"_Her_ fault!" I could see that Father did not quite understand, even
yet.

"Yes, yes, just as you said it was yours--about all those things at
the first, you know, when--when she was a spirit of youth beating
against the bars."

Father turned square around and faced me.

"Mary, what are you talking about?" he asked then. And I'd have been
scared of his voice if it hadn't been for the great light that was
shining in his eyes.

But I looked into his eyes, and wasn't scared; and I told him
everything, every single thing--all about how Mother had cried over
the little blue dress that day in the trunk-room, and how she had
shown the tarnished lace and said that _she_ had tarnished the
happiness of him and of herself and of me; and that it was all her
fault; that she was thoughtless and willful and exacting and a spoiled
child; and, oh, if she could only try it over again, how differently
she would do! And there was a lot more. I told everything--everything
I could remember. Some way, I didn't believe that Mother would mind
_now_, after what Father had said. And I just knew she wouldn't mind
if she could see the look in Father's eyes as I talked.

He didn't interrupt me--not long interruptions. He did speak out a
quick little word now and then, at some of the parts; and once I know
I saw him wipe a tear from his eyes. After that he put up his hand and
sat with his eyes covered all the rest of the time I was talking. And
he didn't take it down till I said: