“Teacher sent me on an errand,” he replied then, with a kind of doggedness.

“The truth,” said Carroll.

“I went out catching butterflies, after I had dined with Mr. Anderson and his mother.”

“You dined with Mr. Anderson and his mother?”

“Yes, sir.  You needn’t think he was to blame.  He wasn’t.  I made him ask me.”

“I understand.  Then you did not go to school this afternoon, but out in the field?”

“Yes, sir.”

Carroll eyed sharply the boy’s right-hand pocket, which bulged enormously.  The girls had by this time come up and stood behind Eddy, holding to each other, their pretty faces pale and concerned.

“What is that in your pocket?” asked Carroll.

“Marbles.”

“Let me see the marbles.”

“It ain’t marbles, it’s candy.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Mr. Anderson gave it to me.”

Carroll continued to look his son squarely in the eyes.

“I stole it when they wasn’t looking,” said the boy; “there was a glass jar—­”

“Go into the house and up to your own room,” said Carroll.

The boy turned as squarely about-face as a soldier at the word of command, and marched before his father into the house.  The four women, the two at the window, the two on the lawn, watched them go without a word.  Ina, the elder of the two girls, put her handkerchief to her eyes and began to cry softly.  Charlotte put her arm around her and drew her towards the door.

“Don’t, Ina,” she whispered, “don’t, darling.”

“Papa will whip him very hard,” sobbed Ina.  “It seems to me I cannot bear it, he is such a little boy.”

“Papa ought to whip him,” said Charlotte, quite firmly, although she herself was winking back the tears.

“He will whip him so hard,” sobbed Ina.  “I quite gave up when papa found the candy.  Stealing is what he never will forgive him for, you know.”

“Yes, I know.  Don’t let poor Amy see you cry, Ina.”

“Wait a minute before we go in.  You remember that the time papa whipped me, the only time he ever did, when—­”

“Yes, I remember.  You never did again, honey.”

“Yes, it cured me, but I fear it will not cure Eddy.  A boy is different.”

“Stop crying, Ina dear, before we go in.”

“Yes—­I—­will.  Are my eyes very red?”

“No; Amy will not notice it if you keep your eyes turned away.”

But Mrs. Carroll turned sharply upon Ina the moment she saw her.  The two elder ladies had left the parlor and retreated to a small apartment on the right of the hall, called the den, and fitted up with some Eastern hangings and a divan.  Upon this divan Anna Carroll had thrown herself, and lay quite still upon her back, her slender length extended, staring out of the window directly opposite at the spread of a great oak just lately putting forth its leaves.  Mrs. Carroll was standing beside her, and she looked at the two girls entering with a hard expression in her usually soft eyes.