"I hate you!" cried Meg with a flash, her bosom heaving, her little red lips drawn tight over her teeth.
There was something pitiably droll in the attitude of the child, standing at a safe distance, clutching her pocket, quivering with helpless wrath, before the impassable persecutor. With a sudden spring she turned and dashed away, pausing to open a little wider the window that let in the draft upon the bailiff.
"You'll get frightful rheumatism waiting there, and I'm glad of it," she cried, as she disappeared.
Mr. Standish, returning half an hour later, saw a small figure promenading up and down before the house under a dripping umbrella. It was Meg. She was by his side in a moment.
"Come this minute," she said, putting her hand into his.
"Why, Meg," he said cheerily, yet surprised at her manner; "so you have forgiven me at last!"
She did not answer; but as he was about to open the hall door with his latchkey, she said laconically, "Not this way," and led him round by the back way.
Meg flitted up the narrow stairs before him, every now and then turning back with forefinger on lips to enjoin silence. Up, up she went, until she reached the attic that was her own room. She signed to him to enter, and then shut the door.
"Why, what is this for, Meg," said Mr. Standish, looking round.