"A good storm clears the air," she used to declare; and doubtless she went away the happier for having relieved her mind; as for the atmosphere she left behind, it is open to doubt whether that benefited.
This especial storm marked a crisis in Meg's life, warming her distrust of her aunt into an absolute dislike, that tended to make her childhood and girlhood both morbid and unhappy.
It was seven o'clock, and lessons were over—Miss Cripps was caught napping, and Laura and Kate were interrupted in the game they were playing together, when Mrs. Russelthorpe opened the door.
Miss Cripps had no savoir faire whatever, and they were all taken by surprise, and stared silently at the apparition in evening dress, suddenly appearing in that dull room.
"How sleepy you all are!" cried Mrs. Russelthorpe. "I never saw such quiet children! Do you never have any conversation? One would think I beat you. Where's Margaret? Oh, sitting in a corner as usual. You are getting much too old for dolls, Margaret. Miss Cripps shouldn't allow you to be such a baby—why, how old are you?"
Meg crimsoned up to the very roots of her hair, clasped her doll more tightly, her eyes growing round and dilated, and remained speechless.
"The child's a fool! How—old—are—you?" with exaggerated clearness, and a full stop between each word.
"Twelve," murmured Meg; and then began to cry from sheer nervousness. There are some natures whom tears aggravate beyond endurance; Aunt Russelthorpe lost patience and shook her niece, and the doll fell to the ground.
It was an old and worn and dirty doll, and Mrs. Russelthorpe hated anything old; it was awkward of Meg to drop it, and awkwardness set her nerves on edge. She caught the doll up by its leg, and with an exclamation of disgust threw it into the fire.
Meg screamed, and sprang forward to save it, with her face suddenly as white as her pinafore. Before any one could stop her, she had plunged her hand into the flames, and dragged out a melting mass.