“And that is what she does think. I declare I never see anything so imposed upon as you all are. You have to come and go at her beck. I wouldn’t stand it,” answered Sallie.
“You must not speak so!” said Jennie, rebukingly, recalled somewhat to her senses by the servant’s words; and Sallie retreated abashed.
Jennie buttered a muffin and put a piece of the steak upon her plate. She was quite hungry; the steaming viand increased her appetite, but could not quiet her thoughts.
“I am doing wrong, wrong, wrong,” kept floating in her mind. She leaned her head on her hand. “I have made a bad beginning, the day will go wrong. I hate to give up—but this is mean—and Miss Lane has never done a harsh or unkind thing to me since she came here. It is deceitful to take these things when she cannot see me. But then, what right has she——” her face flushed for a moment, but strangely enough, these words, “Submit yourselves to all your governors, teachers, spiritual pastors and masters,” occurred to her at that instant, and all doubt as to her duty in the matter was cleared away.
Pride still remained to be conquered.
“She need not think I am afraid of her, either, though she does think her word is law. I would have this if I wanted it—but I know it is wrong; it is not Miss Lane that I care for.”
She put away the tempting breakfast, and ate her bread and butter quickly, and when Sallie came in, said shortly and with averted face, “I did not eat those things because it was not right. I ought to have been up in time. It was wicked in you to try to cheat Miss Lane, though,”—seeing Sallie’s face of mortification—“I suppose you meant to be kind to me.” And Jennie walked up to her own room, angry with herself, Miss Lane, and Sallie, yet with an uncomfortable sense of having been most deserving of blame.
Only the evening before she had promised herself that it should be such a pleasant day. Miss Lane had intended to teach her and Lillie to knit. They were each to make a pair of stockings for a poor little girl in the village, and had looked forward with intense delight to the time for commencing them.
This little child, Alice Ross, had lost her father; and her mother, who was a poor woman in every way, having very delicate health, found it difficult to keep her daughter and herself from starving, and worked all day long with her sore heart to keep the wolf from the door.
Alice’s pale, sorrowful face was sad to see, and she came shivering to Sunday school in her thin dress, with her little bare hands stiff and red from the cold, and sat silent and dejected among the bright, childish faces around her, and often wiping scalding tears from her hollow cheeks.