I looked down the avenue, the moon was just rising, though day had not quite faded in the west; I wondered what would be the result if I dared rebel; I almost determined I would. But I glanced toward the house; Mr. Rutledge stood holding the door open for me with a resolute quietness that made resistance impossible. With a bad enough grace I turned back, ran up the steps, and passed through the doorway without raising my eyes, and never stopped till I had gained the second story, and locked myself into my own room. Most bitter and most extravagant tears I shed of course, very angry and very implacable resolves I made; and finished off by a violent fit of contrition and humility under the influence of which I started to my feet, and remembering that it was long past tea-time, hastily smoothed my hair, and followed by my little favorite, ran quickly down the stairs and paused a moment at the library door. All contrition, I half opened it, and looking in, with a most April-like face, whereon smiles and tears contended, said humbly: "May Tigre and I come in, sir?" Mr. Rutledge sat reading by the fire; tea was on the table. He looked up a moment, then resumed his book. "Without doubt; tea is waiting." I came up to the fire, and stood leaning against the mantelpiece. If he would only look up, and not be so hopelessly cold and indifferent! My penitent speeches fled at the sight; I could never tell him how ashamed and sorry I felt, while he looked so. He did not look any otherwise, however, all through the uncomfortable meal, that I thought never meant to end; nor during the uncomfortable hours that succeeded the uncomfortable meal, that seemed to stretch out, like a clown's leg, indefinitely and interminably. I had time to realize and become very well acquainted with the fact, that I had forfeited the newly-acquired position of companion, and had sunk to the capricious child again. He had just begun to treat me like a reasonable creature, and to talk to me for something besides the kindness of amusing me, and now by my own folly, I had made an end to all this, and compelled him to see in me nothing but childishness and self-will. Mr. Rutledge, after tea, had taken up his book again, and pushed across the table to me some new reviews that had come that day, saying, perhaps I might find something amusing in them. That meant I was to amuse myself. That meant there was to be no talking, no reading aloud, no dictating of letters.