gingerbread.

In the next few months I watched with indescribable interest the
unfolding of the drama of Mary Starkweather. I saw her from time to time
that summer and she seemed, and I think she was, happier than ever she
had been before in her whole life. Making over her garden, selecting the
"essential books," choosing the best pictures for her rooms, even
reforming the clothing of the boys, all with an emphasis upon perfect
simplicity--her mind was completely absorbed. Occasionally Richard
appeared upon the stage, a kind of absurd Greek chorus of one, who
remarked what a wonderful woman this was and poked fun at himself and at
the new house, and asserted that Mary could be as simple as ever she
liked, he insisted on thick soup for dinner and would not sacrifice his
beloved old smoking jacket upon the altar of any new idea.

"She's a wonder, David," he'd wind up: "but this simple life is getting
more complicated every day."

It was in December, about the middle of the month, as I remember, that I
had a note one day from Mary Starkweather.

"The next time you go to town," it ran, "stop in and see me. I've made a
discovery."

With such a note as that us my hand it appeared imperative that I go to
town at once. I discovered, to Harriet's astonishment, that we were
running out of all sorts of necessaries.

"Now, David," she said, "you know perfectly well that you're just making
up to call on Mary Starkweather."