Harold, with Don at his side, was waiting on the steps for her as she came slowly up the street. He seemed so very friendly that Mabel thought that she would pour out her grievances to him.
“Well, but what are you saving up for?” he said, after hearing her story.
“Why,” she hesitated, “tell me, Harold, if you break or spoil anything belonging to another person don’t you know you ought to try and get another?”
“Why, yes; I suppose it isn’t just straight not to. I know my father always says that it isn’t honorable not to pay debts, and that is a sort of a debt. He made me save up and pay for a window I broke once, ’cause it was my fault. I was shying stones when I was told not to.”
Mabel nodded emphatically. “That’s what I thought. You see, you know about the book.” She spoke shyly; it was a sore subject.
“What book?”
“Why, don’t you know, last night at supper when papa said that to me?”
“Why, I believe he did speak up sort of sharply, but I didn’t pay much attention; I was so hungry, and those hot biscuits looked so good.”
Mabel gave a sigh of relief. Her shame was lessened, but she went on with her confession: “Well, you see, I spoiled one of papa’s most choicest books; I—I—knew better, too; I daubed it all up with papa’s paints, and he feels, oh, awfully, and I’m going to try to get another book like it. It is very, very old.” She opened her little purse, and unfolded a paper on which she had copied every word of the title page of the book. “Were there any books sold at your house the other day?” she asked.
“Yes, I believe so.”