And I wondered if she left it unfinished--on
purpose.
Then, in a minute, she was talking again.
She was speaking of Eunice. She said once more that because of her,
she knew that she need never fear any serious trouble between Jerry
and me, for, after all, it's the child that always pays for the
mother's mistakes and short-sightedness, just as it is the soldier
that pays for his commanding officer's blunders. That's why she felt
that I had had to pay for her mistakes, and why she knew that I'd
never compel my little girl to pay for mine. She said that the mother
lives in the heart of the child long after the mother is gone, and
that was why the mother always had to be--so careful.
Then, before I knew it, she was talking briskly and brightly about
something entirely different; and two minutes later I found myself
alone outside of her room. And I hadn't told her.
But I wasn't even thinking of that. I was thinking of Eunice, and of
that round, childish scrawl of a diary upstairs in the attic trunk.
And I was picturing Eunice, in the years to come, writing _her_ diary;
and I thought, what if she should have to--
I went upstairs then and read that diary again. And all the while I
was reading I thought of Eunice. And when it was finished I knew that
I'd never tell Mother, that I'd never write to Jerry--not the letter
that I was going to write.
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