"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."

And then he told me. He told me how he'd never forgotten that day
in the parlor when I cried (and made a wet spot on the arm of the
sofa--_I_ never forgot that!), and he saw then how hard it was for me
to live here, with him so absorbed in his work and Aunt Jane so stern
in her black dress. And he said I put it very vividly when I talked
about being Marie in Boston, and Mary here, and he saw just how it