The younger children were
absorbed in their lessons at the table, where the father sat reading
his newspaper.
All were silent, for to have spoken while father was reading would
have been an unforgivable offence. At last, however, Mr. Stillman
lifted his eyes from the paper, and addressing Tom, said: "Well, how
did you get along at school to-day?"
"Oh, first rate," said the boy; but that lost head mark rankled in his
mind, and he added, "Rachel was called up by the teacher."
"How was that, Rachel?" said her father sharply. Poor girl!--deep in
the mysteries of long division, she did not hear him.
"Rachel," he repeated, "what were you called up in school for to-day?"
She glanced reproachfully at Tom. "I read a little in 'The Pilgrim's
Progress,' father. It's not a story-book--"
"Never mind what it is. I send you to school to study, and you're not
to touch any but your school-books."
"May I bring it home?" she faltered.
"Bring it home, indeed! No, miss. I guess you can find enough to do at
home. Not another word more, or you will stay at home for good."
The child bent over her slate; but tears would come, and at last a sob
burst forth.
"Clear out to bed, Rachel," said her father angrily. "I want no
snivelling here."
Upstairs, in the cold, dark room, what bitter thoughts surged through
the childish brain!
Mr.
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