I was standing in the window staring out at nothing--it wasn't quite
dark yet--when again I had that queer feeling that somebody was
looking at me. I turned--and there was Father. He had come in and was
sitting in the big chair by the table. But this time he didn't look
right away as usual and give me a chance to slip quietly out of the
room, as I always had before. Instead he said:
"What are you doing there, Mary?"
"N-nothing." I know I stammered. It always scares me to talk to
Father.
"Nonsense!" Father frowned and hitched in his chair. Father always
hitches in his chair when he's irritated and nervous. "You can't be
doing nothing. Nobody but a dead man does nothing--and we aren't so
sure about him. What are you doing, Mary?"
"Just l-looking out the window."
"Thank you. That's better. Come here. I want to talk to you."
"Yes, Father."
I went, of course, at once, and sat down in the chair near him. He
hitched again in his seat.
"Why don't you do something--read, sew, knit?" he demanded. "Why do I
always find you moping around, doing nothing?"
Just like that he said it; and when he had just told me--
"Why, Father!" I cried; and I know that I showed how surprised I was.
"I thought you just said I couldn't do nothing--that nobody could!"
"Eh? What? Tut, tut!" He seemed very angry at first; then suddenly
he looked sharply into my face.
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