Mother: A Story

  Produced by Joyce Noverr and Jim Weiler. HTML version by Al Haines.

  MOTHER

  A STORY

  BY

  KATHLEEN NORRIS

  TO J. E. T. AND J. A. T.

  As years ago we carried to your knees The tales and treasures of eventful days, Knowing no deed too humble for your praise, Nor any gift too trivial to please, So still we bring, with older smiles and tears, What gifts we may, to claim the old, dear right; Your faith, beyond the silence and the night, Your love still close and watching through the years.

  JTABLE 4 7 1

  MOTHER

  CHAPTER I

  "Well, we couldn't have much worse weather than this for the lastweek of school, could we?" Margaret Paget said in discouragement.She stood at one of the school windows, her hands thrust deep inher coat pockets for warmth, her eyes following the whirling courseof the storm that howled outside. The day had commenced with snow,but now, at twelve o'clock, the rain was falling in sheets, and thebarren schoolhouse yard, and the play-shed roof, ran muddy streamsof water.

  Margaret had taught in this schoolroom for nearly four years now,ever since her seventeenth birthday, and she knew every feature ofthe big bare room by heart, and every detail of the length of villagestreet that the high, uncurtained windows commanded. She had stoodat this window in all weathers: when locust and lilac made even uglylittle Weston enchanting, and all the windows were open to floods ofsweet spring air; when tie dry heat of autumn burned over the world;when the common little houses and barns, and the bare trees, laydazzling and transfigured under the first snowfall, and the woodcrackled in the schoolroom stove; and when, as to-day, midwinterrains swept drearily past the windows, and the children must havethe lights lighted for their writing lesson. She was tired of it all,with an utter and hopeless weariness. Tired of the bells, and thewhispering, and the shuffling feet, of the books that smelled ofpencil-dust and ink and little dusty fingers; tired of theblackboards, cleaned in great irregular scallops by small and zealousarms; of the clear-ticking big clock; of little girls who sulked, andlittle girls who cried after hours in the hall because they had losttheir lunch baskets or their overshoes, and little girls who had coldsin their heads, and no handkerchiefs. Looking out into the gray dayand the rain, Margaret said to herself that she was sick of it all!

  There were no little girls in the schoolroom now. They were for themost part downstairs in the big playroom, discussing cold lunches,and planning, presumably, the joys of the closely approachingholidays. One or two windows had been partially opened to air theroom in their absence, and Margaret's only companion was anotherteacher, Emily Porter, a cheerful little widow, whose plain rosyface was in marked contrast to the younger woman's unusual beauty.

  Mrs. Porter loved Margaret and admired her very much, but she herselfloved teaching. She had had a hard fight to secure this position afew years ago; it meant comfort to her and her children, and it stillseemed to her a miracle of God's working, after her years of struggleand worry. She could not understand why Margaret wanted anythingbetter; what better thing indeed could life hold! Sometimes, lookingadmiringly at her associate's crown of tawny braids, at the dark eyesand the exquisite lines of mouth and forehead, Mrs. Porter would findherself sympathetic with the girl's vague discontent and longings, tothe extent of wishing that some larger social circle than that ofWeston might have a chance to appreciate Margaret Paget's beauty,that "some of those painters who go crazy over girls not half aspretty" might see her. But after all, sensible little Mrs. Porterwould say to herself, Weston was a "nice" town, only four hours fromNew York, absolutely up-to-date; and Weston's best people were all"nice," and the Paget girls were very popular, and "wenteverywhere,"--young people were just discontented and exacting, thatwas all!

  She came to Margaret's side now, buttoned snugly into her own stormcoat, and they looked out at the rain together. Nothing alive was insight. The bare trees tossed in the wind, and a garden gate halfwaydown the row of little shabby cottages banged and banged.

  "Shame--this is the worst yet!" Mrs. Porter said. "You aren't goinghome to lunch in all this, Margaret?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Margaret said despondently. "I'm so dead that I'dmake a cup of tea here if I didn't think Mother would worry and sendJulie over with lunch."

  "I brought some bread and butter--but not much. I hoped it would holdup. I hate to leave Tom and Sister alone all day," Mrs. Porter saiddubiously. "There's tea and some of those bouillon cubes and somecrackers left. But you're so tired, I don't know but what you oughtto have a hearty lunch."

