"I don't know. I'll be late. Good-bye, Miss Terry!"
"Don't forget the things Bill tells you," she shouted after her.
As she returned to the kitchen she was aware of a grievance which had not troubled her before, and when her father, waking, wandered about the house until he found her, she looked at him with a reproachful face.
"Well, Cinderella?"
"I've been thinking," she said.
"Yes?"
"Why don't we go to church? And why don't we sing hymns on Sunday evening? And why don't we have a family Bible? They do in books, with all the birthdays in. We haven't got one. Other fathers and mothers read out of a big Bible to their children."
He sat down and drew her to his knee.
"I'll tell you why, Theresa. I think you are old enough now to understand. If you want to read the Bible, you shall do so, just as I have given you other books to read when you have asked for them. If I had made you read the Bible, you wouldn't have loved it—it would have been like medicine to you—and I want you to love it, as I do. When I was a little boy, your grandmother made me read a chapter every night. I didn't understand it, and I was generally too tired to try."
"Was she very strict—grandmother?"