marry somebody else.

I wonder what a divorce is. We've never had one in Yorkburg, and I never
knew until the other day that when you got married it wasn't really
truly permanent. I thought it was for ever and ever and until death
parted. The prayer-book says so, and I thought it meant it.

By the time I'm grown I guess I'll find a lot of things are said and not
meant. Maybe when I find out I will be all the gladder to come back to
Yorkburg, where people don't seem to know much about these new-fashioned
things. Where they still believe in the old ones, and just live on and
don't hurry, and are kind and polite and dear, if they are slow and
queer and proud a little bit.

It makes me have such a funny feeling in my throat when I think about
going away. I'm trying not to think. But I do. Think all the time. I
want this summer to be the happiest the children ever had. It's the last
for me. That sounds consumptive, but I don't mean that way. I mean it's
my last Orphan summer.

Of course, I'm glad, awful glad; but I'm so sorry the other children
aren't going, too. For them it's prunes and blue-and-white calico to
look forward to until they're eighteen. Year in and year out, prunes and
calico.

But maybe it isn't. If Mary Cary will do her part something nicer may
happen. She doesn't know yet the way to make it happen, having nothing
much to send back but love. Somebody says love finds the way. Oh, Mary
Cary, you and Love _must_ find a way!