_
I wonder if Mother _knew_ what I had come into her little sitting-room
this morning to say. It seems as if she must have known. And yet--I
had wondered how I was going to begin, but, before I knew it, I was
right in the middle of it--the subject, I mean. That's why I thought
perhaps that Mother--
But I'm getting as bad as little Mary Marie of the long ago. I'll try
now to tell what did happen.
I was wetting my lips, and swallowing, and wondering how I was going
to begin to tell her that I was planning not to go back to Jerry, when
all of a sudden I found myself saying something about little Eunice.
And then Mother said:
"Yes, my dear; and that's what comforts me most of anything--because
you _are_ so devoted to Eunice. You see, I have feared sometimes--for
you and Jerry; that you might separate. But I know, on account of
Eunice, that you never will."
"But, Mother, that's the very reason--I mean, it would be the reason,"
I stammered. Then I stopped. My tongue just wouldn't move, my throat
and lips were so dry.
To think that Mother suspected--_knew already_--about Jerry and me;
and yet to say that _on account_ of Eunice I would not do it. Why, it
was _for_ Eunice, largely, that I was _going_ to do it. To let that
child grow up thinking that dancing and motoring was all of life,
and--
But Mother was speaking again.
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