From the Relief Society Magazine, August 1926 –

This story is preliminary to the serial of four chapters that we’ll post next.

The Diary of an Ugly Duckling

By Estelle Webb Thomas

March 18.— I did intend to call this “Daisy’s Diary” as that sounds rather euphonious, (how’s that for elegance?), but being one of those persons who believe in calling a spade a spade — though why anyone should want to call it anything else, unless they were making a cross-word puzzle, I can’t understand — , well, so long as I am one of those persons, I decided to call it, “The Diary of an Ugly Duckling.”

Petty (Mr. Pittibone, our English teacher) says that at some time in our lives we all feel the urge for self-expression through the written word. I thought at the time that any urge I might feel would be fully satisfied in writing those wretched papers he is always assigning us, but lately I have had so many things on my mind, — and nobody to talk them over with, that is, no-one who would understand, for though Mother is just as dear and beautiful as she can be, there is simply no use trying to get her to take things seriously; well, feeling this way, I just happened to think of the little red diary that Gran gave me for Christmas. One thing about a diary, someone isn’t always correcting your spelling, and criticizing your English. And then, one can speak one’s mind without hurting anyone’s feelings, which I don’t seem to be able to do, usually. Another thing, I can write just as long sentences as I like, and won’t even have to have a predicate in them, if I don’t want to. (See, there, I finished a sentence with a preposition, and that would make Petty throw a fit if he knew it.)

I did intend to write more tonight, but I am so sleepy, and still have three problems in Algebra to do, so I’ll call it a day, and stop. This is a pretty good start, anyway, and I have got to be careful, or my diary will be full before I have said anything.

March 20. — I spoke to Mother, today about Inez. She only said, “Well, dear, that is her way, just as being sensible is yours. There’s no harm in what she does, we must each express our individuality in our own way.”

I said, “But, Mother, she makes eyes! She’s silly!” Mother said gently, “Inez has been told so often that her eyes are pretty, it isn’t surprising if she is a trifle vain of them. And the silliness is just a stage, dear, she will get over it in time.”

Isn’t that exasperating! But that is all the satisfaction I ever got out of Mother! She says that Lisbeth’s habit of calling people “Kid” is just a stage, too. Well, I for one, don’t feel that I can take my responsibilities so easy. I don’t mind doing Inez’s English papers for her, but I do hate it that she has changed so, lately. She is only a year older than I am, and we used to have so much fun. But now she is so changed! She goes with Madge Blakely, and has secrets from me, never lets me see what she writes in her journal, I know it’s about boys, though, because that seems to be the only subject that she and Madge are interested in, any more. I admit that Inez is pretty. Her hair is just like a shining black cap. Her eyes are green, the color of the emerald in Aunt Dora’s ring, that her lover who died, gave her. She has thick black lashes, and the prettiest red lips. I have always just loved to look at her, but now she has got to thinking so much about her own beauty, it is all spoiled.

If looks were all it took to make an angel, Lisbeth would be one. She has the biggest eyes! So deep blue they are almost purple, with long curling lashes, and skin like rose-petals. She sings, too, in the most heavenly voice, and Inez plays her accompaniment.

I wouldn’t have them know for anything that I had written all this gush about them, but I want to remember when I am an old, old lady just how we all looked. And then, I suppose when people have looks like Inez and Lisbeth they don’t have to be over-burdened with brains. People simply can’t look at Lisbeth and refuse her anything. That’s why she’s so spoiled. But Mother can’t see it. To her, Lisbeth is still the “baby,” and everything she does is cute. Mother is like Inez, only more beautiful, and has Lisbeth’s sweet expression. She is just as dear and lovely as she can be and I simply can’t understand how she could have a child as plain as I am, that even has to wear glasses, as a finishing touch.

Well, somebody in the family has to be practical and have a little common sense, and that seems to be my role. It would have been jolly to have known our father, and divided the responsibility with him, but I was only three when he died, and I took over the family.

I started to tell Inez’s faults, but someway got off on to all our looks; and now I’ve lost the spirit of writing. But about Inez — maybe she isn’t any sillier than other sixteen-year-old girls. O, I hope I won’t be in that “stage,” as Mother calls it, in one year from now! This looks a little like us all.

