ist!" cried Mother, whirling around on me again. (She'd
begun to walk up and down once more.) "You don't mean to say you ever
told your father about _him_!"

"Oh, no, not everything," I explained, trying to show how patient I
was, so she would be patient, too. (But it didn't work.) "I couldn't
tell him everything because everything hadn't happened then. But I
told about his being here, and about the others, too; but, of course,
I said I didn't know which you'd take, and--"

"You told him you didn't know _which I'd take_!" gasped Mother.

Just like that she interrupted, and she looked so shocked. And she
didn't look much better when I explained very carefully what I did
say, even though I assured her over and over again that Father was
interested, very much interested. When I said that, she just muttered,
"Interested, indeed!" under her breath. Then she began to walk again,
up and down, up and down. Then, all of a sudden, she flung herself on
the couch and began to cry and sob as if her heart would break. And
when I tried to comfort her, I only seemed to make it worse, for she
threw her arms around me and cried:

"Oh, my darling, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it is, how
dreadful it is?"

And then is when she began to talk some more about being married, and
_un_married as we were. She held me close again and began to sob and
cry.

"Oh, my darling, don't you see how dreadful it all is--how unnatural
it is for us to live--this way? And for you--you poor child!--what
could be worse for you? And here I am, jealous--jealous of your own
father, for fear you'll love him better than you do me!

"Oh, I know I ought not to say all this to you--I know I ought not to.
But I can't--help it. I want you! I want you every minute; but I have
to give you up--six whole months of every year I have to give you up
to him. And he's your father, Marie. And he's a good man. I know he's
a good man. I know it all the better now since I've seen--other men.
And I ought to tell you to love him. But I'm so afraid--you'll love
him better than you do me, and want to leave--me. And I can't give you
up! I can't give you up!"

Then I tried to tell her, of course, that she wouldn't have to give
me up, and that I loved her a whole lot better than I did Father. But
even that didn't comfort her, 'cause she said I _ought_ to love _him_.
That he was lonesome and needed me. He needed me just as much as
she needed me, and maybe more. And then she