And she said if she could only have her life to live over again she'd do so differently--oh, so differently.
Then she began to cry again, and I couldn't do a thing with her; and of course, that worked me all up and I began to cry.
She stopped then, right off short, and wiped her eyes fiercely with her wet ball of a handkerchief.

And she asked what was she thinking of, and didn't she know any better than to talk like this to me.

Then she said, come, we'd go for a ride.
And we did.
And all the rest of that day Mother was so gay and lively you'd think she didn't know how to cry.
Now, wasn't that funny?
Of course, I shall answer Father's letter right away, but I haven't the faintest idea _what_ to say.
* * * * * _One week later._ I answered it--Father's letter, I mean--yesterday, and it's gone now.
But I had an awful time over it.

I just didn't know what in the world to say.

I'd start out all right, and I'd think I was going to get along beautifully.