April 12. — It wasn’t really my turn to spend the week-end with Gran and Aunt Dora, but Lisbeth was invited to a party for Friday evening, that she didn’t want to miss, and Inez had to go to the dentist, so I got to come. I brought my diary along because I have more time for writing than during the week. Gran and Aunt Dora are always glad to see us, and expect one of us down every week-end. Inez thinks that Aunt Dora is very romantic because her lover died from typhoid fever the very day that they were to have been married. But, some way, I can never feel very romantic when I think of Aunt Dora, she looks so red-cheeked and healthy, and is so decided about everything.

Mother says I have Aunt Dora’s habit of speaking my mind, but I hope I am a little more careful of people’s feelings. However, I like Aunt ,Dora, and she makes awfully good doughnuts.

This evening, I happened to be looking at the big picture of Mother that hangs in Gran’s sitting-room, the one where she looks so much like Inez does now, when the thought popped into my head that maybe Mother was — well, kind of flirty, when she was a girl, just as Inez is, now, and Lisbeth shows every sign of going to be. Perhaps that is why she is so unconcerned about their light-mindedness — she is in sympathy with them! So, I said to Gran in an off-hand way, “Did Mother have lots of beaus, when she was a girl?” And Aunt Dora spoke right up as she always does, without giving Gran a chance, “Beaus! Indeed she did have beaus! We couldn’t walk for falling over them of an evening, could we, Mother?” And Gran added, in the sad way she always speaks of her children when they were young, just as if they were dead, “She was much prettier than you will ever be, my dear!” Now, I’ve heard that speech dozens of times, and it has never offended me before, but I suppose that it has sort of got on my nerves to think that a girl can get away with- anything if she is pretty, and all the responsibility falls on the plain ones. So I replied coldly, “I know that I am not pretty, I’ve got brains, like my father!” “O, indeed!” said Aunt Dora, sharply, “and I suppose that on your Mother’s side of the family, we are all morons!”

“O, I don’t mean that you are beautiful and dumb, Aunt Dora!” I said hurriedly, but though I meant it as a compliment, Aunt Dora was very cool all the rest of the evening, and never even mentioned making fudge, again, although she had promised me that she would, after supper. So, when Gran went to bed, she always goes at eight o’clock, I came up to my room to write in my diary. It always seems sort of lonesome, the first night I am here, to sleep alone in the big bed Mother used to sleep in, in the very room she had when she was a girl. Maybe she used to lie awake staring at this very window, and thinking of the handsome young artist that later turned out to be Father!

That last sounds like Inez, so I guess I’ll cross it out and go to bed.

April 13. — That odious Smith boy came over the first thing, this morning, to see which one of us came, last evening. He seemed sort of disappointed when he saw it was me, but. asked me to go fishing, as he always does, and to the movies, in the evening. I declined the invitation to fish, as I always do, because I believe that a whole day of that silly boy would simply kill me, but accepted the bid to the movies, because Mrs. Smith is Aunt Dora’s best friend, and she is awfully offended if we aren’t nice to Berty. That shows just the kind of boy he is — people call him Berty, and get off with it! I told him that I was going” to read to Gran, so I did, out of the Bible, for an hour, then I noticed that Gran was asleep, and I was, nearly, so I went and helped Aunt Dora fry dough-nuts in the kitchen. I burnt my arm, and Aunt Dora said that when she was fifteen, there was nothing that she could not cook. I asked her if she could do cube-root, and it kind of got her. You’ve simply got to stick up for yourself with Aunt Dora. After lunch I had a bath, and put on my pongee, and my rose sweater, and went to the post office, for Gran.

About dark, along came Berty, with his best clothes and his silliest grin on, and we went to the show. I was so “peeved” at having to leave my book, which is a new one by Mary Roberts Rhinehart, that I was rather rude, but Berty never knew it, so I suppose it doesn’t matter. I said, “Aren’t you ever sick, Berty, or anything like that, that might keep you home evenings?” But he only grinned wider than ever, and said he didn’t know what sickness was, and I could count on little Berty to always be Johnny-on-the-spot, as if I didn’t know that!