  "Oh, I'm not hungry." Margaret dropped into a desk, put her elbows onit, pushed her hair off her forehead. The other woman saw a tear slipby the lowered, long lashes.

  "You're exhausted, aren't you, Margaret?" she said suddenly.

  The little tenderness was too much. Margaret's lip shook.

  "Dead!" she said unsteadily. Presently she added, with an effort atcheerfulness, "I'm just cross, I guess, Emily; don't mind me! I'mtired out with examinations and--" her eyes filled again--"and I'msick of wet cold weather and rain and snow," she added childishly."Our house is full of muddy rubbers and wet clothes! Other people goplaces and do pleasant things," said Margaret, her breast rising andfalling stormily; "but nothing ever happens to us except broken arms,and bills, and boilers bursting, and chicken-pox! It's drudge, drudge,drudge, from morning until night!"

  With a sudden little gesture of abandonment she found a handkerchiefin her belt, and pressed it, still folded, against her eyes. Mrs.Porter watched her solicitously, but silently. Outside the schoolroomwindows the wind battered furiously, and rain slapped steadily againstthe panes.

  "Well!" the girl said resolutely and suddenly. And after a momentshe added frankly, "I think the real trouble to-day, Emily, is thatwe just heard of Betty Forsythe's engagement--she was my brother'sgirl, you know; he's admired her ever since she got into High School,and of course Bruce is going to feel awfully bad."

  "Betty engaged? Who to?" Mrs. Porter was interested.

  "To that man--boy, rather, he's only twenty-one--who's been visitingthe Redmans," Margaret said. "She's only known him two weeks."

  "Gracious! And she's only eighteen--"

  "Not quite eighteen. She and my sister, Julie, were in my first classfour years ago; they're the same age," Margaret said. "She camefluttering over to tell us last night, wearing a diamond the size ofa marble! Of course,"--Margaret was loyal,--"I don't think there's ajealous bone in Julie's body; still, it's pretty hard! Here's Julieplugging away to get through the Normal School, so that she can teachall the rest of her life, and Betty's been to California, and been toEurope, and now is going to marry a rich New York man! Betty's theonly child, you know, so, of course, she has everything. It seems sounfair, for Mr. Forsythe's salary is exactly what Dad's is; yet theycan travel, and keep two maids, and entertain all the time! Andas for family, why, Mother's family is one of the finest in thecountry, and Dad's had two uncles who were judges--and what werethe Forsythes! However,"--Margaret dried her eyes and put away herhandkerchief,--"however, it's for Bruce I mind most!"

  "Bruce is only three years older than you are, twenty-three or four,"Mrs. Porter smiled.

  "Yes, but he's not the kind that forgets!" Margaret's flush was alittle resentful. "Oh, of course, you can laugh, Emily. I know thatthere are plenty of people who don't mind dragging along day afterday, working and eating and sleeping--but I'm not that kind!" shewent on moodily. "I used to hope that things would be different; itmakes me sick to think how brave I was; but now here's Ju comingalong, and Ted growing up, and Bruce's girl throwing him over--it'sall so unfair! I look at the Cutter girls, nearly fifty, and runningthe post-office for thirty years, and Mary Page in the Library, andthe Norberrys
painting pillows,--and I could scream!"

  "Things will take a turn for the better some day, Margaret," said theother woman, soothingly; "and as time goes on you'll find yourselfgetting more and more pleasure out of your work, as I do. Why, I'venever been so securely happy in my life as I am now. You'll feeldifferently some day."

  "Maybe," Margaret assented unenthusiastically. There was a pause.Perhaps the girl was thinking that to teach school, live in a plainlittle cottage on the unfashionable Bridge Road, take two roomers,and cook and sew and plan for Tom and little Emily, as Mrs. Porterdid, was not quite an ideal existence.

  "You're an angel, anyway, Emily," said she, affectionately, a littleshamefacedly. "Don't mind my growling. I don't do it very often. ButI look about at other people, and then realize how my mother's slavedfor twenty years and how my father's been tied down, and I've cometo the conclusion that while there may have been a time when a womancould keep a house, tend a garden, sew and spin and raise twelvechildren, things are different now; life is more complicated. Youowe your husband something, you owe yourself something. I want to geton, to study and travel, to be a companion to my husband. I don't wantto be a mere upper servant!"

