day I'm going around the world, and I'm going to see everything anybody
else has ever seen before I marry my children's father. Of course, after
I get married he will be busy, and there will be always some excuse that
will make you tired. I'm going beforehand. Miss Webb says marriage is
very uncertain.

This is a grand day. The crocuses are peeping up just as pert and
pretty. The little brown buds on the trees have turned green and getting
bigger every day, and even the air feels like it's had a bath. I just
love the spring. Everything says to you: "Good-morning! Here we are
again. Let's begin all over." And inside I say, "All right," and I mean
it; but oh, Mary Cary, you're so unreliable. There are times when your
future looks very much like a worm of the dust.

Miss Bray is real sick. She hasn't been well for a long time, and she
looks like she's shrivelling, though still fat. She has nervous
dyspepsia, which they say is ruinous to dispositions, and Miss Bray's
isn't the kind for any sort of sickness to be free with.

It certainly is making her queer, for she's changed from sharpness to
tearfulness, and she weeps any time. A thing I never thought I'd live to
see.

Poor creature, I feel real sorry for her. Miss Jones says she's worn
out, but I don't believe it's that. I believe it's conscience and
coffee. Miss Bray isn't an all-over bad person. If it wasn't I knew she
told stories, I could have stood the other things. But when a person
tells stories, what have you got to hold on to? Nothing.

I believe it's those stories that's giving her trouble in her stomach.