“Yes, I know. Don't let poor Amy see you cry, Ina.”
“Wait a minute before we go in. You remember that the time papa whipped me, the only time he ever did, when—”
“Yes, I remember. You never did again, honey.”
“Yes, it cured me, but I fear it will not cure Eddy. A boy is different.”
“Stop crying, Ina dear, before we go in.”
“Yes—I—will. Are my eyes very red?”
“No; Amy will not notice it if you keep your eyes turned away.”
But Mrs. Carroll turned sharply upon Ina the moment she saw her. The two elder ladies had left the parlor and retreated to a small apartment on the right of the hall, called the den, and fitted up with some Eastern hangings and a divan. Upon this divan Anna Carroll had thrown herself, and lay quite still upon her back, her slender length extended, staring out of the window directly opposite at the spread of a great oak just lately putting forth its leaves. Mrs. Carroll was standing beside her, and she looked at the two girls entering with a hard expression in her usually soft eyes.
“Why have you been crying?” she asked, directly, of Ina. Her hair was in disorder, as if she had thrust her fingers through it. It was pushed far off from her temples, making her look much older. Red spots blazed on her cheeks, her mouth widened in a curious, tense smile. “Why have you been crying?” she demanded again when Ina did not reply at once to her question.
“Because papa is going to whip Eddy,” Ina said then, with directness, “and I know he will whip him very hard, because he has been stealing.”