And so, for 'most a week now, Mother has read to me an hour a day out of that astronomy book. Then we talk about it. And it _is_ interesting. Mother says it is, too. She says she wishes _she'd_ known something about astronomy when she was a girl; that she's sure it would have made things a whole lot easier and happier all around, when she married Father; for then she would have known something about something _he_ was interested in. She said she couldn't help that now, of course; but she could see that _I_ knew something about such things. And that was why she was reading to me now. Then she said again that she thought we owed it to Father, when he'd been so good to let me stay. It seems so funny to hear her talk such a lot about Father as she does, when before she never used to mention him--only to say how afraid she was that I would love him better than I did her, and to make me say over and over again that I didn't. And I said so one day to her--I mean, I said I thought it was funny, the way she talked now. She colored up and bit her lip, and gave a queer little laugh. Then she grew very sober and grave, and said: "I know, dear. Perhaps I am talking more than I used to. But, you see, I've been thinking quite a lot, and I--I've learned some things. And now, since your father has been so kind and generous in giving you up to me so much of his time, I--I've grown ashamed; and I'm trying to make you forget what I said--about your loving me more than him. That wasn't right, dear. Mother was wrong. She shouldn't try to influence you against your father. He is a good man; and there are none too many good men in the world--No, no, I won't say that," she broke off. But she'd already said it, and, of course, I knew she was thinking of the violinist. I'm no child. She went on more after that, quite a lot more. And she said again that I must love Father and try to please him in every way; and she cried a little and talked a lot about how hard it was in my position, and that she was afraid she'd only been making it harder, through her selfishness, and I must forgive her, and try to forget it. And she was very sure she'd do better now. And she said that, after all, life wasn't in just being happy yourself. It was in how much happiness you could give to others. Oh, it was lovely! And I cried, and she cried some more, and we kissed each other, and I promised. And after she went away I felt all upraised and holy, like you do when you've been to a beautiful church service with soft music and colored windows, and everybody kneeling. And I felt as if I'd never be naughty or thoughtless again. And that I'd never mind being Mary now. Why, I'd be glad to be Mary half the time, and even more--for Father. But, alas!