Then he began to talk about Inez and Lisbeth. He called Inez, “some swell little Jane,” and said Lisbeth was “the coming kid!” Really, I felt ashamed to hear my sisters spoken of in that way by a dummy like Berty. I was silent, trying to show my disdain, but Bright Berty must have thought I was jealous, or something, for he said encouragingly, “You’re all right, too, kid, only a guy don’t always know how to take you. Why, don’t you know, if I didn’t know better, sometimes I’d almost think you were making fun of me!” Well, I won’t waste any more space on Berty, or time either, because it is after the movie, and I am sleepy, and I promised Mother I wouldn’t neglect to brush my hair two hundred strokes before going to bed, even if she isn’t here to watch me.

Sunday evening, April 14. — Well, I’m home again. Inez had a piece of news to tell me. It seems that Miss Moffatt, our Ancient History teacher, has left to get married; her husband is going to leave for South America, immediately, and she could not even finish this term of school and go with him — and so we have a new teacher, the handsomest man! So Inez says, at least. She simply raved about him. She and Madge saw him when he got off the train, Saturday, and watched him afterward, sitting out on the Davenport’s front porch. , He is going to board there. She even found out his name! Trust Inez! She thinks it is so romantic! Milton Sturtevant! So much nicer than ours! For my part, I think it is awfully silly, like a movie hero, or something. Wallace may not be quite so fancy, but it’s a good substantial name, and I intend to be loyal to it, even if Inez doesn’t. Well, I’ll see the paragon, tomorrow, and here’s the hair-brush, propped up against a book before me, where Mother put it just before she went to bed, so I couldn’t possibly forget. So-long!

Tuesday, 16. — I couldn’t write last night, Petty piled a lot of work on us for today, and I had to do mine, and the biggest part of Inez’s, while she raved shamelessly in her diary, about the new ancient history teacher. I have some pride about our standing in our classes, and Inez takes advantage of it. Besides she hinted that I was anxious to tell my journal about Prof. Sturtevant, and I’d have died rather than open it, then! But, O, he is wonderful! For once, Inez didn’t exaggerate it, a bit! She didn’t half tell it when she described him to me Sunday night! So tall, and so distinguished-looking and dignified! I didn’t know a teacher could have such thick wavy hair, and it has just enough gray in, to look interesting! O, he is really the most attractive man I ever saw! I know I shall never see another who is even half so wonderful!

Inez and Madge say they are going to find out if he is married. It doesn’t seem probable, as he has no wife with him. But she may be visiting or something, and expect to join him later. I might just as well make up my mind to it, a man like that could not escape marrying! Someone would be sure to have captured him before this! If she is only worthy of him! But she is probably one of those heartless, selfish creatures, that most great men in history seem to pick, if not, why should she let him come to his work alone? But perhaps he happens by some miracle not to be married! Of course, he would never look at the Ugly Duckling, but many a person has loved in silence and alone, all his or her (their) life. (Thank goodness, Petty isn’t going to see that sentence!) I never did know which pronoun to use) O, I forgot to mention his voice! But I can’t describe it, so it’s no use trying! This is something the way he looks, only of course I can not really draw him at all. If you could see him, Diary, you would never consent for me to write another word about anyone else on your pages, in the world! There comes Inez, and she will look over my shoulder, if I don’t hurry! Thursday — 18. — He isn’t married! That is, he isn’t now. Mrs. Davenport told Madge that his wife died when they had only been married a short time. Isn’t that romantic! No wonder he looks so sort of sad. I suppose he never will forget her, or marry again, or anything. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to die, and- have your husband grieve all the rest of his life for you? Only, you wouldn’t be here to enjoy it. O, well, I suppose he is just as inaccessible as if she were alive! But if a cat can look at a king, an ugly duckling can surely look at a high school professor! I think my case will be lots more romantic than Aunt Dora’s. Typhoid isn’t romantic, at all. “Unrequited love!” I remember, I thought that movie was the silliest thing!

Inez cried over it. Well, I understand it now. Isn’t it strange what a change can take place in a person’s ideas in one short week?

