to-morrows now!
And what do they all amount to?) And so I'll just keep writing, as I
have time, till I bring it to the end.

I'm sorry that it must be so sad and sorry an end. But there's no
other way, of course. There can be but one ending, as I can see. I'm
sorry. Mother'll be sorry, too. She doesn't know yet. I hate to tell
her. Nobody knows--not even Jerry himself--yet. They all think I'm
just making a visit to Mother--and I am--till I write that letter to
Jerry. And then--

I believe now that I'll wait till I've finished writing this. I'll
feel better then. My mind will be clearer. I'll know more what to say.
Just the effort of writing it down--

Of course, if Jerry and I hadn't--

But this is no way to begin. Like the little Mary Marie of long ago I
am in danger of starting my dinner with ice-cream instead of soup!
And so I must begin where I left off, of course. And that was at the
wedding.

I remember that wedding as if it were yesterday. I can see now, with
Mary Marie's manuscript before me, why it made so great an impression
upon me. It was a very quiet wedding, of course--just the members
of the family present. But I shall never forget the fine, sweet
loveliness of Mother's face, nor the splendid strength and tenderness
of Father's. And the way he drew her into his arms and kissed her,
after it was all over--well, I remember distinctly that even Aunt
Hattie choked up and had to turn her back to wipe her eyes.

They went away at once, first to New York for a day or two, then to
Andersonville, to prepare for the real wedding trip to the other side
of the world. I stayed in Boston at school; and because nothing of
consequence happened all those weeks and months is the reason, I
suspect, why the manuscript got tossed into the bottom of my little
trunk and stayed there.

In the spring, when Father and Mother returned, and we all went back
to Andersonville, there followed another long period of just happy
girlhood, and I suspect I was too satisfied and happy to think of
writing. After all, I've noticed it's when we're sad or troubled over
something that we have that tingling to cover perfectly good white
paper with "confessions" and "stories of my life." As witness right
now what I'm doing.

And so it's not surprising, perhaps, that Mary Marie's manuscript
still lay forgotten in the little old trunk after it was taken up to
the attic. Mary Marie was happy.

And it _was_ happy--that girlhood of mine, a