about me, never having asked.

It would make me miserable--this aloneness would, if I let it. I won't
let it. I have got to look out for Mary Cary, frequently Martha, and
when you're miserable you don't get much of anything that's going
around. I won't be unhappy. I just won't. I haven't enough other
blessings.

But not being able to speak out as much as I would like on some things
personal, I got into the habit of talking to my other self, which I
named Martha, and which I call my secret sister. Martha is my every-day
self, like the Bible Martha who did things, and didn't worry trying to
find out what couldn't be found out, specially about why God lets
Mothers die.

Mary is my Sunday self who wonders and wonders at everything and asks a
million questions inside, and goes along and lets people think she is
truly Martha when she knows all the time she isn't. And if I do hold out
and write a history of my life, it's going to be a Martha and Mary
history; for some days I'm one, some another, and whichever I happen to
be is plain to be seen.

When I grow up I am going to marry a million-dollar man, so I can travel
around the world and have a house in Paris with twenty bath-rooms in
it. And I'm going to have horses and automobiles and a private car and
balloons, if they are working all right by that time. I hope they will
be, for I want something in which I can soar up and sit and look down on
other people.

All my life people have looked down on me, passing me by like I was a