Mother just called for me to remember my hair. I don’t mind brushing it so much, now. I never thought I would envy Inez or Lisbeth their looks, but

Saturday night, 20th. — Lisbeth came in before I finished, to get some hand lotion, as Mother’s and her jar was empty, and I thought it was Inez, who was down-stairs studying, and so I put my diary away. Well, I’ll never get to the great news! He has been here about ten minutes, when Dick came. But it had been It seems he was a college friend of Father’s, and found out that we were his family, and so came to call on Mother this evening. He was even nicer, close up, than in classes. He told us so many things about his and Father’s college life, that Father seemed quite a different person than when Mother describes him — more human, you know, not quite so perfect. Mr. Sturtevant made a great fuss over Lisbeth, whom he had never seen before, said she looked so much like Father. She sang, but Inez was not here to play for her, as it was her turn at Granmother’s. I could see that the Professor admired Mother very much, and really seemed to enjoy the evening. .1 hated it, when he finally went, although I hadn’t done a thing all evening, but sit and look at him, but that was “happiness enow” for me.

Inez will be frantic when she finds that he was here while she was gone!

Saturday. — A whole week since I wrote a word in my journal! And I might not have written now, but the Prof. has been here again! I was giving so much time to my diary, that I was really beginning to fall down in my lessons. But this is an occasion that cannot be passed up.

Just as I thought, Inez was terribly put out when she heard of the Professor’s visit. She said it simply made her fume to think she had endured Berty for a whole evening, while we were enjoying Mr. Sturtevant! Of course, none of us even dreamed that he would come again tonight — although Mother didn’t show the least surprise, that’s her good breeding, I suppose. Inez had a date with Dick Goodwin! Prof. Sturtevant had only been here about ten minutes, when Dick came. But it had been ten minutes well spent, so far as Inez was concerned.

She had talked, and laughed, (the new laugh she and Madge are cultivating) and put her eyes through all their bag of tricks, and in fact practiced all her new arts upon him. She made a really pretty picture on the piano stool, where she had seated herself, I know as a reminder to Mother to ask her to play, but Dick came in before we had got to that stage..

If looks could kill, poor Dick wouldn’t be the “Sheik of the Campus,” as Tom Walling calls him, today. Although Inez had been quite proud at capturing Dick, when everybody knows that Mabel Browning, who has more clothes than all the rest of the girls together, as well as everything she wants, has the awfullest “crush” on him! But she isn’t even in Inez’s class for looks — but that wasn’t what I was writing about, what was it? O, yes, Inez was mad as a hatter at Dick, (who, of course, didn’t know what for) for what is the best catch in the school, compared with Professor Sturtevant? She would have been madder than ever, if she had known that the Professor seemed just as happy and contented after she left, as before. Perhaps that was his gentlemanly way of making Mother and me feel we were of some importance, too.

How I did long for Inez’s self-possession, and easy manner! Frankly, I have always thought I had lots more brains than Inez, but I am beginning to doubt it! What use are brains, anyway, if they don’t get you anywhere? And I certainly didn’t show any evidence of mine, tonight. Every time the Professor spoke to me, I stammered just like Benny Burton.

Mother made up for what I lacked, by being just as nice as she can be, and that’s pretty nice. She could make a wooden Indian feel at home, and though rather formal right at first, the Professor is far from wooden. I made some lemonade, and brought in some of Mother’s cream-puffs, and Prof. S. ate really a lot of them. It was a sort of disappointment to me, because no one can ever seem quite so romantic again, after “one has seen him eat real heartily. I hinted this to Mother after he had gone, and she laughed, and said, “Goodness, child, if you are going to leave food out of your romances, you’ll have to omit men, too. There is a natural affinity between the two. Haven’t you ever heard the old adage about the way to a man’s heart ? For my part, I was glad to see the Professor enjoy the cream-puffs so well. I happen to know that Mrs. Davenport can’t make them fit to eat.”

It seems dreadful to confess it, but even Mother is a disappointment to me, sometimes. You wouldn’t think to look at her that she could S3.y such things! I am afraid that nobody looks at things like I do, and I am doomed to go through life, a lonely unappreciated soul.

Tuesday afternoon. — I cut Gym to come home and write. I just couldn’t wait till night, and then I have a big long paper to write for “English Lit.”