  "No, of course not," assented Mrs. Porter, vaguely, soothingly.

  "Well, if we are going to stay here, I'll light the stove," Margaretsaid after a pause. "B-r-r-r! this room gets cold with the windowsopen! I wonder why Kelly doesn't bring us more wood?"

  "I guess--I'll stay!" Mrs. Porter said uncertainly, following her tothe big book closet off the schoolroom, where a little gas stove anda small china closet occupied one wide shelf. The water for the teaand bouillon was put over the flame in a tiny enamelled saucepan;they set forth on a fringed napkin crackers and sugar and spoons.

  At this point, a small girl of eleven with a brilliant, tawny head,and a wide and toothless smile, opened the door cautiously, and said,blinking rapidly with excitement,--

  "Mark, Mother theth pleath may thee come in?"

  This was Rebecca, one of Margaret's five younger brothers andsisters, and a pupil of the school herself. Margaret smiled atthe eager little face.

  "Hello, darling! Is Mother here? Certainly she can! I believe,"--shesaid, turning, suddenly radiant, to Mrs. Porter,--"I'll just bet youshe's brought us some lunch!"

  "Thee brought uth our luncheth--eggth and thpith caketh and everything!"exulted Rebecca, vanishing, and a moment later Mrs. Paget appeared.

  She was a tall woman, slender but large of build, and showing, under ashabby raincoat and well pinned-up skirt, the gracious generous linesof shoulders and hips, the deep-bosomed erect figure that is rarelyseen except in old daguerreotypes, or the ideal of some artist twogenerations ago. The storm to-day had blown an unusual color into herthin cheeks, her bright, deep eyes were like Margaret's, but the hairthat once had shown an equally golden lustre was dull and smooth now,and touched with gray. She came in smiling, and a little breathless.

  "Mother, you didn't come out in all this rain just to bring us ourlunches!" Margaret protested, kissing the cold, fresh face.

  "Well, look at the lunch you silly girls were going to eat!"Mrs. Paget protested in turn, in a voice rich with amusement."I love to walk in the rain, Mark; I used to love it when I wasa girl. Tom and Sister are at our house, Mrs. Potter, playing withDuncan and Baby. I'll keep them until after school, then I'll sendthem over to walk home with you."

  "Oh, you are an angel!" said the younger mother, gratefully. And "Youare an angel, Mother!" Margaret echoed, as Mrs. Paget opened a shabbysuitcase, and took from it a large jar of hot rich soup, a little bluebowl of stuffed eggs, half a fragrant whole-wheat loaf in a whitenapkin, a little glass full of sweet butter, and some of the spicecakes to which Rebecca had already enthusiastically alluded.

  "There!" said she, pleased with their delight, "now take your time,you've got three-quarters of an hour. Julie devilled the eggs, andthe sweet-butter man happened to come just as I was starting."

  "Delicious!--You've saved our lives," Margaret said, busy with cupsand spoons. "You'll stay, Mother?" she broke off suddenly, as Mrs.Paget closed the suitcase.

  "I can't, dear! I must go back to the children," her mother saidcheerfully. No coaxing proving of any avail, Margaret went with herto the top of the hall stairs.

  "What's my girl worrying about?" Mrs. Paget asked, with a keen glanceat Margaret's face.

  "Oh, nothing!" Margaret used both hands to button the top button ofher mother's coat. "I was hungry and cold, and I didn't want to walkhome in the rain!" she confessed, raising her eyes to the eyes sonear her own.

  "Well, go back to your lunch," Mrs. Paget urged, after a brief pause,not quite satisfied with the explanation. Margaret kissed her again,watched her descend the stairs, and leaning over the banister calleddown to her softly:

  "Don't worry about me, Mother!"

  "No--no--no!" her mother called back brightly. Indeed, Margaretreflected, going back to the much-cheered Emily, it was not in hernature to worry.

  No, Mother never worried, or if she did, nobody ever knew it. Care,fatigue, responsibility, hard long years of busy days and brokennights had left their mark on her face; the old beauty that had beenhers was chiselled to a mere pure outline now; but there was acontagious serenity in Mrs. Paget's smile, a clear steadiness inher calm eyes, and her forehead, beneath an unfashionably plainsweep of hair, was untroubled and smooth.

