But even with all this to meditate on, it was an awfully long time coming noon; and they didn’t call me down to dinner even then.  Aunt Jane sent up two pieces of bread without any butter and a glass of water.  How like Aunt Jane—­making even my dinner a sin to meditate on!  Only she would call it my sin, and I would call it hers.

Well, after dinner Father sent for me to come down to the library.  So I knew then, of course, that Aunt Jane had told him.  I didn’t know but she would wait until night.  Father usually spends his hour after dinner reading in the library and mustn’t be disturbed.  But evidently to-day Aunt Jane thought I was more consequence than his reading.  Anyhow, she told him, and he sent for me.

My, but I hated to go!  Fathers and Aunt Janes are two different propositions.  Fathers have more rights and privileges, of course.  Everybody knows that.

Well, I went into the library.  Father stood with his back to the fireplace and his hands in his pockets.  He was plainly angry at being disturbed.  Anybody could see that.  He began speaking at once, the minute I got into the room—­very cold and dignified.

“Mary, your aunt tells me you have been disobedient and disrespectful to her.  Have you anything to say?”

I shook my head and said, “No, sir.”

What could I say?  Old folks ask such senseless questions, sometimes.  Naturally I wasn’t going to say I had been disrespectful and disobedient when I hadn’t; and of course, I couldn’t say I hadn’t been when Aunt Jane said I had.  That would be just like saying Aunt Jane lied.  So, of course, I had nothing to say.  And I said so.

“But she declares you refused to go back to school, Mary,” said Father then.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you did refuse?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you may go and tell her now, please, that you are sorry, and that you will go to school this afternoon.  You may go now.”  And he turned to the table and picked up his book.

I didn’t go, of course.  I just stood there twisting my handkerchief in my fingers; and, of course, right away he saw me.  He had sat down then.

“Mary, didn’t you hear me?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir, but—­Father, I can’t go back to that school,” I choked.  And I began to cry.

“But I tell you that you must.”

I shook my head.

“I can’t.”

“Do you mean that you defy me as you did your Aunt Jane this morning?—­that you refuse to go back to school?”

“Yes, sir.”

For a minute he sat and stared at me just as Aunt Jane had done; then he lifted his head and threw back his shoulders as if he was throwing off a heavy weight.

“Come, come, Mary,” he said sternly.  “I am not a patient man, and my temper has reached the breaking point.  You will go back to school and you will go now.  I mean that, Mary.”