"Look here, Betty, if you're going to begin that, you may take the books yourself and do them; I'm sick of the whole thing!"
Betty is wise enough to make no answer to Bob's outburst. She leaves the room quietly, and, after some trouble, pacifies the children, and sees them all safely in bed.
She feels thoroughly humiliated and miserable. The whole thing is such a keen disgrace; that her brothers and sisters should behave so roughly and rudely!
How untrained they all are—how badly brought up! No wonder father has grown so sad and old-looking of late. His old home—when he lived with Grannie—must have been very different.
She returns to the accounts. Bob is still poring over them, but looks so savage that she is almost afraid to speak. He finishes the work in silence, answers her thanks with a grunt, and goes off with his head in the air, and both hands deep in his pockets.
And Betty goes to bed herself, depressed indeed.
But the next morning there is a short pencil-note from father. His knee is more comfortable, but the doctor fears it will be a long business. He is most anxious to hear what Mr. Duncan will do.
Reading the note to mother, who is not up yet, makes Betty rather later than usual, and she runs straight to the kitchen to hurry on the breakfast.
"Oh, Clara, the kettle not boiling yet, nor the porridge on—why, this is too bad! You are more behindhand than ever. Pray, how does this happen?"
"Don't know," mutters Clara, sulkily.