And only think how all the girls would envy me--and they just living along their humdrum, everyday existence with fathers and mothers already married and living together, and nothing exciting to look forward to. For really, you know, when you come right down to it, there _aren't_ many girls that have got the chance I've got. And so that's why I've decided to write it into a book. Oh, yes, I know I'm young--only thirteen. But I _feel_ really awfully old; and you know a woman is as old as she feels. Besides, Nurse Sarah says I am old for my age, and that it's no wonder, the kind of a life I've lived. And maybe that is so. For of course it _has_ been different, living with a father and mother that are getting ready to be divorced from what it would have been living with the loving, happy-ever-after kind. Nurse Sarah says it's a shame and a pity, and that it's the children that always suffer. But I'm not suffering--not a mite. I'm just enjoying it. It's so exciting. Of course if I was going to lose either one, it would be different. But I'm not, for I am to live with Mother six months, then with Father. So I still have them both. And, really, when you come right down to it, I'd _rather_ take them separate that way. Why, separate they're just perfectly all right, like that--that--what-do-you-call-it powder?--sedlitzer, or something like that. Anyhow, it's that white powder that you mix in two glasses, and that looks just like water till you put them together. And then, oh, my! such a fuss and fizz and splutter! Well, it's that way with Father and Mother. It'll be lots easier to take them separate, I know. For now I can be Mary six months, then Marie six months, and not try to be them both all at once, with maybe only five minutes between them. And I think I shall love both Father and Mother better separate, too. Of course I love Mother, and I know I'd just adore Father if he'd let me--he's so tall and fine and splendid, when he's out among folks. All the girls are simply crazy over him. And I am, too. Only, at home--well, it's so hard to be Mary always. And you see, he named me Mary-- But I mustn't tell that here. That's part of the story, and this is only the Preface. I'm going to begin it to-morrow--the real story--Chapter One. But, there--I mustn't call it a "chapter" out loud. Diaries don't have chapters, and this is a diary. I mustn't forget that it's a diary. But I can write it down as a chapter, for it's _going to be_ a novel, after it's got done being a diary. CHAPTER I I AM BORN The sun was slowly setting in the west, casting golden beams of light into the somber old room.