Part 10 (1/2)

Presently she went softly into the sitting room. It was growing dark, and her mother sat alone among the cus.h.i.+ons of the couch; Frances nestled down beside her, and there in the firelight and the stillness she couldn't help feeling sorry, even though she still felt sure she had a right to be angry.

She wished her mother would speak, but as she did not, Frances asked, ”Don't you think Gladys was very unkind?”

”She ought to have been very certain of the truth of what she said, before she accused any one of cheating.”

”I think so too; and I had a right to be angry.” She began to feel quite certain of this.

”I have been talking it over with Emma,” said Mrs. Morrison, ”and I find she did not understand the game. She really played as Gladys said, but she did it by mistake.”

”Did she? But Gladys ought to have known Emma wouldn't cheat.”

”And of course there was nothing for you to do, but throw down the dominoes and accuse Gladys of telling a story?”

”But, mother--” Frances hesitated.

”Suppose you had told Gladys that there must be some mistake, and then had tried to find out what it was.”

”But I was so provoked.”

”Yes, and you lost your self-control. You let yourself be ruled by your temper. It is sometimes right to be angry, but it is never right to be in a pa.s.sion.”

”Don't you think I am getting better of my temper?” Frances asked meekly.

”Yes, dear; I have thought so lately, and it was right for you to want to defend Emma; but to throw the dominoes on the floor, to be in such a fury--my darling, it makes me afraid for you! You might sometime do something that all your life would be a sorrow to you. G.o.d meant you to rule your feelings and pa.s.sions, not be ruled by them. You are like a soldier who has surrendered to the enemy he might have conquered.”

”I'll ask him to forgive me,” Frances whispered.

”You know father and I want our little girl to grow into a sweet, gracious woman--”

”Just like you,” Frances interrupted, with her arms around her mother's neck.

”No, not just like me,” answered Mrs. Morrison, smiling; ”you must be your own self, Wink. I have tried not to spoil you, but of course I have made mistakes, and now you are getting old enough to share the responsibility with me.”

”Do you think you ought to punish me, mother?”

”Dear, I think the punishment will be the trying to set things right again.”

Nothing more was said on the subject that evening, but the next day Frances came to her mother with a bright face; ”I have found out what it means,” she said.

”What what means?” Mrs. Morrison asked.

”The story of the bridge. You know Gladys is mad with me and won't come here any more-- Emma says she said she would never speak to me again--and that is a broken bridge and I have to mend it; but I don't know how,” she added.

”Perhaps you can find a way if you try,” replied her mother, thinking it best to let her solve her own problems.

All day Frances' thoughts kept going back to the unfortunate quarrel, and even when she was not thinking about it she was not happy. The storm clouds hung low and made the atmosphere heavy.

At twilight she slipped downstairs and peeped into the study where d.i.c.k had just lit the lamp and Peterkin lay stretched at his ease before the bright fire. She stole in and sat beside him on the rug and stroked him softly. He purred gently, looking up in her face with so much wisdom in his yellow eyes she felt like telling him about the trouble.