"Who put that there? What did auntie mean? She meant me. Everybody means me. I wouldn't have thought that of auntie."
Dotty turned away; but the words followed her across the room like the eyes of a portrait.
"'God resisteth the proud.' Well, who said I was proud? People are so queer! Always think it's me wants the best things. 'Giveth grace to the humble.' There, I s'pose that means Prudy. She's just as humble! Never wants to take the best parts when we play. O, no; Prudy's humble? Prudy's a hero-ess!'"
But scold as she might, those burning red words were looking right down into Dotty's soul. Though she shut her eyes, there they were still. "'God resisteth the proud.' Am I proud?—Yes. Does God resisteth me?—Yes, for the Bible can't lie. What is resisteth? Something that makes you feel bad, prob'ly. That's why I can't be happy. I won't be proud another minute."
Dotty winked fast, set her teeth together, pinched her neck, and swallowed.
"There, it's going down my throat like a pill,—its gone! Am I proud any more? No—for I really don't s'pose I can make gingerbread quite so well as Prudy! I never made any but once, and then Norah took it out of the oven and put in the ginger and molasses. No, I'm not proud. I don't want to keep house. I shouldn't know how. It would be very much better to go back and behave, for I can't stay here without being lonesome."
Dotty looked again at the red and gold text. "How different it seems to me now I'm humble! People needn't be proud if they'd swallow it down like a pill."
Dotty's reasoning was rather mixed; still it is worthy of notice, that she was doing a remarkable thing for her, as she slowly walked back to her auntie's room.
But all this while Prudy, too, had been suffering. She could never bear to have her young sister angry, and, if it had not been for Horace, would have gone to her with all sorts of promises—anything for peace.
"She's an outrageous little tyrant, Prue. She ought to have a sound whipping."