Anything on your mind does, and Miss Bray looks at me so curious and so
nervous, sometimes, that I can't help feeling sorry for her.

I don't believe she will ever get well until she repents and confesses
and crosses her heart that she won't do it again. A confession is a
grand relief.

Suppose Dr. Parke Alden don't write, don't notice me! I will be that mad
and mortified I will wish I was dead. But if he don't answer that
letter, I will write a few more things to him before dying, for, if I am
an Orphan, I oughtn't to be treated like a piece of imagination.

The black hen has got a lot of little chickens and the jonquils are in
bloom. The sun is as warm as June, but I'm shivering all the time, and
Miss Katherine says she don't understand me. She gave me a tonic to make
me eat more. I don't want to eat. I want a letter.

* * * * *

Jerusalem the Golden! Now, what do you reckon has happened! Nothing will
evermore surprise Mary Cary, mostly Martha.

If the moon ever burns, or the stars come to town, or the Pope marries a
wife, or the dead come to life, I will just say, "Is that so?" and in my
heart I will know a stranger thing than that.

Yesterday Miss Bray sent for me to come to her room. She was sick in
bed, and her frizzes weren't frizzed, and she looked so old and pitiful
that I took hold of her hand and said, "I'm awful sorry you are sick,
Miss Bray."