was. And so he thought and thought about it all winter, and wondered
what he could do. And after a time it came to him--he'd let me be
Marie here; that is, he'd try to make it so I could be Marie. And he
was just wondering how he was going to get Aunt Jane to help him when
she was sent for and asked to go to an old friend who was sick. And he
told her to go, by all means to go. Then he got Cousin Grace to come
here. He said he knew Cousin Grace, and he was very sure she would
know how to help him to let me stay Marie. So he talked it over with
her--how they would let me laugh, and sing and play the piano all I
wanted to, and wear the clothes I brought with me, and be just as near
as I could be the way I was in Boston.

"And to think, after all my preparation for Marie, you should _be_
Mary already, when you came," he finished.

"Yes. Wasn't it funny?" I laughed. "All the time _you_ were getting
ready for Marie, Mother was getting me ready to be Mary. It _was_
funny!" And it did seem funny to me then.

But Father was not laughing. He had sat back in his chair, and had
covered his eyes with his hand again, as if he was thinking and
thinking, just as hard as he could. And I suppose it did seem queer
to him, that he should be trying to make me Marie, and all the while
Mother was trying to make me Mary. And it seemed so to me, as I began
to think it over. It wasn't funny at all, any longer.

"And so your mother--did that," Father muttered; and there was the
queer little catch in his breath again.

He didn't say any more, not a single word. And after a minute he got