  The children's mother was a simple woman; so absorbed in the hourlyproblems attendant upon the housing and feeding of her husband andfamily that her own personal ambitions, if she had any, were quitelost sight of, and the actual outlines of her character were forgottenby every one, herself included. If her busy day marched successfullyto nightfall; if darkness found her husband reading in his big chair,the younger children sprawled safe and asleep in the shabby nursery,the older ones contented with books or games, the clothes sprinkled,the bread set, the kitchen dark and clean; Mrs. Paget asked no moreof life. She would sit, her overflowing work-basket beside her,looking from one absorbed face to another, thinking perhaps ofJulie's new school dress, of Ted's impending siege with the dentist,or of the old bureau up attic that might be mended for Bruce's room."Thank God we have all warm beds," she would say, when they all wentupstairs, yawning and chilly.

  She had married, at twenty, the man she loved, and had found himbetter than her dreams in many ways, and perhaps disappointing insome few others, but "the best man in the world" for all that. Thatfor more than twenty years he had been satisfied to stand for ninehours daily behind one dingy desk, and to carry home to her hisunopened salary envelope twice a month, she found only admirable.Daddy was "steady," he was "so gentle with the children," he was"the easiest man in the world to cook for." "Bless his heart, nowoman ever had less to worry over in her husband!" she would say,looking from her kitchen window to the garden where he trained thepea-vines, with the children's yellow heads bobbing about him. Shenever analyzed his character, much less criticised him. Good and bad,he was taken for granted; she was much more lenient to him than toany of the children. She welcomed the fast-coming babies as giftsfrom God, marvelled over their tiny perfectness, dreamed over thesoft relaxed little forms with a heart almost too full for prayer.She was, in a word, old-fashioned, hopelessly out of the moderncurrent of thoughts and events. She secretly regarded her childrenas marvellous, even while she laughed down their youthful conceitand punished their naughtiness.

  Thinking a little of all these things, as a girl with her ownwifehood and motherhood all before her does think, Margaret wentback to her hot luncheon. One o'clock found her at her desk,refreshed in spirit by her little outburst, and much fortifiedin body. The room was well aired, and a reinforced fire roaredin the little stove. One of the children had brought her a sprayof pine, and the spicy fragrance of it reminded her that Christmasand the Christmas vacation were near; her mind was pleasantly busywith anticipation of the play that the Pagets always wrote andperformed some time during the holidays, and with the New Year'scostume dance
at the Hall, and a dozen lesser festivities.

  Suddenly, in the midst of a droning spelling lesson, there was ajarring interruption. From the world outside came a child's shrillscreaming, which was instantly drowned in a chorus of frightenedvoices, and in the schoolroom below her own Margaret heard athundering rush of feet, and answering screams. With a suffocatingterror at her heart she ran to the window, followed by every childin the room.

  The rain had stopped now, and the sky showed a pale, cold, yellowlight low in the west. At the schoolhouse gate an immense limousinecar had come to a stop. The driver, his face alone visible betweena great leather coat and visored leather cap, was talking unheardabove the din. A tall woman, completely enveloped in sealskins,had evidently jumped from the limousine, and now held in her armswhat made Margaret's heart turn sick and cold, the limp figure ofa small girl.

  About these central figures there surged the terrified crying smallchildren of the just-dismissed primer class, and in the half momentthat Margaret watched, Mrs. Porter, white and shaking, and anotherteacher, Ethel Elliot, an always excitable girl, who was now sobbingand chattering hysterically, ran out from the school, each followedby her own class of crowding and excited boys and girls.

  With one horrified exclamation, Margaret ran downstairs, and out tothe gate. Mrs. Porter caught at her arm as she passed her in the path.

  "Oh, my God, Margaret! It's poor little Dorothy Scott!" she said."They've killed her. The car went completely over her!"

  "Oh, Margaret, don't go near, oh, how can you!" screamed Miss Elliot."Oh, and she's all they have! Who'll tell her mother!"

  With astonishing ease, for the children gladly recognized authority,Margaret pushed through the group to the motor-car.

  "Stop screaming--stop that shouting at once--keep still, every oneof you!" she said angrily, shaking various shoulders as she went withsuch good effect that the voice of the woman in sealskins could beheard by the time Margaret reached her.

