He let me go, and I ran into the house. I felt that all the blood had rushed into my face at once. I squeezed into the darkest corner behind the stove, under pretense of counting the soiled linen. That was on a Wednesday.
On Friday, for the first time, I reminded my mother of my own accord that my head needed washing, that it was frowzy.
"More shame to me!" exclaimed my mother, wringing her hands. "I haven't combed her hair these three weeks."
Suddenly she grew angry: "Lazy thing!" she cried; "a great girl like you and not able to comb her own hair! Another at your age would have washed the other children."
"Sarah'le, don't scream," begged father; but her anger only grew more violent.
"Lazy girl, you shall comb your own hair, and this minute. Do you hear?"
But I was afraid to go to the fire-place, where the hot water stood, because I had to pass mother, who would have given me a slap. Father saved me, as usual.
"Sarah'le," he moaned, "don't scream, my head does ache so."
That was enough. My mother's anger vanished. I ran freely across the room to the hot water.
As I awkwardly combed my hair, I saw my mother go up to my father and point at me with a heavy sigh: