I meditated on Stella Mayhew and her mother, and on those silly, faithless girls that thought more of an ice-cream soda than they did of justice and right to their fellow schoolmate. And I meditated on Aunt Jane and her never giving me so much as a single kiss since I came. And I meditated on how much better Father liked stars and comets than he did his own daughter; and I meditated on what a cruel, heartless world this is, anyway, and what a pity it was that I, so fair and young, should have found it out so soon--right on the bank, as it were, or where that brook and river meet. And I wondered, if I died if anybody would care; and I thought how beautiful and pathetic I would look in my coffin with my lily-white hands folded on my breast. And I _hoped_ they 'd have the funeral in the daytime, because if it was at night-time Father'd be sure to have a star or something to keep _him_ from coming. And I _wanted_ him to come. I _wanted_ him to feel bad; and I meditated on how bad he would feel--when it was too late. But even with all this to meditate on, it was an awfully long time coming noon; and they didn't call me down to dinner even then. Aunt Jane sent up two pieces of bread without any butter and a glass of water. How like Aunt Jane--making even my dinner a sin to meditate on! Only she would call it _my_ sin, and I would call it hers. Well, after dinner Father sent for me to come down to the library. So I knew then, of course, that Aunt Jane had told him. I didn't know but she would wait until night. Father usually spends his hour after dinner reading in the library and mustn't be disturbed. But evidently to-day Aunt Jane thought I was more consequence than his reading. Anyhow, she told him, and he sent for me. My, but I hated to go! Fathers and Aunt Janes are two different propositions. Fathers have more rights and privileges, of course. Everybody knows that. Well, I went into the library. Father stood with his back to the fireplace and his hands in his pockets. He was plainly angry at being disturbed. Anybody could see that. He began speaking at once, the minute I got into the room--very cold and dignified. "Mary, your aunt tells me you have been disobedient and disrespectful to her. Have you anything to say?" I shook my head and said, "No, sir." What could I say? Old folks ask such senseless questions, sometimes. Naturally I wasn't going to say I _had_ been disrespectful and disobedient when I hadn't; and of course, I couldn't say I _hadn't_ been when Aunt Jane said I _had_. That would be just like saying Aunt Jane lied. So, of course, I had nothing to say. And I said so. "But she declares you refused to go back to school, Mary," said Father then. "Yes, sir." "Then you did refuse?" "Yes, sir." "Well, you may go and tell her now, please, that you are sorry, and that you will go to school this afternoon. You may go now." And he turned to the table and picked up his book.