And of course, I asked what was--and then I knew, almost before he had told me. "That I first saw your mother, my dear." "Oh, yes, I know!" I cried, eager to tell him that I _did_ know. "And she must have looked lovely in that perfectly beautiful blue silk dress all silver lace." He turned and stared at me. "How did _you_ know that?" he demanded. "I saw it." "You saw it!" "Yesterday, yes--the dress," I nodded. "But how _could_ you?" he asked, frowning, and looking so surprised. "Why, that dress must be--seventeen years old, or more." I nodded again, and I suppose I did look pleased: it's such fun to have a secret, you know, and watch folks guess and wonder. And I kept him guessing and wondering for quite a while. Then, of course, I told him that it was upstairs in Grandfather's trunk-room; that Mother had got it out, and I saw it. "But, what--was your mother doing with that dress?" he asked then, looking even more puzzled and mystified. And then suddenly I thought and remembered that Mother was crying. And, of course, she wouldn't want Father to know she was crying over it--that dress she had worn when he first met her long ago! (I don't think women ever want men to know such things, do you? I know I shouldn't!) So I didn't tell. I just kind of tossed it off, and mumbled something about her looking it over; and I was going to say something else, but I saw that Father wasn't listening. He had begun to talk again, softly, as if to himself. "I suppose to-night, seeing you, and all this, brought it back to me so vividly." Then he turned and looked at me. "You are very like your mother to-night, dear." "I suppose I am, maybe, when I'm Marie," I nodded. He laughed with his lips, but his eyes didn't laugh one bit as he said: "What a quaint little fancy of yours that is, child--as if you were two in one." "But I am two in one," I declared. "That's why I'm a cross-current and a contradiction, you know," I explained. I thought he'd understand. But he didn't. I supposed, of course, he knew what a cross-current and a contradiction was. But he turned again and stared at me. "A--_what_?" he demanded. "A cross-current and a contradiction," I explained once more. "Children of unlikes, you know. Nurse Sarah told me that long ago. Didn't you ever hear that--that a child of unlikes was a cross-current and a contradiction?" "Well, no--I--hadn't," answered Father, in a queer, half-smothered voice. He half started from his seat. I think he was going to walk up and down, same as he usually does. But in a minute he saw he couldn't, of course, with all those people around there. So he sat back again in his chair. For a minute he just frowned and stared at nothing; then he spoke again, as if half to himself. "I suppose, Mary, we were--unlikes, your mother and I. That's just what we were; though I never thought of it before, in just that way." He waited, then went on, still half to himself, his eyes on the dancers: