“‘Cora, aren’t you going to say your prayers?’ as she was hastening down stairs without doing so.
“‘Oh, I’ll be late to breakfast, and papa will scold. At night is enough;’ and down she would run, leaving the door open. Vexed by this, I used to get up and close it after her with a noise, and then my mind was not in a state for praying and reading. Sometimes I would find myself in the middle of my prayers, forgetting the words in recalling her misdeeds, and, shocked at myself, I used to cry and think how far back I was going—consoling myself always at the last, by laying the blame upon those around me.
“Once poor Cora got into sad disgrace. I never think of that without a feeling of self-reproach. Aunt Marion had sent her with a small pitcher to bring some cream from old Ricy, who kept the dairy. Cora came down with a pretty silk apron on, and Auntie sent her to change it for a gingham one, telling her she might soil it.
“I don’t know how she came to be tempted to disobey; she was not usually a self-willed child; but, instead of obeying, she put on two aprons, the gingham one over the silk, and as soon as she was out of sight of the house, took off the former, hiding it by the fence, intending to put it on when she came back.
“She was gone a long time—I remember it quite well. Willie had promised to take us all to a pic-nic in his boat when she returned, and I waited impatiently for her return. He was to row us down the river to a certain shady, cool place, and there we were to spend the day with a party of children from Newton. We had been looking forward to this time for weeks past, and had danced with joy when the day came so clear and bright. I watched and waited and fretted about her getting back, till I had worked myself quite into a state of excitement and indignation. ‘I never saw anything so selfish—so mean. She knows we can’t go without her. She does it on purpose,’ I said to grandmamma two or three times.
“‘Don’t be unjust, my dear. Settle yourself. You’ll be tired before the time comes,’ was all the answer I received, while the knitting-needles continued to move as slowly as ever. How it fretted me! I felt it a positive injury that she did not care more—that she could be so calm. At last, Cora appeared. She came into the yard, swinging the pitcher unconcernedly. I ran out to meet her.
“‘What did keep you so long?’ I cried when she was near enough to hear.
“‘Have I been gone long?’ she asked so coolly as to provoke me beyond measure.
“‘Of course you have; we’re all ready; Willie and the boys have gone down to the boat. Where’s the cream?’
“‘I did not get any,’ she answered in a low voice, flushing uneasily.