 Has Matilda changed the end of the story?
The best that could be said for Matilda Penshaws was that she was something of a paradox. The first thing the widow Penshaws did was to take Matilda's left hand in her own and examine the next-to-the-last finger. Someone in Nebraska wanted to trade match books; someone in New York needed a midwestern pen pal, but it was a woman; an elderly man interested in ornithology wanted a young chick correspondent interested in the same subject; a young, personable man wanted an editorial position because he thought he had something to offer the editorial world; and— Matilda read the next one twice. All others need not apply. Cedar Falls was a small town not fifty miles from her home, and she'd get there a hop, skip, and jump ahead of her competitors, simply by arriving in person instead of writing a letter. Matilda was not yet that far gone in years or appearance. Matilda got out of bed at seven, tiptoed into the bathroom, showered with a merest wary trickle of water, tiptoed back into her bedroom, dressed in her very best cotton over the finest of uplifting and figure-moulding underthings, made sure her stocking seams were perfectly straight, brushed her suede shoes, admired herself in the mirror, read the ad again, wished for a moment she were a bit younger, and tiptoed downstairs. Twenty years from now, this could be Matilda Penshaws—complete with plain gray dress, rimless spectacles, gray hair, suspicious eyes, and a broom-stick figure....
 Yes. She’s more grounded now, and less naive.
 No. She still hasn’t found a husband, and will likely be Pen Pals again.  No. She’s still looking for fantasies, as evidence by her looking up at the shooting star.  Yes. She is like Mrs. Gorky no3, chasing after impossible theories.  Yes. She’s more grounded now, and less naive.