Mary that same evening.

At the time of which I am now writing she was six years old--a rather
quiet, solemn child--though she had a smile upon occasions, which was
well worth going to see.

For some time back she had heard her aunts speaking of "Poor Josiah!" She
had always stood in awe of her father who seemed taller and gaunter than
ever. Mary seldom saw him, but she knew that every night after dinner he
went to his den and often stayed there (she had heard her aunts say)
until long after midnight.

"If he only had some cheerful company," she once heard Aunt Cordelia
remark.

"But that's the very thing he seems to shun since poor Martha died,"
sighed Miss Patty, and dropping her voice, never dreaming for a moment
that Mary was listening, she added with another sigh, "If there had only
been a boy, too!"

All these things Mary turned over in her mind, as few but children can,
especially when they have dreamy eyes and often go a long time without
saying anything. And on the same night when Aunt Patty had come to
the conclusion that there are worse things in the world than being
old-fashioned, Mary waited until she knew that dinner was over and then,
escaping Ma'm Maynard, she stole downstairs, her heart skipping a beat
now and then at the adventure before her. She passed through the hall and
the library like a determined little ghost and then, gently turning the
knob, she opened the study door.