Miss Billy, trembling inwardly, went on bravely with her recital:—"Don't you remember? You fell on our sidewalk. It was that day when you wouldn't do anything about the repairs, and I went out to try to mend it myself. And oh, Mr. Schultzsky, I said I hoped you'd fall through the rotten planks! I was only half in earnest, you know, but you did come along and fall. And I feel as though it were my fault. I'm so sorry—so very sorry." Her voice faltered. The old man looked at her unwinkingly.
"Go away," he said.
"But you'll let me help you," entreated the girl, bringing the chair nearer to the side of the bed.
"Go away," repeated the old man.
"I can't go away and leave you in this condition," pleaded Miss Billy, bent on restitution.
Mr. Schultzsky tried to raise himself from the pillow, but fell back with a groan. He regarded her vindictively, and his face was more sinister than ever as he repeated savagely—"Go away! Go away!"
Miss Billy set down the tray on the chair and withdrew quickly. The burning tears filled her eyes as she felt her way along to the gate. "He was cruel," she said bitterly to herself. "I didn't deserve it." A calmer mood took possession of her before she reached the door of her home. "Well, he didn't strike me," she said stoutly. "And I know I did my duty. But I shan't try to make friends with him again, and I shall never never let Ted hear of this."
But her brother's quick wits had already anticipated and made ready for her home coming. As she flung off her hat, and threw herself into the big chair in the study, the sermon board thrust a black and white message before her eyes. It had been empty when she left the house. Now it bore a rude sketch of a nondescript animal, a cross between a bear and a wolf, arrayed in a huge night cap. An unmistakable Little Red Riding Hood stood at the side of the beast. And below was scrawled in Theodore's hand:
Some bears have got two legs,
And some have got more;
Be lessons right severe,
If they've two legs or four!