WIXXIXG HER WAY 



283 



she TFii'ii't like any o' the Grahamses. I 

 don't want you to go to contradictin' me. 

 I wont have it."' 



"'I didn't mean to contradict/' said 

 Mary. "I just said my mother wasn't 

 lazy—" 



"Shet up — shet right up I" said Miss 

 Betty, savagely. "Ef '"twa'n't contradict- 

 in', 'twas talkin* back, 'n' that's jest as 

 bad. I don't want none o' your opinions. 

 I've got enough o' my own. Ef you don't 

 like what I say, why — ^keep your mouth 

 shet, 'n' ye won't be half so likely to git 

 into trouble." 



Mary made no response. Presently Miss 

 Betty looked at her sharply. 



"'Ye ain't sulkin', be ye ?" she demanded. 

 ■"Ye hain't forgot what I said yesterday 

 about sulkin', I hope?" 



"I remember it," answered Mary. 



"Well, see ye do," cautioned Miss Betty. 

 "T don't s'pose ye will, though. Might 's 

 well pour water into a sieve 'n' expect it 

 to stay there, as to tell young ones any- 

 thing 'n' expect 'em to remember it." 



The next day the sick cow was sicker, 

 John reported, and was pretty sure to die, 

 and this, in itself, was enough to make 

 ^liss Betty cross. Crossness was her nat- 

 ural condition, Mary made up her mind, 

 but on some days she could be crosser 

 than on others. 



• The sick cow lingered along for four or 

 fk-e days, and then died. During the 

 period of uncertainty as to old Brindle's 

 fate Mary tried her best to help her aunt. 

 But Miss Betty would have none of her 

 help. She did, however, get a little satis- 

 faction in having the girl about the house, 

 for it gave her an object to find fault with 

 and vent her spiteful feelings on. But 

 the satisfaction this afforded was all on 

 Miss Betty's side. More than once her 

 sharp, harsh words brought quick tears to 

 the poor child's eyes, but she never forgot 

 what her mother had told her about gov- 

 erning her temper, and when angry 

 thoughts rose, as they sometimes did, un- 

 der the cruel injustice of the treatment 

 she was receiving, she did not utter them. 



One day Mary fancied that her aunt 

 looked a trifle less sour than usual, and 

 this emboldened her to say something that 

 she had wanted to say ever since she came 

 there. 



"Aunt Betty, do they have Sunday- 

 school in the church we came past when 

 the man brought me here, just over the 

 big hill?" 



"I s'pose they do," answered Miss Betty, 

 curtly. 



"Mayn't I go next Sunday?" asked 

 Mary. 



"Xo," answered Miss Betty, very de- 

 cidedly. 



"Why not?" asked Mary. "I used to 

 go, every Sunday, with mother." 



"^liat if you did ?" said her aunt, with 

 a scowl at the cjuestioner. "T ain't obleeged 

 to do's yer mother did, 's I know of. I 

 hain't set foot inside that church fer a 

 good many years, 'n' it'll be a good many 

 years longer 'fore I do ag'in, I guess." 



"But I could go alone," said Mary. 



"Shet up — shet right up," said Miss 

 Betty. "I said no, an' I meant no." 



"But why can't—" 



Miss Betty ended the sentence abruptly 

 by giving Mary a blow that sent her reel- 

 ing against the wall. 



"Take that!" she cried, angrily. "T'll 

 I'arn ye not to try to argy with me." 



The child had never been given a blow 

 before. For a moment she was bewildered 

 by it. Then she turned upon her aunt 

 a look so full of pain and reproach that 

 it roused all the cruelty in the woman's 

 heart. 



"What d'ye mean by lookin' at me like 

 that?" she cried. "Go right straight into 

 the cellar-way, 'n' stay there till I tell ye 

 to come out. March, now !" 



"Oh, Aunt Betty !" cried Mary, who had 

 the dread of dark places common to many 

 children, "please don't make me go there !" 



For answer. Miss Betty seized her by 

 the arm and dragged her to the cellar- 

 way, thrust her in, and fastened the door 

 upon her. 



All was silence in the dark passage. 



