s on it. Her hair was
down her back--what there was of it--and she was doing up her switch."

Mrs. Smith was so aghast at this intrusion and at the injured tone in
which it was told that she had no farther inclination to smile.

"I said, 'I thought I'd come up and sit with you a while,' and she
said, 'Leave the room at once, Mary,' just like that. She was as mad as
she could be."

"Do you blame her?"

"Why should she be mad, when I went up there to be nice to her? She's an
old cat!"

"Dear child, come and sit on this settee with me and let's talk it
over."

Mrs. Smith put her arm over the shaking shoulders of the angry girl and
drew her toward her. After an instant's stiffening against it Mary
admitted to herself that it was pleasant; she didn't wonder Dorothy was
sweet if her mother did this often.

"Now we're comfortable," said Mrs. Smith. "Tell me, dear, aren't there
some thoughts in your mind that you don't like to tell to any one?
thoughts that seem to belong just to you yourself? Perhaps they're about
God; perhaps they're about people you love, perhaps they're about your
own feelings--but they seem too private and sacred for you to tell any
one. They're your own, ownest thoughts."

Mary nodded.

"Do you remember your mother?"

Mary nodded again.

"Sometimes when you recall how she took you in her arms and cuddled you
when you were hurt, and how you loved her and she loved you I know you
think thoughts that you couldn't express to any one else."

Mary gave a sniff that hinted of tears.

"Everybody has an inner life that is like a church. You know you
wouldn't think of running into a church and making a noise and
disturbing the worshippers. It's just so with people's minds; you can't
rush in and talk about certain things to any one--the things that he
considers too sacred to talk about."

"How are you going to tell?"

Mrs. Smith drew a long breath. How was she to make this poor, untutored
child understand.

"You have to tell by your feelings," she answered slowly. "Some people
are more reserved than others. I believe you are reserved."

"Me?" asked Mary wonderingly.

"It wouldn't surprise me if there were a great many things that you
might have talked about with your mother, if she had lived, but that you
find it hard to talk about with your uncle."

Mary nodded.

"He's fierce," she commented briefly.

"If he should begin to talk to you about some of the tender memories
that you have of