Next, if you'll believe it, he
laughed--the queer little chuckle under his breath that I've heard him
give two or three times when there was something he thought was funny.
"Humph!" he grunted. Then he gave me another sharp look out of
his eyes, and said: "I don't think you meant that to be quite so
impertinent as it sounded, Mary, so we'll let it pass--this time. I'll
put my question this way: Don't you ever knit or read or sew?"
"I do sew every day in Aunt Jane's room, ten minutes hemming, ten
minutes seaming, and ten minutes basting patchwork squares together. I
don't know how to knit."
"How about reading? Don't you care for reading?"
"Why, of course I do. I love it!" I cried. "And I do read lots--at
home."
"At--_home_?"
I knew then, of course, that I'd made another awful break. There
wasn't any smile around Father's eyes now, and his lips came together
hard and thin over that last word.
"At--at _my_ home," I stammered. "I mean, my _other_ home."
"Humph!" grunted Father. Then, after a minute: "But why, pray, can't
you read here? I'm sure there are--books enough." He flourished his
hands toward the bookcases all around the room.
"Oh, I do--a little; but, you see, I'm so afraid I'll leave some of
them out when I'm through," I explained,
"Well, what of it? What if you do?" he demanded.
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