“Oh, Jerry, won’t a day do—­two days?  Not a whole week!”

“Yes, a whole week,” said inexorable Jerry.  “It is fair—­ask Jem Blythe if it isn’t.”

Faith felt she would rather submit then ask Jem Blythe about such a matter.  She was beginning to realize that her offence was a quite shameful one.

“I’ll do it, then,” she muttered, a little sulkily.

“You’re getting off easy,” said, Jerry severely.  “And no matter how we punish you it won’t help father.  People will always think you just did it for mischief, and they’ll blame father for not stopping it.  We can never explain it to everybody.”

This aspect of the case weighed on Faith’s mind.  Her own condemnation she could bear, but it tortured her that her father should be blamed.  If people knew the true facts of the case they would not blame him.  But how could she make them known to all the world?  Getting up in church, as she had once done, and explaining the matter was out of the question.  Faith had heard from Mary Vance how the congregation had looked upon that performance and realized that she must not repeat it.  Faith worried over the problem for half a week.  Then she had an inspiration and promptly acted upon it.  She spent that evening in the garret, with a lamp and an exercise book, writing busily, with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.  It was the very thing!  How clever she was to have thought of it!  It would put everything right and explain everything and yet cause no scandal.  It was eleven o’clock when she had finished to her satisfaction and crept down to bed, dreadfully tired, but perfectly happy.

In a few days the little weekly published in the Glen under the name of The Journal came out as usual, and the Glen had another sensation.  A letter signed “Faith Meredith” occupied a prominent place on the front page and ran as follows:—­

“To whom it may concern: 

I want to explain to everybody how it was I came to go to church without stockings on, so that everybody will know that father was not to blame one bit for it, and the old gossips need not say he is, because it is not true.  I gave my only pair of black stockings to Lida Marsh, because she hadn’t any and her poor little feet were awful cold and I was so sorry for her.  No child ought to have to go without shoes and stockings in a Christian community before the snow is all gone, and I think the W. F. M. S. ought to have given her stockings.  Of course, I know they are sending things to the little heathen children, and that is all right and a kind thing to do.  But the little heathen children have lots more warm weather than we have, and I think the women of our church ought to look after Lida and not leave it all to me.  When I gave her my stockings I forgot they were the only black pair I had without holes, but I am glad I did give them to her, because my conscience would have been uncomfortable if I hadn’t.