Just think! I have had a long talk with Prof. S. all alone, me, myself! And I didn’t stammer either! ‘Or turn red, or drop anything! Mother told me to go down to Newton’s Drug Store before I came home, for some tooth-paste, and camphor; and I was mooning along, making up a story about being a beautiful, mysterious young woman, at the same rich house-party at which Mr. Sturtevant was being entertained. He had been heard to say that I had the saddest, sweetest face he had ever seen, and to wonder what secret sorrow had driven away all its beautiful smiles and written there that look of haunted pain.

Came a day when I came sweeping down the broad stairway, in my plain, but expensive riding-habit, and imperiously, but in a sad, gentle voice, ordered the groom to bring me the swiftest horse in the stables, I would try to ride away from my thoughts. It happened that the Professor, who was sitting thinking about me, in an alcove, heard my command, and resolved to follow me, declare his love, and try to win back the smiles to that sadly beautiful face. Well, it went along, to where in a fit of reckless pain and not noticing that I was being followed by the faithful Professor, I had jumped a ditch, been thrown from my high-spirited mount, and was lying .in a tragic, unconscious heap on the ground. Frantic with fear, he rushed up, threw himself from his horse, and gathering my lifeless form to his heart, began calling me every tender, impassioned name his lips could utter. — I had just got to there, when I ran into someone, and looking up, saw it was the Professor!

I was so startled that I blurted out, “O, it’s you!” and then could have cut my tongue out for betraying me. (That is an expression I read somewhere. ) But he only smiled pleasantly, and said, “Yes, and unless I am very much mistaken, that is you. Were you going in here, Miss Daisy?” We were right at the door of the drug store, and he went in with me. It seemed that he was after a magazine, but when I had got my things, and was starting away, he asked if I wouldn’t have an ice-cream soda with him, it was so warm! If Mother, or Inez o$ Lisbeth had been there to see, I couldn’t have said a word, because they would have known that I was only acting ; but as it was, I tried to act just as I thought Mother or Inez would have done, and I don’t believe he guessed how excited I was inside. He was just as talkative and entertaining as if I were the grandest lady in town. I wonder if he even imagines how I feel toward him! I would die if he did! I came home walking on air, and when Mother asked me for the tooth-paste and camphor, I had left them on the drug store counter!

May 15. — The time simply flies, and I don’t get a chance to write a word. Mother has not been well, and we have had to take turns at the house-work, besides doing our school work.

Poor little Lisbeth, just can’t remember her day for dishes, and plays along with Gladys, her chum, until I have them done nearly every time. Then she is so sorry and sweet about it, that I just can’t be vexed. But what is hard to stand is Inez’s cooking. She said that if Lisbeth and I would take turns making beds, sweeping, dusting, etc., she would do all the cooking, and give Mother a good rest. We tried to get her to go to Gran’s for a while, but she would not leave us alone and then school will soon be out, and we will all go up to Aunt Margaret’s farm for the summer, and Mother will be all right as she always is, there. But in the meantime, Inez’s cooking is simply awful! Everything is sweet! A whole meal of deserts! And she puts cinnamon in everything, too, though I’ve told her a hundred times that I can’t bear cinnamon! She says every time, “O, don’t you like it? I thought it was cinnamon you did like!”

We have to eat her stuff, for we never know when we’ll get another meal. Inez will come flying in, hours late, look at the clock, and say, “O, dear! Time for another meal! Seems like we eat all the time!! Poor little Mumsy, Inez will have her something nice in a jiffy!” Then she will fix up some sticky mess, and Mother will say, “This is delicious, dear!” Though I notice that she hardly touches it. Now, I think Inez should be told plainly that she can’t cook, and be made to learn. When I have children — well, if I ever should marry and have children, I’ll know how to train them, that’s certain, because I’ve given Mother’s — no, that sounds too mean, — I won’t say anything more — but Inez does make me tired!

