Despite his rigorous dealings with his family (which, being the outcome of the Pennsylvania Dutch faith in the Divine right of the head of the house, were entirely conscientious), Jacob Getz was strongly and deeply attached to his wife and children; and his alarm at Tillie’s illness, coming directly upon his severe punishment of her, had softened him sufficiently to temper his wrath at finding that she had told him what was not true.

What her object could have been in shielding the real owner of the book he could not guess.  His suspicions did not turn upon the teacher, because, in the first place, he would have seen no reason why Tillie should wish to shield her, and, in the second, it was inconceivable that a teacher at William Penn should set out so to pervert the young whom trusting parents placed under her care.  There never had been a novel-reading teacher at William Penn.  The Board would as soon have elected an opium-eater.

Where had Tillie obtained that book?  And why had she put the blame on Elviny, who was her little friend?  The Doc, evidently, was in league with Tillie!  What could it mean?  Jake Getz was not used to dealing with complications and mysteries.  He pondered the case heavily.

When he went home from market, he did not tell Tillie of his discovery, for the doctor had ordered that she be kept quiet.

Not until a week later, when she was well enough to be out of bed, did he venture to tell her he had caught her telling a falsehood.

He could not know that the white face of terror which she turned to him was fear for Miss Margaret and not, for once, apprehension of the strap.

“I ain’t whippin’ you this time,” he gruffly said, “if you tell me the truth whose that there book was.”

Tillie did not speak.  She was resting in the wooden rocking-chair by the kitchen window, a pillow at her head and a shawl over her knees.  Her stepmother was busy at the table with her Saturday baking; Sammy was giving the porch its Saturday cleaning, and the other children, too little to work, were playing outdoors; even the baby, bundled up in its cart, was out on the grass-plot.

“Do you hear me, Tillie?  Whose book was that there?”

Tillie’s head hung low and her very lips were white.  She did not answer.

“You ‘re goin’ to act stubborn to me!” her father incredulously exclaimed, and the woman at the table turned and stared in dull amazement at this unheard-of defiance of the head of the family.  “Tillie!” he grasped her roughly by the arm and shook her.  “Answer to me!”

Tillie’s chest rose and fell tumultuously.  Bat she kept her eyes downcast and her lips closed.

“Fur why don’t you want to tell, then?”

“I—­can’t, pop!”

“Can’t!  If you wasn’t sick I ’d soon learn you if you can’t!  Now you might as well tell me right aways, fur I’ll make you tell me some time!”