She got up from the table, and, collecting the dishes together, carried them to the scullery. "Oh, dear!" she sighed, irritably, "I seem to be always hurting somebody--and somebody's always hurting me. I'd better go about with my mouth fastened up--even then I s'pose I'd be always doing something wrong. People are easily offended, it's something dreadful." She felt very much aggrieved. So much aggrieved that she gave only sullen words and looks, and never once enquired for Lucy, or sent her a message, or even hinted at being sorry for what she had done. "She didn't send any message to me," she muttered to herself, excusingly. "She never sent her love, or--or anything, so why should I send a message to her?" She worked herself up into such a fine state of righteous anger that she almost persuaded herself that her behaviour had been all that it should be, and that she was the most misunderstood and ill-treated person in the whole wide world. In spite, though, of her being so perfect, she felt miserably unhappy, as she lay awake in the darkness, and thought over the day's happenings. She saw again her father's look of distress as she snapped at her grandmother, and answered him so sulkily. She pictured him, too, walking away down the road towards home, without even a smile from her, and only a curt, sullen, good-bye! Oh, how she wished now that she had run after him and kissed him, and begged him to forgive her. A big sob broke from her as she pictured him tramping those long lonely miles, his kind face so grave and pained, his heart so full of disappointment in her. "Oh how hateful he will think me--and I am, I am, and I can't tell him I don't really mean to be," and then her tears burst forth, and she cried, and cried until all the bitterness and selfishness were washed from her heart, and only gentler feelings were left. As she lay tired out, thinking over the past, and the future, a curious, long cry broke the stillness of the night. "The owl," she said to herself. "I do wish he'd go away from here. He always frightens me with his miserable noise." She snuggled more closely into her pillow, and drew the bedclothes up over her ear. "I'll try to go to sleep, then I shan't hear him." But, in spite of her efforts, the cry reached her again and again. "It can't be the owl," she said at last, sitting up in bed, the better to listen. "It sounds more like a person! Who can it be?" Again the cry came, "Mo--na! Mo--o--na!" "Why, it's somebody calling me. It must be granny! Oh, dear! Whatever can be the matter, to make her call like that." Shaking all over with fear, she scrambled out of bed, and groped her way to the door. As she opened it the cry reached her again. "Mo--na!" This time there could be no doubt about it. It came from her grandmother's room. "I'm coming!" she called loudly. "All right, granny, I'm coming." She ran across the landing, guided by the lights shining through the chinks in her grandmother's door.