had better go now, Pompey," she said gently; "I am afraid you will be wanted."
He turned and left the room, muttering something about "disagreeable, good-for-nothing Miss Day!"
Elsie felt no disposition to eat; and when her father returned, half an hour afterward, the bread and water were still untouched.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked in a stern, angry tone; "why have you not eaten what I sent you?"
"I am not hungry, papa," she said humbly.
"Don't tell me that," he replied, "it is nothing but stubbornness; and I shall not allow you to show such a temper. Take up that bread this moment and eat it. You shall eat every crumb of the bread and drink every drop of the water."
She obeyed him instantly, breaking off a bit of bread and putting it in her mouth, while he stood watching her with an air of stern, cold determination; but when she attempted to swallow, it seemed utterly impossible.
"I cannot, papa," she said, "it chokes me."
"You must," he replied; "I am going to be obeyed. Take a drink of water, and that will wash it down."
It was a hard task, but seeing that there was no escape, she struggled to obey, and at length every crumb of bread and drop of water had disappeared.
"Now, Elsie," said her father, in a tone of great severity, "never dare to show me such a temper as this again; you will not escape so easily next time; remember I am to be obeyed always; and when I send you anything to eat, you are to eat it."
It had not been temper at all, and his unjust severity almost broke her heart; but she could not say one word in her own defence.
He looked at her a moment as she sat there trembling and weeping; then saying, "I forbid you to leave this room without my permission; don't venture to disobey me, Elsie; sit where you are until I return," he turned to go.
"Papa," she asked, pleadingly, "may I have my books, to learn my lessons for to-morrow."
"Certainly," he said; "I will send a servant with them."
"And my Bible too, please, papa."
"Yes, yes," he answered impatiently, as he went out and shut the door.
Jim was just bringing up Elsie's horse, as Mr. Dinsmore passed through the hall, and he stepped out to order it back to the stable, saying that Miss Elsie was not going to ride.
"What is the trouble with Elsie?" asked his sister Adelaide, as he returned to the drawing-room and seated himself beside her.
"She has been impertinent to her governess, and I have confined her to my room for the rest of the day," he replied, rather shortly.
"Are you sure, Horace, that Elsie was so much to blame?" asked his sister, speaking in a tone too low to reach any ear but his. "I am certain, from what Lora tells me, that Miss Day is often cruelly unjust to her; more so than to any other of her pupils."
He looked at her with a good deal of surprise.
"Are you not mistaken?" he asked.
"No! it is a positive fact that she does at times really abuse her."
"Indeed! I shall certainly not allow that" he said, coloring with anger.
"But in this instance, Adelaide," he added thoughtfully, "I think you must be mistaken, for Elsie acknowledged that she had been impertinent. I did not condemn her unheard, stern and severe as you think me."
"If she was, Horace, believe me it must have been only after great provocation, and her acknowledgment of it is no proof at all, to my mind; for Elsie is so humble, she would think she must have been guilty of impertinence if Miss Day accused her of it."
"Surely not, Adelaide; she is by no means wanting in sense," he replied, in a tone of incredulity, not unmixed with annoyance.
Then he sat thinking a moment, half inclined to go to his child and inquire more particularly into the circumstances, but soon relinquished the idea, saying to himself, "No; if she does not choose to be frank with me, and say what she can in her own defence, she deserves to suffer; and besides, she showed such stubbornness about eating that bread."
He was very proud, and did not like to acknowledge even to himself that he had punished his child unjustly—much less to her; and it was not until near tea-time that he returned to his room, entering so softly that Elsie did not hear him.
She was sitting just where he had left her, bending over her Bible, an expression of sadness and deep humility on the sweet little face, so young and fair and innocent. She did not seem aware of his presence until he was close beside her, when, looking up with a start, she said in a voice full of tears, "Dear papa, I am very sorry for all my naughtiness; will you please forgive me?"
"Yes," he said, "certainly I will, if you are really sorry;" and stooping, he kissed her coldly, saying, "Now go to your room, and let Chloe dress you for tea."
She rose at once, gathered up her books, and went out.
The little heart was very sad; for her father's manner was so cold she feared he would never love her again. And she was particularly distressed by the bad mark given her for recitation that day, because she knew the time was now drawing very near when her report must be handed in to her papa; and the delight with which she had hitherto looked forward to receiving his well-merited approbation, was now changed to fear, and dread of his displeasure; yet she knew she had not deserved the bad mark, and again and again she determined that she would tell her father all about it; but his manner had now become so cold and stern that she could not summon up courage to do so, but put it off from day to day, until it was too late.
Chapter Eighth
"He that pursues an act that is attended
With doubtful issues, for the means, had need
Of policy and force to make it speed."
—T. NABB's Unfortunate Mother.
"Joy never feasts so high,
As when the first course is of misery."
—SUCKLING's Aglaura.
It was Friday, and the next morning was the when the reports were to be presented. School had closed, and all but Elsie had already left the room; but she was carefully arranging the books, writing and drawing materials, etc., in her desk, for she was very neat and orderly in her habits.
When she had quite finished her work she took up her report-book, and glanced over it. As her eye rested for an instant upon the one bad mark, she sighed a little, and murmured to herself, "I am so sorry; I wish papa knew how little I really deserved it. I don't know why I never can get the courage to tell him."
Then, laying it aside, she opened her copy-book and turned over the leaves with unalloyed pleasure, for not one of its pages was