Sunday afternoon. — Professor Sturtevant is calling on Mother, now. He brought her a beautiful armful of roses and a book, and they seem to be having a lovely time. I was the only girl at home when he came, and I was in the kitchen, trying to cobble up something for Mother to eat — something that wasn’t sweet, I mean. I had one of her big kitchen aprons tied under my arms, and where there wasn’t a smudge of black, there was a dash of flour. I have looked about the same every time he has called, and that has been often. It is awfully discouraging. I had to let him in, looking as I did, and my heart surely fell when I saw the roses, I had hoped something would prompt the Professor to bring a good thick beef-steak next time he came (cooked of course.) I know poor Mother would appreciate it.

After he had gone in to Mother, I gave up my attempts at cooking, and came up to try to catch up with some of my lessons. I’d have given the world to have stayed and looked at the Professor, but I wouldn’t bear looking at, in return, until I’ve had a bath, and something else on. And now, I am too tired to take a bath, or brush my hair, or anything! My face feels fairly scorched bending over that hot old stove so long, and then I didn’t accomplish anything! I have three cut fingers, and one burned one, and O, how they hurt! And then the Professor saw me looking like that! I don’t care if he did! I just hope he does think I am slouchy and untidy, and haven’t any pride, so there!

June 15. — Aunt Margaret’s Farm. — Or maybe I ought to call it Uncle Henry’s Farm. Anyway, that isn’t important, this isMr. Sturtevant is spending his vacation up here, too! He is staying at the Burton’s, Aunt Margaret’s nearest neighbors! It seems like a remarkable coincidence, but Inez says she knows he came just because he knew we were coming. She says he asked her one day after class if anyone else up here took summer boarders, besides Uncle Henry. Of course, he had heard us talk about coming to the farm. I sort of wonder, myself — but wouldn’t say so right out, as Inez does. Anyway, he is there, and most of the time he is here. He comes over in the morning, to play tennis with Inez, or me, and usually stays to lunch, because Aunt Margaret, who hasn’t any children, loves company, and always urges him to stay. Then in the afternoon, he takes Mother boating, or for a long walk, for the sake of her health. Then Uncle Henry asks him to spend the evening, and we sit out on the porch and sing, while Abner Adams, Uncle Henry’s hired man, plays the ukelele ; or we listen while Uncle Henry and the Professor have an argument on religion or politics, (sometimes we make out cross-word puzzles while it is going on), and twice we have all gone out on the river for a moon-light boat ride.

Lisbeth is simply running wild. She is all over the farm with Uncle Henry or Abner, or tearing around like mad on Chub, the pony that Uncle Henry keeps for us girls to use in the Summers, or hiking off for picnics with Bennie and Bettie, the Burton’s twins, every time Mother will let her.

Aunt Margaret says I look “peaked,” and tries to make me eat cream at all hours of the day. I let her think I had been carrying a too heavy course in school (two heavy courses would be nearer right, Inez’s and my own), and don’t tell her what really is the matter, of course, though sometimes I think she suspects something. She is always talking about the Professor, asking me if I like him, and don’t I think he is a nice thoughtful man around the house, and so on. Ho-hum! I’m tired of writing, and promised Aunt Margaret that I would help her shell some peas for dinner.

Inez and Lisbeth went to town with Uncle Henry, and Mother is somewhere with the Professor. He is reading a book to her, that was written by one of his friends.

July 29.’ — This is the end! The very last scratch I shall ever write in your pages, Diary! When I have finished easing my mind today, I’ll stick you in the kitchen stove, when Aunt Margaret is not looking; or maybe seal you up with sticking plaster, and put you away to read when I am an old, old, maid, sitting by the fire, knitting socks for my grand-nephews. No —I won’t do it! I may be obliged to sit by the fire in cold weather, but I simply refuse to waste my eye-sight knitting socks for those despicable children, so there!

Well, now that’s settled, I will get on with my story. I am sitting propped up in bed in broad daylight, pillows at my back, a hot-water bottle at my feet, and Uncle Henry’s big red dressing-gown on, all to quiet Aunt Margaret’s fears that I might contract pneumonia.

This is what happened.

