Not a word of reply did my father make. I was looking at him, and
saw an expression on his countenance that was new to me--an
expression of pain, mingled with fear. He turned away slowly, and in
silence left the house.
"Jane," said my mother, addressing her from the stairway, on which
she had been standing, "how could you speak so to your father?"
"I have just as good right to a hundred dollar shawl as Anna,"
replied my sister, in a very undutiful tone. "And what is more, Im
going to have one."
"What reason did your father give for refusing your request to-day?"
asked my mother.
"Couldn't spare the money! Had a large payment to make! Only an
excuse!"
"Stop, my child!" was the quick, firm remark, made with unusual
feeling. "Is that the way to speak of so good a father? Of one who
has ever been so kindly indulgent? Jane! Jane! You know not what you
are saying!"
My sister looked something abashed at this unexpected rebuke, when
my mother took occasion to add, with an earnestness of manner that I
could not help remarking as singular,
"Your father is troubled about something. Business may not be going
on to his satisfaction. Last night I awoke, and found him walking
the floor. To my questions he merely answered that he was wakeful.
His health is not so good as formerly, and his spirits are low.
Don't, let me pray you, do anything to worry him.
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