And right there and then it came to me that Mother said it was her fault, too; and that if only she could live it over again, _she'd_ do differently. And here was Father saying the same thing. And all of a sudden I thought, well, why can't they try it over again, if they both want to, and if each says it, was their--no, his, no, hers--well, his and her fault. (How does the thing go? I hate grammar!) But I mean, if she says it's her fault, and he says it's his. That's what I thought, anyway. And I determined right then and there to give them the chance to try again, if speaking would do it. I looked up at Father. He was still talking half under his breath, his eyes looking straight ahead. He had forgotten all about me. That was plain to be seen. If I'd been a cup of coffee without any coffee in it, he'd have been stirring me. I know he would. He was like that. "Father. _Father!_" I had to speak twice, before he heard me. "Do you really mean that you would like to try again?" I asked. "Eh? What?" And just the way he turned and looked at me showed how many _miles_ he'd been away from me. "Try it again, you know--what you said," I reminded him. "Oh, that!" Such a funny look came to his face, half ashamed, half vexed. "I'm afraid I _have_ been--talking, my dear." "Yes, but would you?" I persisted. He shook his head; then, with such an oh-that-it-could-be! smile, he said: "Of course;--we all wish that we could go back and do it over again--differently. But we never can." "I know; like the cloth that's been cut up into the dress," I nodded. "Cloth? Dress?" frowned Father. "Yes, that Mother told me about," I explained. Then I told him the story that Mother had told me--how you couldn't go back and be unmarried, just as you were before, any more than you could put the cloth back on the shelf, all neatly folded in a great long web after it had been cut up into a dress. "Did your mother say--that?" asked Father. His voice was husky, and his eyes were turned away, but they were not looking at the dancers. He was listening to me now. I knew that, and so I spoke quick, before he could get absent-minded again. "Yes, but, Father, you can go back, in this case, and so can Mother, 'cause you both want to," I hurried on, almost choking in my anxiety to get it all out quickly. "And Mother said it was _her_ fault. I heard her." "_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.