"You bad, wicked boy!" cried Agatha, holding his hands; "this is the end of all those fine promises that you made last Sunday. Supposing you were to die in one of those dreadful passions, you would go to hell."
"It is you who are wicked to speak like that," interposed Helen, unable to witness the scene in silence any longer. "You provoked him, you know you did."
"Children, children, what is the matter?"
The combatants stopped their hostilities and turned round. Mrs. Bayden, on her way upstairs, had heard the noise of the scuffle and had appeared upon the scene.
"It is Harold, of course, as usual," said Agatha, recovering her self-possession at once. "He will do his silly carpentering here, and you know you have often told him he is only to do it in the barn. I was only trying to make him obedient, and he flew at me and pushed and kicked me."
"Oh, Harold!" sighed Mrs. Bayden, "how could you? Fancy if you had injured your sister seriously."
"It isn't true," began Harold, but his mother stopped him.
"I want to hear no more. I have heard too much already. That rubbish"—pointing to the wood and cardboard on the floor—"must be given to me. Pick it up."
Harold, his face dark and lowering, obeyed, and the "rubbish," tenderly placed in a wastepaper basket, was handed to his mother.
"You will take care of it, won't you?" he said, with a little break in his voice.