He talked a lot about Mother.

As I look back at it now, I can see that he did.

He asked me all over again what she did, and about the parties and the folks that came to see her.

He asked again about Mr.Harlow, and about the concert, and the young man who played the violin, and what was his name, and how old was he, and did I like him.

And then, right in the middle of some question, or rather, right in the middle of some _answer_ I was giving _him_, he would suddenly remember he was hearing my lessons, and he would say, "Come, come, Mary, what has this to do with your lessons ?" Just as if I was to blame! (But, then, we women always get the blame, I notice.) And then he'd attend strictly to the books for maybe five whole minutes--before he asked another question about that party, or the violinist.
Naturally the lessons haven't amounted to much, as you can imagine.
But the term was nearly finished, anyway; and my _real_ school is in Boston, of course.
It's vacation now.