And I felt
so sorry for him; and all the way down to Boston I kept thinking of
him--what he said, and how he looked, and how fine and splendid and
any-woman-would-be-proud-of-him he was as he stood on the platform
waving good-bye.
And so I guess I was still thinking of him and being sorry for
him when I got to Boston. That's why I couldn't be so crazy and
hilariously glad when the folks met me, I suspect. Some way, all of a
sudden, I found myself wishing _he_ could be there, too.
Of course, I knew that that was bad and wicked and unkind to Mother,
and she'd feel so grieved not to have me satisfied with her. And I
wouldn't have told her of it for the world. So I tried just as hard as
I could to forget him--on account of Mother, so as to be loyal to her.
And I did 'most forget him by the time I'd got home. But it all came
back again a little later when we were unpacking my trunk.
You see, Mother found the two new white dresses, and the dear little
shoes. I knew then, of course, that she'd have to know all--I mean,
how she hadn't pleased Father, even after all her pains trying to have
me go as Mary.
"Why, Marie, what in the world is this?" she demanded, holding up one
of the new dresses.
I could have cried.
I suppose she saw by my face how awfully I felt 'cause she'd found it.
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