But I'm feeling better now. I've been thinking it over. I don't believe Mother's going to care so very much. I don't believe she'd _want_ a man that would pretend to come courting her, when all the while he was really courting the hired girl--I mean maid. Besides, there's Mr. Easterbrook left (and one or two others that I haven't said much about, as I didn't think they had much chance). And so far as the love story for the book is concerned, _that_ isn't spoiled, after all, for it will be ever so much more exciting to have the violinist fall in love with Theresa than with Mother, for, of course, Theresa isn't in the same station of life at all, and that makes it a--a mess-alliance. (I don't remember exactly what that word is; but I know it means an alliance that makes a mess of things because the lovers are not equal to each other.) Of course, for the folks who have to live it, it may not be so nice; but for my story here this makes it all the more romantic and thrilling. So _that's_ all right. Of course, so far, I'm the only one that knows, for I haven't told it, and I'm the only one that's seen anything. Of course, I shall warn Mother, if I think it's necessary, so she'll understand it isn't her, but Theresa, that the violinist is really in love with and courting. _She_ won't mind, I'm sure, after she thinks of it a minute. And won't it be a good joke on Aunt Hattie and Grandfather when they find out they've been fooled all the time, supposing it's Mother, and worrying about it? Oh, I don't know! This is some love story, after all! * * * * * _Two days later._ Well, I should say it was! What do you suppose has happened now? Why, that wretched violinist is nothing but a deep-dyed villain! Listen what he did. He proposed to Mother--actually proposed to her--and after all he'd said to that Theresa girl, about his being perfectly happy if he could marry _her_. And Mother--Mother all the time not knowing! Oh, I'm so glad I was there to rescue her! I don't mean at the proposal--I didn't hear that. But afterward. It was like this. They had been out automobiling--Mother and the violinist. He came for her at three o'clock. He said it was a beautiful warm day, and maybe the last one they'd have this year; and she must go. And she went. I was in my favorite window-seat, reading, when they came home and walked into the library. They never looked my way at all, but just walked toward the fireplace. And there he took hold of both her hands and said: "Why must you wait, darling? Why can't you give me my answer now, and make me the happiest man in all the world?" "Yes, yes, I know," answered Mother; and I knew by her voice that she was all shaky and trembly. "But if I could only be sure--sure of myself." "But, dearest, you're sure of me!" cried the violinist. "You _know_ how I love you. You know you're the only woman I have ever loved, or ever could love!"