But I wrote. I had to write three letters, though, before I got one that Mother said would do to send. The first one sounded so _glad_ I was staying that Mother said she was afraid he would feel hurt, and that would be too bad--when he'd been so kind. And the second one sounded as if I was so _sorry_ not to go to Andersonville the first of April that Mother said that would never do in the world. He'd think I didn't _want_ to stay in Boston. But the third letter I managed to make just glad enough to stay, and just sorry enough not to go. So that Mother said it was all right. And I sent it. You see I _asked_ Mother to help me about this letter. I knew she wouldn't cry and moan about being jealous this time. And she didn't. She was real excited and happy over it. * * * * * _April_. Well, the last chocolate drop went yesterday. There were just seventy-six pieces in that two-pound box. I counted them that first day. Of course, they were fine and dandy, and I just loved them; but the trouble is, for the last week I've been eating such snippy little pieces. You see, every day, without thinking, I'd just naturally pick out the biggest pieces. So you can imagine what they got down to toward the last--mostly chocolate almonds. As for the self-discipline--I don't see as I feel any more disciplined than I did before, and I _know_ I want chocolates just as much as ever. And I said so to Mother. But Mother _is_ queer. Honestly she is. And I can't help wondering--is she getting to be like Aunt Jane? Now, listen to this: Last week I had to have a new party dress, and we found a perfect darling of a pink silk, all gold beads, and gold slippers to match. And I knew I'd look perfectly divine in it; and once Mother would have got it for me. But not this time. She got a horrid white muslin with dots in it, and a blue silk sash, suitable for a child--for any child. Of course, I was disappointed, and I suppose I did show it--some. In fact, I'm afraid I showed it a whole lot. Mother didn't say anything _then_; but on the way home in the car she put her arm around me and said: "I'm sorry about the pink dress, dear. I knew you wanted it. But it was not suitable at all for you--not until you're older, dear." She stopped a minute, then went on with another little hug: "Mother will have to look out that her little daughter isn't getting to be vain, and too fond of dress." I knew then, of course, that it was just some more of that self-discipline business. But Mother never used to say anything about self-discipline. _Is_ she getting to be like Aunt Jane? * * * * * _One week later._ She is. I _know_ she is now.