My father moved toward me.
"What did you say, daughter?"
I hung my head. If I told, where would be the surprise and the visioned triumph?
"What did you say, Molly?" repeated my father, in quiet gravity.
"I said one beet, and that it measured one yard," stammered I, reluctantly.
"That was bad enough. When so many older people are trying to see who can tell the biggest story, little girls ought to be especially careful."
His eyes did not go to Madeline, but his emphasis did. The thought of being classed with her lent me coherence and courage. I looked up.
"I have one beet, father, that is a yard 'round. I raised it myself. If you don't believe me, you can ask Spotswoode."
"I don't ask my servants if my daughter is telling the truth. Where is your beet?"
I pointed.