I suspect--in fact I _know_--that I get on his
nerves just as raspingly as he does on mine. For that reason I'm sure
he'll be glad--when he gets my letter.
But, some way, I dread to tell Mother.
* * * * *
Well, it's finished. I've been about four days bringing this
autobiography of Mary Marie's to an end. I've enjoyed doing it, in a
way, though I'll have to admit I can't see as it's made things any
clearer. But, then, it was clear before. There isn't any other way.
I've got to write that letter. As I said before, I regret that it must
be so sorry an ending.
I suppose to-morrow I'll have to tell Mother. I want to tell her, of
course, before I write the letter to Jerry.
It'll grieve Mother. I know it will. And I'm sorry. Poor Mother!
Already she's had so much unhappiness in her life. But she's happy
now. She and Father are wonderful together--wonderful. Father is still
President of the college. He got out a wonderful book on the "Eclipses
of the Moon" two years ago, and he's publishing another one about the
"Eclipses of the Sun" this year. Mother's correcting proof for him.
Bless her heart. She loves it. She told me so.
Well, I shall have to tell her to-morrow, of course.
* * * * *
_To-morrow_--_which has become to-day.
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