And she said I needn't think any more whether to be Mary or Marie; but to be just a good, loving little daughter to both of them; and that was all she asked, and she was very sure it was all Father would ask, too.
I told her then how I thought he _did_ care a little about having me there, and that I knew he was going to miss me.

And I told her why--what he'd said that morning in the junction--about appreciating love, and not missing things or people until you didn't have them; and how he'd learned his lesson, and all that.
And Mother grew all flushed and rosy again, but she was pleased.

I knew she was.

And she said some beautiful things about making other people happy, instead of looking to ourselves all the time, just as she had talked once, before I went away.

And I felt again that hushed, stained-window, soft-music, everybody-kneeling kind of a way; and I was so happy! And it lasted all the rest of that evening till I went to sleep.
And for the first time a beautiful idea came to me, when I thought how Mother was trying to please Father, and he was trying to please her.
Wouldn't it be perfectly lovely and wonderful if Father and Mother should fall in love with each other all over again, and get married?
I guess _then_ this would be a love story all right, all right! * * * * * _October._ Oh, how I wish that stained-window, everybody-kneeling feeling _would_ last.