"But," argued Jean, stung to the quick by the contempt expressed in her grandfather's tone, "I have a brain as well as you. You don't want two cooks in the house nor two women to mend the linen. I have nothing to do these wet days. If you will not let me read your books, give me money to buy some myself. You will hardly let me read the newspaper. I shall turn into an imbecile, if I am treated like this! Oh! If I had money, how different my life would be here!"
Passion was in her tone. He waved her away like a naughty child.
"I clothe you and feed you. You want no more."
But Jean would not be dismissed.
"Grandfather, if you do not let me read, I shall paint. I shall make it my occupation in life."
The old man glared at her.
"If I ever catch you at it," he roared in fury, "I'll cast you out of this house for ever!"
"Perhaps," muttered Jean, "that would be the best thing that could happen to me!"
She left him, and went up to her room.
Would life always be like this? she wondered, and sitting at her window, gloom descended on her soul. Then she went to her bookcase and discontentedly viewed its contents. A Bible, a prayer-book, and a dictionary, half a dozen children's story books, and Boswell's "Life of Johnson." The latter was the only prize she had earned at school, and she had read it through already five times.