Contrary Mary

Leila is much braver than I. She takes a little walk every morning

with her father, and another walk every afternoon with Porter--and she

is always talking to lonesome people and sick people; and all the while

she wears a little faint shining smile, like an angel's. Yet I used to

be quite scornful of Leila, even while I loved her. I thought she was

so sweetly and weakly feminine; yet she is steering her little ship

through stormy waters, while I have lost my rudder and compass, and all

the other things that a mariner needs in a time of storm.

Before the storm.

The fog still hangs over us, and we seem to ride on the surface of a

dead sea. Last night there was no moon and to-day Aunt Frances has not

appeared. Even Delilah seems to feel depressed by the silence and the

stillness--not a sound but the beat of the engines and the hoarse hoot

of the horns. This paper is damp as I write upon it, and blots the

ink, but--I sha'n't rewrite it, because the blots will make you see me

sitting here, with drops of moisture clinging to my coat and to my

little hat, and making my hair curl up in a way that it never does in

dry weather.

I wonder, if you were here, if you would seem a ghost like all the

others. Nothing is real but my thoughts of the things that used to be.

I can't believe that I am on my way to London, and that I am going to

live with Constance, and go sightseeing with Aunt Frances and Grace,

and give up my plans for the--Great Adventure. Aunt Isabelle sat

beside me this morning, and we talked about it. She will stay with

Aunt Frances and Grace, and we shall see each other every day. I

couldn't quite get along at all if it were not for Aunt Isabelle--she

is such a mother-person, and she doesn't make me feel, as the rest of

them do, that I must be brave and courageous. She just pats my hand

and says, "It's going to be all right, Mary dear--it is going to be all

right," and presently I begin to feel that it is; she has such a

fashion of ignoring the troublesome things of this world, and simply

looking ahead to the next. She told me once that heaven would mean to

her, first of all, a place of beautiful sounds--and second it would

mean freedom. You see she has always been dominated by Aunt Frances,

poor thing.

Do you remember how I used to talk of freedom? But now I'm to be a

bird in a cage. It will be a gilded cage, of course. Even Grace says

that Constance's home is charming--great lovely rooms and massive

furniture; and when we begin to go again into society, I am to be

introduced to lots of grand folk, and perhaps presented.