An hour or so after lunch, when everybody was reading, or dozing, or crocheting, or something, I went down to the river, and got into one of the little canoes that Uncle Henry keeps tied to the boat-landing. I felt dreamy and sad, so I just stretched out in the bottom of the boat and looked up at the sky, and thought beautiful thoughts, while I drifted idly down-stream. Presently, I drifted into a story about the Professor and me, as I always do, or rather did, when I must have dozed off, for the next thing I remember was shouting. It was Mother and Mr. Sturtevant, who had wandered away down the river to read their book, though they could surely have found a quiet place without coming so far.

Well, anyway, they had seen my boat drifting straight toward an old tangly tree-root, which stuck out from a little island in the middle of the river. They wondered if anyone could be in it, (they couldn’t see me, as I was lying down), because the boat was apt to catch on that snag, and not far below were some rapids, and quite a fall in the river. Well, when I heard them shouting, it startled me wide-awake, and I jumped straight up, suddenly, forgetting all about where I was. I don’t know if I had any help from the snag, or not, but anyway, I capsized the boat, and suddenly found myself in the water, which seemed terribly cold for mid-summer, with the canoe over me. I got out from under, and tried to strike out for the bank where Mother was, but the current was so strong and swift there, that it kept carrying me down-stream, nearer and nearer to those falls.

The Professor had jumped right in with his clothes on, and was swimming toward me, but both he and Mother kept shouting something, and pointing behind me. I couldn’t hear what they said for the -roar of the water, and didn’t have time for looking at the view, or anything, anyway; I had troubles of my own. Once I thought how romantic it was for me to be drowning, and the Professor rescuing me, but there really wasn’t much time for thought, though it seemed hours before he reached me, just as I was too tired to try any longer, and was going to let the water have me if it wanted* me so badly.

The Professor didn’t look a bit romantic, with his wet clothes clinging to him, his hair plastered tight to his head, and his eyeglasses which he had forgotten to take off, dangling from his ear. But I could have forgiven him all that as he had got that way saving my life, if it had not been for his first words, ‘’You little fool!” That’s what he said, the very words! Not, “O, my dearest!” or “Thank heaven, in time!” or even, “Saved!” Just, “You little fool! Do you want to scare your Mother to death? It’s enough to kill her!” I could see that he didn’t want to talk at all, didn’t have any too much breath, in fact, as he was now towing me along against the current. But he had to get it out before he came to my Mother, he couldn’t very well call me a fool before her! It seemed they had tried to tell me to climb onto the little island, and stay till he could get a boat and come after me, but I didn’t understand. I don’t think the Professor enjoyed getting his new white flannels wet, for one thing.

Mother was nearly in hysterics, crying and sobbing, when we got to the shore, and the Professor didn’t take another bit of notice of me, though I thought for once I ought to be the heroine of ^the situation, — even if I did look more like a drowned rat than a heroine — but began trying to comfort Mother, in a way that was surprising, to say the least — putting his arms around her and patting her shoulder, and saying over and over, ‘There, there, dearest, she’s all right, don’t you see?” I guess I must have looked rather queer, for Mother said suddenly, between sobs, “Daisy, darling, I’ll tell you first of all, the Professor is going to be your new daddy, aren’t you glad?”

“And when I am, young lady, I’ll see that you behave a little more sensibly than you did today!” said the Professor, trying to be jokey, but meaning it, I could see.

Well, I felt suddenly that three was a crowd, and the one that made it crowded, was wet and miserable, 4 and wanted to cry, so I said rather crossly, I am afraid, “If you will just take the responsibility of the rest of the family off my hands, I think I can manage to look out for myself!” Then I ran. Aunt Margaret put me to bed, and gave me a cup of hot ginger tea, and made all the fuss over me, that Mother would have made under ordinary circumstances ; and after all, people don’t get engaged to Professor Milton Sturtevants every day, and all the family have been up to see how I feel, including Mother and the Prof. When I looked at him, beaming down at me in such a fatherly way he had already forgotten that he called me a little fool, for frightening Mother.) I almost laughed in his face, to think that Inez and I ever imagined that we were in love with him! Why, he is just the age and type for Mother, and of course she was the attraction all the time! Thank goodness, nobody knows the joke on me, but you, Diary, and I will make it impossible for you to tell!

It will really be a wonderful relief to have another man in the family, to take some of the responsibility off my shoulders. Now, I am going to have a vacation!