  "I don't think she's badly hurt!" said this woman, nervously andeagerly. She was evidently badly shaken, and was very white. "Doquiet them, can't you?" she said, with a sort of apprehensiveimpatience. "Can't we take her somewhere, and get a doctor? Can'twe get out of this?"

  Margaret took the child in her own arms. Little Dorothy roaredafresh, but to Margaret's unspeakable relief she twisted about andlocked her arms tightly about the loved teacher's neck. The otherwoman watched them anxiously.

  "That blood on her frock's just nosebleed," she said; "but I thinkthe car went over her! I assure you we were running very slowly.How it happened--! But I don't think she was struck."

  "Nosebleed!" Margaret echoed, with a great breath. "No," she saidquietly, over the agitated little head; "I don't think she's muchhurt. We'll take her in. Now, look here, children," she added loudlyto the assembled pupils of the Weston Grammar School, whom merecuriosity had somewhat quieted, "I want every one of you childrento go back to your schoolrooms; do you understand? Dorothy's hada bad scare, but she's got no bones broken, and we're going to havea doctor see that she's all right. I want you to see how quiet youcan be. Mrs. Porter, may my class go into your room a little while?"

  "Certainly," said Mrs. Porter, eager to cooperate, and muchrelieved to have her share of the episode take this form. "Formlines, children," she added calmly.

  "Ted," said Margaret to her own small brother, who was one of Mrs.Porter's pupils, and who had edged closer to her than any boyunprivileged by relationship dared, "will you go down the street,and ask old Doctor Potts to come here? And then go tell Dorothy'smother that Dorothy has had a little bump, and that Miss Paget saysshe's all right, but that she'd like her mother to come for her."

  "Sure I will, Mark!" Theodore responded enthusiastically,departing on a run.

  "Mama!" sobbed the little sufferer at this point, hearinga familiar word.

  "Yes, darling, you want Mama, don't you?" Margaret said soothingly,as she started with her burden up the schoolhouse steps. "Whatwere you doing, Dorothy," she went on pleasantly, "to get underthat big car?"

  "I dropped my ball!" wailed the small girl, her tears beginningafresh, "and it rolled and rolled. And I didn't see the automobile,and I didn't see it! And I fell down and b-b-bumped my nose!"

  "Well, I should think you did!" Margaret said, laughing. "Motherwon't know you at all with such a muddy face and such a muddy apron!"

  Dorothy laughed shakily at this, and several other little girls,passing in orderly file, laughed heartily. Margaret crossed thelines of children to the room where they played and ate their luncheson wet days. She shut herself in with the child and the fur-clad lady.

  "Now you're all right!" said Margaret, gayly. And, Dorothy waspresently comfortable in a big chair, wrapped in a rug from themotor-car, with her face washed, and her head dropped languidlyback against her chair, as became an interesting invalid. The Irishjanitor was facetious as he replenished the fire, and made her laughagain. Margaret gave her a numerical chart to play with, and saw withsatisfaction that the little head was bent interestedly over it.

  Quiet fell upon the school; the muffled sound of lessons recitedin concert presently reached them. Theodore returned, reporting thatthe doctor would come as soon as he could and that Dorothy's motherwas away at a card-party, but that Dorothy's "girl" would come forher as soon as the bread was out of the oven. There was nothing todo but wait.

  "It seems a miracle," said the strange lady, in a low tone, when sheand Margaret were alone again with the child. "But I don't believeshe was scratched!"

  "I don't think so," Margaret agreed. "Mother says no child who cancry is very badly hurt."

  "They made such a horrible noise," said the other, sighing wearily.She passed a white hand, with one or two blazing great stones uponit, across her forehead. Margaret had leisure now to notice that byall signs this was a very great lady indeed. The quality of her furs,the glimpse of her gown that the loosened coat showed, her rings, andmost of all the tones of her voice, the authority of her manner, thewell-groomed hair and skin and hands, all marked the thoroughbred.

  "Do you know that you managed that situation very cleverly just now?"said the lady, with a keen glance that made Margaret color. "One hassuch a dread of the crowd, just public sentiment, you know. Someodious bystander calls the police, they crowd against your driver,perhaps a brick gets thrown. We had an experience in England once--"She paused, then interrupted herself. "But I don't know your name?"she said brightly.

  Margaret supplied it, was led to talk a little of her own people.

