"Rachel," he repeated, "what were you called up in school for to-day?"
She glanced reproachfully at Tom. "I read a little in 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' father. It's not a story-book—"
"Never mind what it is. I send you to school to study, and you're not to touch any but your school-books."
"May I bring it home?" she faltered.
"Bring it home, indeed! No, miss. I guess you can find enough to do at home. Not another word more, or you will stay at home for good."
The child bent over her slate; but tears would come, and at last a sob burst forth.
"Clear out to bed, Rachel," said her father angrily. "I want no snivelling here."
Upstairs, in the cold, dark room, what bitter thoughts surged through the childish brain!
Mr. Stillman loved his wife and children. He wanted them to be happy, but in his way. He must choose their pleasures. If they could not be satisfied with what he chose for them, it was not his fault; it was their perversity. And as no two souls are alike, the attempt to fit a number of them by the same pattern necessarily caused suffering to the souls undergoing the operation.
Mrs. Stillman's sensitive organization was completely crushed; her eldest daughter's nearly so. Martha, the second daughter, had escaped by marrying a clever young man, who first pitied, then loved the daughter of his employer, and persuaded her to elope with him, assuring her of a happier home than she had with her father.