Part 7

“'T was a Sabbath-School hymn that I was whistling!” This with a creditable imitation of defiance.

“That don't make it any better. Sing your hymns if you must make a noise while you're workin'.”

“It's the same mouth that makes the whistle and sings the song, so I don't see why one's any wickeder than the other.”

“You don't have to see,” replied the Deacon grimly; “all you have to do is to mind when you're spoken to. Now run 'long 'bout your work.”

“Can't I go up to Ellen's, then?”

“What's goin' on up there?”

“Just a frolic. There's always a good time at Ellen's, and I would so like the sight of a big, rich house now and then!”

“'Just a frolic.' Land o' Goshen, hear the girl! 'Sight of a big, rich house,' indeed!--Will there be any boys at the party?”

“I s'pose so, or 't wouldn't be a frolic,” said Patty with awful daring; “but there won't be many; only a few of Mark's friends.”

“Well, there ain't goin' to be no more argyfyin'! I won't have any girl o' mine frolickin' with boys, so that's the end of it. You're kind o' crazy lately, riggin' yourself out with a ribbon here and a flower there, and pullin' your hair down over your ears. Why do you want to cover your ears up? What are they for?”

“To hear you with, father,” Patty replied, with honey-sweet voice and eyes that blazed.

“Well, I hope they'll never hear anything worse,” replied her father, flinging a bucket of water over the last of the wagon wheels.

“THEY COULDN'T!” These words were never spoken aloud, but oh! how Patty longed to shout them with a clarion voice as she walked away in perfect silence, her majestic gait showing, she hoped, how she resented the outcome of the interview.

“I've stood up to father!” she exclaimed triumphantly as she entered the kitchen and set down her yellow bowl of eggs on the table. “I stood up to him, and answered him back three times!”

Waitstill was busy with her Saturday morning cooking, but she turned in alarm.

“Patty, what have you said and done? Tell me quickly!”

“I 'argyfied,' but it didn't do any good; he won't let me go to Ellen's party.”

Waitstill wiped her floury hands and put them on her sister's shoulders.

“Hear what I say, Patty: you must not argue with father, whatever he says. We don't love him and so there isn't the right respect in our hearts, but at least there can be respect in our manners.”

“I don't believe I can go on for years, holding in, Waitstill!” Patty whimpered.

“Yes, you can. I have!”

“You're different, Waitstill.”

“I wasn't so different at sixteen, but that's five years ago, and I've got control of my tongue and my temper since then. Sometime, perhaps, when I have a grievance too great to be rightly borne, sometime when you are away from here in a home of your own, I shall speak out to father; just empty my heart of all the disappointment and bitterness and rebellion. Somebody ought to tell him the truth, and perhaps it will be me!”

“I wish it could be me,” exclaimed Patty vindictively, and with an equal disregard of grammar.

“You would speak in temper, I'm afraid, Patty, and that would spoil all. I'm sorry you can't go up to Ellen's,” she sighed, turning back to her work; “you don't have pleasure enough for one of your age; still, don't fret; something may happen to change things, and anyhow the weather is growing warmer, and you and I have so many more outings in summer-time. Smooth down your hair, child; there are straws in it, and it's all rough with the wind. I don't like flying hair about a kitchen.”

“I wish my hair was flying somewhere a thousand miles from here; or at least I should wish it if it did not mean leaving you; for oh. I'm so miserable and disappointed and unhappy!”

Waitstill bent over the girl as she flung herself down beside the table and smoothed her shoulder gently.

“There, there, dear; it isn't like my gay little sister to cry. What is the matter with you to-day, Patty?”