CHAPTER VII.
WHEN I AM NEITHER ONE ANDERSONVILLE.
Well, I came last night.

I had on the brown suit and the sensible hat, and every turn of the wheels all day had been singing: "Mary, Mary, now you're Mary!" Why, Mother even _called_ me Mary when she said good-bye.

She came to the junction with me just as she had before, and put me on the other train.
"Now, remember, dear, you're to try very hard to be a joy and a comfort to your father--just the little Mary that he wants you to be.
Remember, he has been very kind to let you stay with me so long." She cried when she kissed me just as she did before; but she didn't tell me this time to be sure and not love Father better than I did her.

I noticed that.

But, of course, I didn't say anything, though I might have told her easily that I knew nothing could ever make me love _him_ better than I did _her_.
But I honestly tried, as long as I was dressed like Mary, to feel like Mary; and I made up my mind that I would _be_ Mary, too, just as well as I knew how to be, so that even Aunt Jane couldn't find any fault with me.