of them--as if it was a _disgrace_, even after I told them good and
plain that ours was a perfectly respectable and genteel divorce.
Nothing I could say made a mite of difference, with some of the
girls, and then is when I first heard that perfectly horrid word,
"grass-widow." So I knew what Peter meant, though I was furious at him
for using it. And I let him see it good and plain.

Of course I changed schools. I knew Mother'd want me to, when she
knew, and so I told her right away. I thought she'd be superb and
haughty and disdainful sure this time. But she wasn't. First she grew
so white I thought she was going to faint away. Then she began to cry,
and kiss and hug me. And that night I heard her talking to Aunt Hattie
and saying, "To think that that poor innocent child has to suffer,
too!" and some more which I couldn't hear, because her voice was all
choked up and shaky.

Mother is crying now again quite a lot. You see, her six months are
'most up, and I've got to go back to Father. And I'm afraid Mother is
awfully unhappy about it. She had a letter last week from Aunt Jane,
Father's sister. I heard her read it out loud to Aunt Hattie and
Grandpa in the library. It was very stiff and cold and dignified, and
ran something like this:

DEAR MADAM: Dr. Anderson desires me to say that he trusts you are
bearing in mind the fact that, according to the decision of the
court, his daughter Mary is to come to him on the first day of
May. If you will kindly inform him as to the hour of her expected
arrival, he will see that she is properly met at the station.

Then she signed her name, Abigail Jane Anderson. (She was named for