“I don’t want any supper, maw,” said Zarelda.
“You don’t want any supper! What ails you? Aigh?”
“I don’t feel hungry. I got a headache.”
She passed the table without a glance and went upstairs. Her mother arose, pushing back her chair with decision and followed her. When she reached Zarelda’s room, the girl was on her knees before her trunk. She had taken out a small writing-desk and was fitting a tiny key in the lock. Her hat was still on her head, but pushed back.
She started when the door opened, and looked over her shoulder, flushing with embarrassment and annoyance. Then, without haste or nervousness, she replaced the desk and closing the trunk, stood up calmly and faced her mother.
“Why don’t you want any supper?” Mrs. Winser took in the trunk, the desk, and the blush at one glance. “Be you sick?”
“I got a headache.” Zarelda took off her hat and commenced drawing the pins out of her hair. She untied the red ribbon and rolled it tightly around three fingers to smooth out the creases.
“Well, you wasn’t puttin’ your headache ’n your writin’-desk, was you?”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Now, see here, ’Reldy,” said Mrs. Winser, very kindly, coming closer and resting one large hand on the bureau; “there’s somethin’ ails you besides a headache, an’ you ain’t a-goin’ to pull any wool over my eyes. You’ve hed lots an’ lots o’ headaches an’ et your supper just the same. What ails you?”