of the carpenter who declared indignantly that if we wore decent clothes we wouldn't need our bench seats planed smooth. But some things I never told--about the table napkins, for instance.
We were married in September. Our honeymoon we spent fishing and "roughing it" in the Canadian wilds. I felt at home and blissful. I could cook and fish and make a bed in the open as well as any man. It was heaven; but it left me entirely unprepared for the world I was about to enter.
Not once did Tom say: "Mary, we do this [or that] in our family." He was too happy, and I suppose he never thought of it. As for me, I wasted no worry on his family. They would be kind and sympathetic and simple, like Tom. They would love me and I would love them.
The day after we returned from Canada to New York I spent looking over Tom's "personal belongings"--as great a revelation as Aunt Martha's. His richly bound books, his beautiful furniture, his pictures-- everything was perfect. That night Tom made an announceme
