Mary Marie | Page 2

how words are spelt,
every five minutes, nor fussing over putting in a whole lot of foolish
little dots and dashes.

As if anybody who was reading the story cared for that part! The story's
the thing.
I love stories. I've written lots of them for the girls, too--little short ones,
I mean; not a long one like this is going to be, of course. And it'll be so
exciting to be living a story instead of reading it--only when you're
living a story you can't peek over to the back to see how it's all coming
out. I shan't like that part. Still, it may be all the more exciting, after all,
not to know what's coming.
I like love stories the best. Father's got--oh, lots of books in the library,
and I've read stacks of them, even some of the stupid old histories and
biographies. I had to read them when there wasn't anything else to read.
But there weren't many love stories. Mother's got a few, though--lovely
ones--and some books of poetry, on the little shelf in her room. But I
read all those ages ago.
That's why I'm so thrilled over this new one--the one I'm living, I mean.
For of course this will be a love story. There'll be my love story in two
or three years, when I grow up, and while I'm waiting there's Father's
and Mother's.
Nurse Sarah says that when you're divorced you're free, just like you
were before you were married, and that sometimes they marry again.
That made me think right away: what if Father or Mother, or both of
them, married again? And I should be there to see it, and the courting,
and all! Wouldn't that be some love story? Well, I just guess!
And only think how all the girls would envy me--and they just living
along their humdrum, everyday existence with fathers and mothers
already married and living together, and nothing exciting to look
forward to. For really, you know, when you come right down to it,
there _aren't_ many girls that have got the chance I've got.
And so that's why I've decided to write it into a book. Oh, yes, I know
I'm young--only thirteen. But I feel really awfully old; and you know a
woman is as old as she feels. Besides, Nurse Sarah says I am old for
my age, and that it's no wonder, the kind of a life I've lived.
And maybe that is so. For of course it has been different, living with a
father and mother that are getting ready to be divorced from what it
would have been living with the loving, happy-ever-after kind. Nurse
Sarah says it's a shame and a pity, and that it's the children that always
suffer. But I'm not suffering--not a mite. I'm just enjoying it. It's so

exciting.
Of course if I was going to lose either one, it would be different. But
I'm not, for I am to live with Mother six months, then with Father.
So I still have them both. And, really, when you come right down to it,
I'd rather take them separate that way. Why, separate they're just
perfectly all right, like that--that--what-do-you-call-it
powder?--sedlitzer, or something like that. Anyhow, it's that white
powder that you mix in two glasses, and that looks just like water till
you put them together. And then, oh, my! such a fuss and fizz and
splutter! Well, it's that way with Father and Mother. It'll be lots easier
to take them separate, I know. For now I can be Mary six months, then
Marie six months, and not try to be them both all at once, with maybe
only five minutes between them.
And I think I shall love both Father and Mother better separate, too. Of
course I love Mother, and I know I'd just adore Father if he'd let
me--he's so tall and fine and splendid, when he's out among folks. All
the girls are simply crazy over him. And I am, too. Only, at home--well,
it's so hard to be Mary always. And you see, he named me Mary--
But I mustn't tell that here. That's part of the story, and this is only the
Preface. I'm going to begin it to-morrow--the real story--
Chapter One
.
But, there--I mustn't call it a "chapter" out loud. Diaries don't have
chapters, and this is a diary. I mustn't forget that it's a diary. But I can
write it down as a chapter, for it's going to be a novel, after it's got done
being a diary.

CHAPTER I
I AM BORN
The sun was slowly setting in the west, casting golden beams of light
into the somber old room.
That's the way it ought to begin, I know, and