She was far away in an enchanted land with Alladin, and did not hear Mrs. Armitage creep up to her; the first intimation she had of her presence was an awful blow on the ear which made her see stars, and knocked the book half across the room. “You lazy, trifling trollope! I’ll learn you to spend your time reading such trash. Now you march downstairs, and if you can’t find anything else to do go out in the garden and weed them onion beds,” saying which she pounced viciously upon the book. “Pa said I need not weed them until the sun went down, and it got cooler,” faltered Thella. “Your father is learnin’ you to be as lazy as he is himself,” snapped Mrs. Armitage; “you march, now, and no more of your sass.” Thella rose and pushed back her heavy hair, preparatory to following her. “Will you please let me put away the book?” she said. “I’ll please put it in the fire,” she replied viciously. “Oh, no, no! Don’t, it isn’t mine!” she cried frantically as she made a vain endeavor to reach it. Mrs. Armitage gave her another resounding slap: “There, take that, you little cat!” As she commenced descending the stairs Thella darted before her, and hurriedly ran to the field to her father; she caught hold of his hands and pulled the hoe away from him. “Don’t daughter, ma will be mad if I don’t keep to work,” he said pathetically. “Oh, pa, I’ll hoe in your place; do go and take my book away from her, she’s going to burn it, and it isn’t mine at all; it’s Willie Burt’s!” she cried in agitated incoherence. “Oh, hurry, pa! Don’t let her burn it,” her voice full of tears. He stooped for one instant and laid his hand caressingly upon her head. “Poor little Thella,” he murmured, then walked hurriedly up to the house. Thella looked after him sorrowfully: “Poor pa!” she said, with a quiver in her voice. Presently he came slowly back through the broiling sunshine and took the hoe from her hand. “Well?” said Thella interrogatively. He shook his head: “’Twasn’t no use, she had it in the stove.” “The mean, old thing—” began Thella. “Tut-tut; she’s your mother,” said pa gently. “She isn’t _my_ mother; my little mother is dead!” She began very hotly, but ended with choking sobs. “I wouldn’t cry, little daughter; we must make the very best of things when we can’t change them,” he said with a sad resignation more pathetic by far than tears. He took his old red bandana from his pocket and wiped the drops from her flushed cheeks, compassionately. “Well! You are the shif’lesses pair I ever did see,” said Mrs. Armitage shrilly. “Thella, if you don’t go at that onion bed I’ll take a strap to you.”