The Holbrook news., 1922-05-19

plays the plano every day, now, ooesn she? The piano here hasn't been touched since you went away. Oh. yes, 1t was touched once. Your aunt played hymns on 1t for q missionary meeting.
 "Well, what did you do Christmas Suppose you write and tell
 Your Father"
 I'd been reading the letter out loud and when I got through Mother was pacing up and down the room. For a minute she didn't say anything; then she whirled round suddenly and faced me, and said, just as If something in- side of her was making her say IL:
 'I notice there Is no mention of your mother in that letter, Marie suppose-your father has quite forgot. ten that there Is such a person in the world aS-I."
 But I told her no. oh, no, and that 1 was sure he remembered her. for he used to ask me questions often about what she did and the vioIinist and all
 "The violinist!' cried Mother, whirl- ing around on me again. (She'd be- gun to walk up and down once more J You don't mean to say you ever told your father about him!"
 "Oh, no, not everything" I explained, trying to show how patient I was, so she would be patient, too. (But 1t .aI .l,,fr l,,ts everything because everything hadn't happened then. But I told about his being here, and about the others, too but, of course, I said I didn't know which you'd take, and"
 You told him you didn't know which I'd take." gasped Mother.
 Just like that she interrupted. and she looked so shocked. Then she be- gan to walk again, up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden. she flung herself on the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. And when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make 1t worse, for she threw her arms around me and cried:
 "Oh, my darling. my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, how dread ful It is?"
 And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and unmarried as we were She held me close again and began to sob and cry,
 "Oh, my darling. don't you see how dreadful it all is-hOw unnatural it Is for Us to live-this way? And for yOu-yOu poor child what could be worse for you? And here I am, jeal- ous-jealous of your own father, for fear you'll love him better than you do me!
 'Oh, 1 know 1 ought not to say all this to you-I know I ought not to- But l can't-help 1t. l want you! want you every minute; but I have to give you up-siX whole months of every year l have to give you up to him. And he's your father, Marie And he's good man. l know he's a good man. l know it all the better now since I've seen-otber men. And l ought to tell you to love him. But I'm So afraid-yOuli love him better than you do me, and want to leave me. And cant give you up! l cant give you up!"
 Then l tried to tell her, of course that she wouldn't have to give me up, and that I loved her q whole lot bet ter than l did Father. But even that didn't comfort her, cause she said ought to love him. That he was lone some and needed me. He needed me just as much as she needed me, and maybe more. And then she went on again about how unnatural and awful il was to live the way we were living. And she called herself a wicked wom- an that she'd ever allowed things to get to such a pass. And she said if she could only have her life to live over again she'd do so differently-oh, so differently.
 Then she began to cry again, and 1 couldn't do a thing with her; and, of course, that worked me all up and began to cry.
 She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely with her wet ball of handkerchief. And she asked what was she thinking of, and didn't she know any better than to talk like this to me. Then she said, come, we'd go for ride.
 And we did.
 And all the rest of that day Mother was so gay and lively you'd think she didn't know how to cry.
 Now, wasn't that funny?
 Of course, I shall answer Fathers letter right away, but I haven't the faintest idea what to say.