"I do sew every day in Aunt Jane's room, ten minutes hemming, ten minutes seaming, and ten minutes basting patchwork squares together. I don't know how to knit."
"How about reading? Don't you care for reading?"
"Why, of course I do. I love it!" I cried. "And I do read lots—at home."
"At—home?"
I knew then, of course, that I'd made another awful break. There wasn't any smile around Father's eyes now, and his lips came together hard and thin over that last word.
"At—at my home," I stammered. "I mean, my other home."
"Humph!" grunted Father. Then, after a minute: "But why, pray, can't you read here? I'm sure there are—books enough." He flourished his hands toward the bookcases all around the room.
"Oh, I do—a little; but, you see, I'm so afraid I'll leave some of them out when I'm through," I explained,
"Well, what of it? What if you do?" he demanded.
"Why, Father!" I tried to show by the way I said it that he knew—of course he knew. But he made me tell him right out that Aunt Jane wouldn't like it, and that he wouldn't like it, and that the books always had to be kept exactly where they belonged.