She edged carefully toward the door—but there was to be no escape.
"Sarah, were you in the barn this morning?" asked Richard.
Her answer was a look that Doctor Hugh would have been able to instantly interpret—it meant that Sarah had retreated into one of her obstinate, sulky silences and had made up her mind not to be forced into speech.
Richard turned and shot the bolt across the door.
"Were you in the barn this morning?" he repeated. "Answer me—but I know you were; and you must have left the grain bins open."
Sarah remained silent. Richard took a step toward the obdurate little figure, but Warren's voice halted him.
"Quit it, Rich," he said quietly. "Open that door. Run along, Sarah, and next time you climb an apple tree, have a pillow on the ground ready to catch you."
Sarah stepped over the sill, turned around, seemed about to speak and then went silently out of the barn. She heard Richard say something and Warren's reply:
"Oh, what difference does it make, if she did?"
Mrs. Willis knew what to do for the yellow jacket stings and she knew how to cure scratched hands and arms and soothe aching little heads. She knew, too, the signs of a hurt heart—when it was Sarah's. Shirley thought her sister was merely "cranky" when she pushed her out of the swing and Rosemary decided to let Sarah severely alone when that small girl hurled her music from the piano rack and began a violent performance of "chop sticks." But Mrs. Willis waited patiently.