However, it proved a vain hope; she hesitated and gave incorrect answers several times in the first recitation, and when it came to the second showed herself almost entirely unacquainted with the lesson.
Her father looked very grave but only said, as he handed back her book,
"These are the poorest recitations I have ever heard from you."
Then taking up her composition, which he had found lying on his desk and had already examined, "And this, I am sorry to have to say, is a piece of work that does no credit to my daughter; the writing is slovenly, the sentences are badly constructed, and the spelling is very faulty. It must be re-written this afternoon, and both lessons learned so that you can recite them creditably to me before I can allow you any recreation."
"I don't care," she said with a pout and a frown, "I just have too much to do, and that's all there is about it."
"My child, are you speaking quite as respectfully as you ought in addressing your father?" he asked in grave, reproving accents.
She hung her head in sullen silence.
He waited a moment, then said with some sternness, "When I ask you a question, Lucilla, I expect an answer, and it must be given."
"No, sir; it wasn't respectful," she replied penitently. "But please forgive me, papa, I hope I'll never speak so again."
He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly. "I do, dear child. But now I must know what you mean by saying that you have too much to do."
"It's that sewing for the Dorcas society, papa, beside all my lessons and practising, and other things that you bid me do every day."