When a year had passed he procured a divorce without protest from the innocent but crushed wife, this by aid of a law that often places "Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne." Not long after, he brought to his home as his wife a capable, arrogant, self-opinionated woman, who set herself to rule him and his household as it should be ruled. The little girl was called to audience in the gloomy study where sat the new wife, her eyes filled with hostility toward the other woman’s child, and was told that she must call the lady "Mother." Then the black eyes that held in their dreamy depths some of the gunpowder flash of her father’s steely ones took fire; the little face darkened with indignant fury; the small foot came down with fierce determination on the thick carpet, and the child declared: "I will _never_ call her mother! She is _not_ my mother! She is a bad woman, and she has no right here. She cannot be your wife. It is wicked for a man to have two wives. I know, for I heard Mary Ann and Betsey say so this morning in the kitchen. My mother is alive yet. She is at Grandfather’s. I heard Betsey say that too. You are a wicked, cruel man, and I hate you. I will not have you for a father any more. I will go away and stay with my mother. She is good. _You_ are bad! I hate you! I hate you! _I hate you_! _And I hate her_!"—pointing toward the new wife, who sat in horrified condemnation, with two fiery spots upon her outraged cheeks. "Jemima!" thundered her father in his angriest tone. But the little girl turned upon him furiously. "My name is not Jemima!" she screamed. "I will not let you call me so. My name is Dawn. My mother called me Dawn. I will not answer when you call me Jemima." "Jemima, you may go to your room!" commanded the father, standing up, white to the lips, to face a will no whit less adamant than his own. "I will not go until you call me Dawn," she answered, her face turning white and stern, with sudden singular likeness to her father on its soft round outlines. She stood her ground until carried struggling upstairs and locked into her own room. Gradually she had cried her fury out, and succumbed to the inevitable, creeping back as seldom as possible into the life of the house, and spending the time with her own brooding thoughts and sad plays, far in the depths of the box-boarded garden, or shut into the quiet of her own room. To the new mother she never spoke unless she had to, and never called her Mother, though there were many struggles to compel her to do so. She never came when they called her Jemima, nor obeyed a command prefaced by that name, though she endured in consequence many a whipping and many a day in bed, fed on bread and water. "What is the meaning of this strange whim?" demanded the new wife, with set lips. Her position was none too easy, nor her disposition markedly that of a saint.