The clock struck eight. Aunt Maria never let her stay in bed that late, even on Sundays, when they all slept a little longer than usual. There was a knock at the kitchen door. Could it be Carrie on her way to school? Not very likely, as the Carson house was nearer town than their cottage, and it was always her place to call for Carrie. Besides, Carrie was never ready on time, and they always had to hurry to reach school before the last bell rang. Still, she held her breath expectantly when steps approached her door, and her heart sank when they stopped and no one entered.
Carrie? What could she be thinking of—she, who had told a lie, deceived people? Could she expect Carrie to call for her? Could she expect Carrie to be her friend after all that had happened? Down went her head into the pillow again and the hot tears flowed in a bitter flood.
The screen door banged, Tom had gone to work. The clock struck nine. There came another knock at the door, louder than the previous one, and for a long time she could hear Aunt Maria's voice speaking in low tones to someone who evidently stood on the steps outside.
Somewhere a sharp whistle sounded, and she flew up in bed startled to hear the clock on the mantel counting off the hour of twelve. She must have been asleep. Yes, she surely had been, for on the chair beside her bed stood a tray heaped high with bread and butter, cake and jam. A glass of milk was there also, and she drank it eagerly, for she was thirsty; but she could not touch the food.
So the long day passed. Once Tom slipped in and bent over her, but her eyes were closed, and thinking her asleep, he left a golden orange beside her and went away. Once Aunt Maria asked her if she didn't feel able to dress and go out of doors for the fresh air, but she turned wearily away and hid her face in the pillow, her only refuge.
The second morning someone had left her door ajar, and she heard Aunt Maria say to Tom, "I don't know what in the world to do with her. She will be sick if she stays that way much longer."
And in Tabitha's heart sprang the fierce longing to be sick, very sick, so sick that they would have to take her away from this horrible desert town. She had heard of such things happening; perhaps—
Tom's voice interrupted her thoughts.
"It is all my fault, Aunt Maria. She told me about the name, but I didn't pay enough attention to know that she had really taken it in place of her own. I ought to be thrashed instead of her being punished. Now she won't look at me or listen to me any more."
Tom took all the blame! Why, she had never for a moment thought of such a thing! It wasn't his fault, she would tell him so.