All was dark below, and no person could be seen, but again came the man’s voice.
“What were you doing, Anna?” was the question.
“Only putting away—” here the girl faltered and stopped speaking. The candle in her hand shook, and threw a strange, wavering shadow of her shape upon the long, rough timbers of the wall. The roof was so low where she stood that of necessity her head was bent sharply forward. The outline of her shoulders was meagre and angular; her arms and body had neither the grace of a girl nor the curves of a woman; they were simply lean and long. There was something of loftiness, and even of beauty, in the face, but the cheeks were hollow, the lines all lacking in softness. The ensemble was grave and strenuous for a girl of eighteen.
She began again.
“I was nailing up that box of books, you remember. I thought now, you know, I ought to do it.”
Something like a groan seemed to float up from the darkness below. There was no other reply for a moment, and then the father’s voice said slowly:—
“To take back later such an action is a greater violation of the moral nature than to avoid performing it. If it has been given you as duty, it is well done, but be very sure.”
A smile, brooding, and even sad, altered the girl’s face as she reflected for a little.
“I am very sure,” she said softly, but without hesitation.
“Then, good night. Sleep, now. Let to-morrow take thought for the things of itself, Anna.”