Her mother was coming down the garden walk, tall and beautiful in her silver-gray gown with the bands of black velvet on the flounces and the sleeves; her wide, hooped skirts swung, brushing the flower borders. She ran up to her, crying, “Mamma, I went up the lane where you told me not to.” “No, Hatty, no; you didn’t.” You could see she wasn’t angry. She was frightened. “I did. I did.” Her mother took the bunch of flowers out of her hand and looked at it. “Yes,” she said, “that’s where the dark-red campion grows.” She was holding the flowers up to her face. It was awful, for you could see her mouth thicken and redden over its edges and shake. She hid it behind the flowers. And somehow you knew it wasn’t your naughtiness that made her cry. There was something more. She was saying in a thick, soft voice, “It was wrong of you, my darling.” Suddenly she bent her tall straightness. “Rose campion,” she said, parting the stems with her long, thin fingers. “Look, Hatty, how _beautiful_ they are. Run away and put the poor things in water.” She was so quiet, so quiet, and her quietness hurt far more than if she had been angry. She must have gone straight back into the house to Papa. Harriett knew, because he sent for her. He was quiet, too.... That was the little, hiding voice he told you secrets in.... She stood close up to him, between his knees, and his arm went loosely round her to keep her there while he looked into her eyes. You could smell tobacco, and the queer, clean man’s smell that came up out of him from his collar. He wasn’t smiling; but somehow his eyes looked kinder than if they had smiled. “Why did you do it, Hatty?” “Because--I wanted to see what it would feel like.” “You mustn’t do it again. Do you hear?--you mustn’t do it.” “Why?” “Why? Because it makes your mother unhappy. That’s enough why.” But there was something more. Mamma had been frightened. Something to do with the frightening man in the lane. “Why does it make her?” She knew; she knew; but she wanted to see what he would say. “I said that was enough.... Do you know what you’ve been guilty of?” “Disobedience.” “More than that. Breaking trust. Meanness. It was mean and dishonorable of you when you knew you wouldn’t be punished.” “Isn’t there to be a punishment?” “No. People are punished to make them remember. We want you to forget.” His arm tightened, drawing her closer. And the kind, secret voice went on. “Forget ugly things. Understand, Hatty, nothing is forbidden. We don’t forbid, because we trust you to do what we wish. To behave beautifully.... There, there.” She hid her face on his breast against his tickly coat, and cried. She would always have to do what they wanted; the unhappiness of not doing it was more than she could bear. All very well to say there would be no punishment; _their_ unhappiness was the punishment. It hurt more than anything. It kept on hurting when she thought about it.