And only this morning
she thought she was miserable because her new dress had not come.
Dorothy cried till she could cry no longer, and then she got up and
slowly undressed. The house was very still. A clock somewhere was
striking ten, and it seemed to Dorothy as if it were the middle of the
night. She was cold now as her mother had been, but no one was likely to
come to her. She felt alone and frightened, and as if a wall had
descended between her and Dick, and her mother and father. Among all the
other puzzling and dreadful things, nothing seemed so strange to Dorothy
as that Dick showed better than herself. He had gone up to mother when
he was told not, and yet it was _right_ (even Dorothy could understand
that) for him to disobey her, and _she_ had just gone to the post, and
all this dreadful thing would come of it. Dorothy had always thought
Dick was such a bad boy and she was so good, and now it seemed all the
other way. She was _father's_ girl, too, and father was always down on
Dick, yet--her eyes filled when she thought of it--Dick was loyal, and
had called her a little brute, and mother said it was worst of all for
father.
She knelt down by her bed. Until to-night Dorothy had never really felt
she needed Jesus as a friend, though she sometimes thought she loved
Him. Now it seemed as if she _must_ tell some one, and she wanted Him
very, very badly. So she knelt and prayed, and though she cried nearly
all the time she felt much happier when she got up.
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