“I don’t know.”
“Has she struck you again?”
“No.”
“Well, what is it, my dear child? You know that you are always more than welcome here; but you must have some excuse for leaving home.”
“I have an excuse. I can’t tell it. Please don’t say anything more about it. I don’t think she’ll send for me.”
“Well, well, perhaps you’ll tell me after a time. Meanwhile make yourself at home.”
He was much puzzled, but reflected that Patience was not like other children; and he knew Mrs. Sparhawk’s commanding talent for making herself disagreeable. Still, he was shocked at her appearance; and as the day wore on and she would not meet his eye, but sat staring at the floor, his uneasy mind glimpsed ugly possibilities. At dinner she ate little and did not raise her eyes from her plate, although she made a few commonplace remarks.
At four o’clock Billy, the buggy, and a farm hand stopped before the Custom House. The man handed a note to Lola, asking her to give it to Patience.
The note read:
You come home—hear? If you don’t, I’ll see that you do.