"Because he'll laugh at your father and make fun of him for having a girl that went in swimming with boys. Just you see! And your father'll feel so disgraced!"
Would he really? Margery wondered forlornly. Of all her family, her father was the one, the only one, she would have spared; and now, if Gladys were to be trusted, he it was who would suffer most. With a pang, she suddenly remembered how many times in the past she had been sent to bed, as to-day, to await his coming, and how kind and just he had always been, never pronouncing punishment until he had sifted and weighed the evidence against her. And, remembering this, her rebellious little heart softened and a sense of regret came over her—the first she had felt that afternoon. Why, why had she not remembered him sooner? How could she ever have forgotten him?
In the midst of this incipient remorse, Gladys announced his arrival.
He came in with a cheerful, "Hello, kidlets!" and almost immediately asked, "Where's Margery?"
"Margery's in bed," Henry said significantly.
Margery heard her father pull over a porch chair and seat himself.
"She's been bad," Katherine said.
Still her father made no comment.
It was Alice's turn to speak, and there was nothing left to tell but the deed itself.