I suppose to-morrow I'll have to tell Mother. I want to tell her, of course, before I write the letter to Jerry. It'll grieve Mother. I know it will. And I'm sorry. Poor Mother! Already she's had so much unhappiness in her life. But she's happy now. She and Father are wonderful together--wonderful. Father is still President of the college. He got out a wonderful book on the "Eclipses of the Moon" two years ago, and he's publishing another one about the "Eclipses of the Sun" this year. Mother's correcting proof for him. Bless her heart. She loves it. She told me so. Well, I shall have to tell her to-morrow, of course. * * * * * _To-morrow_--_which has become to-day._ I wonder if Mother _knew_ what I had come into her little sitting-room this morning to say. It seems as if she must have known. And yet--I had wondered how I was going to begin, but, before I knew it, I was right in the middle of it--the subject, I mean. That's why I thought perhaps that Mother-- But I'm getting as bad as little Mary Marie of the long ago. I'll try now to tell what did happen. I was wetting my lips, and swallowing, and wondering how I was going to begin to tell her that I was planning not to go back to Jerry, when all of a sudden I found myself saying something about little Eunice. And then Mother said: "Yes, my dear; and that's what comforts me most of anything--because you _are_ so devoted to Eunice. You see, I have feared sometimes--for you and Jerry; that you might separate. But I know, on account of Eunice, that you never will." "But, Mother, that's the very reason--I mean, it would be the reason," I stammered. Then I stopped. My tongue just wouldn't move, my throat and lips were so dry. To think that Mother suspected--_knew already_--about Jerry and me; and yet to say that _on account_ of Eunice I would not do it. Why, it was _for_ Eunice, largely, that I was _going_ to do it. To let that child grow up thinking that dancing and motoring was all of life, and-- But Mother was speaking again. "Eunice--yes. You mean that you never would make her go through what you went through when you were her age." "Why, Mother, I--I--" And then I stopped again. And I was so angry and indignant with myself because I had to stop, when there were so many, many things that I wanted to say, if only my dry lips could articulate the words. Mother drew her breath in with a little catch. She had grown rather white. "I wonder if you remember--if you ever think of--your childhood," she said. "Why, yes, of--of course--sometimes." It was my turn to stammer. I was thinking of that diary that I had just read--and added to. Mother drew in her breath again, this time with a catch that was almost a sob. And then she began to talk--at first haltingly, with half-finished sentences; then hurriedly, with a rush of words that seemed not able to utter themselves fast enough to keep up with the thoughts behind them.