“That is a lie also.”
“I like that. Telling me I'm lying. You ask Mr. Graham Spencer. He'll tell you.”
“If that is true, why do you shake so?”
“You scare me, father.” She burst into frightened tears. “I don't know what's got into you. I do my best. I give you all I make. I've kept this house going, and”—-she gained a little courage—“I've had darned little thanks for it.”
“You think I believe the mill gave five thousand dollars in watches last Christmas? To-morrow I go, with this to Mr. Clayton Spencer, not to that degenerate son of his, and I ask him. Then I shall know.”
He turned, as if about to leave her, but the alternative he offered her was too terrible.
“Father!” she said. “I'll tell you the truth. I bought it myself.”
“With what money?”
“I had a raise. I didn't tell you. I had a raise of five dollars a week. I'm paying for it myself. Honest to heaven, that's right, father.”
“So—you have had a raise, and you have not told me?”