he saw that she was
sitting down with Cousin Grace in the library, he turned to me and
said:
"And so you came as Mary?"
I said yes, I did.
"Well, I--I got ready for Marie."
But then I didn't quite understand, not even when I looked at him, and
saw the old understanding twinkle in his eyes.
"You mean--you thought I was coming as Marie, of course," I said then.
"Yes," he nodded.
"But I came as Mary."
"I see now that you did." He drew in his breath with a queer little
catch to it; then he got up and walked up and down the _piazza_ again.
(Why do old folks always walk up and down the room like that when
they're thinking hard about something? Father always does; and Mother
does lots of times, too.) But it wasn't but a minute this time before
Father came and sat down.
"Well, Mary," he began; and his voice sounded odd, with a little shake
in it. "You've told me your story, so I suppose I may as well tell you
mine--now. You see, I not only got ready for Marie, but I had planned
to keep her Marie, and not let her be Mary--at all.
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