  "Seven of you, eh? Seven's too many," said the visitor, with theassurance that Margaret was to learn characterized her. "I've twomyself, two girls," she went on. "I wanted a boy, but they're nicegirls. And you've six brothers and sisters? Are they all as handsomeas you and this Teddy of yours? And why do you like teaching?"

  "Why do I like it?" Margaret said, enjoying these confidences andthe unusual experience of sitting idle in mid-afternoon. "I don't,I hate it."

  "I see. But then why don't you come down to New York, and dosomething else?" the other woman asked.

  "I'm needed at home, and I don't know any one there,"Margaret said simply.

  "I see," the lady said again thoughtfully. There was a pause. Thenthe same speaker said reminiscently, "I taught school once for threemonths when I was a girl, to show my father I could support myself."

  "I've taught for four years," Margaret said.

  "Well, if you ever want to try something else,--there are such lotsof fascinating things a girl can do now!--be sure you come and see meabout it," the stranger said. "I am Mrs. Carr-Boldt, of New York."

  Margaret's amazed eyes flashed to Mrs. Carr-Boldt's face; hercheeks crimsoned.

  "Mrs. Carr-Boldt!" she echoed blankly.

  "Why not?" smiled the lady, not at all displeased.

  "Why," stammered Margaret, laughing and rosy, "why, nothing--onlyI never dreamed who you were!" she finished, a little confused.

  And indeed it never afterward seemed
to her anything short of amiracle that brought the New York society woman--famed on twocontinents and from ocean to ocean for her jewels, her entertainments,her gowns, her establishments--into a Weston schoolroom, and intoMargaret Paget's life.

  "I was on my way to New York now," said Mrs. Carr-Boldt.

  "I don't see why you should be delayed," Margaret said, glad to beable to speak normally, with such a fast-beating and pleasantlyexcited heart. "I'm sure Dorothy's all right."

  "Oh, I'd rather wait. I like my company," said the other. And Margaretdecided in that instant that there never was a more deservedly admiredand copied and quoted woman.

  Presently their chat was interrupted by the tramp of the departingschool children; the other teachers peeped in, were reassured, andwent their ways. Then came the doctor, to pronounce the entirelycheerful Dorothy unhurt, and to bestow upon her some hoarhound drops.Mrs. Carr-Boldt settled at once with the doctor, and when Margaretsaw the size of the bill that was pressed into his hand, she realizedthat she had done her old friend a good turn.

  "Use it up on your poor people," said Mrs. Carr-Boldt, to hisprotestations; and when he had gone, and Dorothy's "girl" appeared,she tipped that worthy and amazed Teuton, and after promisingDorothy a big doll from a New York shop, sent the child and maidhome in the motor-car.

  "I hope this hasn't upset your plans," Margaret said, as they stoodwaiting in the doorway. It was nearly five o'clock, the school wasempty and silent.

  "No, not exactly. I had hoped to get home for dinner. But I thinkI'll get Woolcock to take me back to Dayton; I've some very dearfriends there who'll give me a cup of tea. Then I'll come back thisway and get home, by ten, I should think, for a late supper." Then,as the limousine appeared, Mrs. Carr-Boldt took both Margaret's handsin hers, and said, "And now good-bye, my dear girl. I've got youraddress, and I'm going to send you something pretty to remember meby. You saved me from I don't know what annoyance and publicity. Anddon't forget that when you come to New York I'm going to help youmeet the people you want to, and give you a start if I can. You'refar too clever and good-looking to waste your life down here. Good-bye!"

  "Good-bye!" Margaret said, her cheeks brilliant, her head awhirl.

  She stood unmindful of the chilly evening air, watching the greatmotor-car wheel and slip into the gloom. The rain was over; a dyingwind moaned mysteriously through the dusk. Margaret went slowlyupstairs, pinned on her hat, buttoned her long coat snugly abouther. She locked the schoolroom door, and, turning the corner, plungedher hands into her pockets, and faced the wind bravely. Deepeningdarkness and coldness were about her, but she felt surrounded bythe warmth and brightness of her dreams. She saw the brilliantstreets of a big city, the carriages and motor-cars coming andgoing, the idle, lovely women in their sumptuous gowns and hats.These things were real, near--almost attainable--to-night.

  "Mrs. Carr-Boldt!" Margaret said, "the darling! I wonder if I'llever see her again!"