"She always says she doesn't want to go! It's not fair!..."
Lily had begun again, more frantically than ever. Father had to be sent for.
Father took up a high line at once. "My little Lily!" said he gravely. He firmly placed his little Lily upon his knee, a post of honour reserved exclusively for moments of serious appeal and which, even at the height of her frenzy, Lily would never have thought it possible to decline.
"My little Lily! Is this the way you show your gratitude, when an outing is planned for you? Don't you know that you are grieving us very much, when we are only thinking of your welfare and pleasure, and wanting to make you happy? God will be very angry with you, if you can't show a happy, grateful spirit."
Father and Mother were never angry—they were only grieved. It was God that was always indignant and resentful on their behalf.
Lily was afraid of God, and secretly thought that He, who knew everything and could do everything, always punished her naughtiness by sending the thing that she dreaded most in all the world—one of Vonnie's fearful earaches.
The assurance that God was angry again made her choke down some of her defiant sobs and mutterings.
"We might all be so happy, if you were a good little girl, and it ought to be so easy with parents who love you dearly. Many poor little children have no father and mother or nice, cheerful, happy home. Now, my pet, are you sorry?"
"Yes," said Lily tremulously, thinking of God with the earache bolt still, as it were, suspended.
"Then I think you had better ask God to forgive you. Go and kiss your dear mother, and then run and get dressed. Don't keep the carriage waiting."