"Bad temper. They held him in a holy terror; and it's all the queerer because he wasn't even just."
Brother Bonaday shook his head.
"I don't understand," he said; "but if you believe so little in punishment, why are we proposing to punish Corona?"
"Obviously, my dear fellow, because we can find no better way. The child must not be suffered to grow up into a termagant—you will admit that, I hope?… Very well, then: feeble guardians that we are, we must do our best."
He knocked at the bedroom door and, after a moment, entered. Corona sat on the edge of her bed, dry-eyed, hugging Timothy to her breast.
"Corona!"
"Yes, Uncle Copas?"
"You have been extremely naughty, and probably know that you have to be punished."
"I dare say it's the best you can do," said Corona, after weighing this address or seeming to do so. The answer so exactly tallied with the words he had spoken a moment ago that Brother Copas could not help exclaiming—
"Ah! You overheard us, just now?"