harply.

"What is the meaning of this nonsense, Molly? You are forever getting up
some new sensation. There is such a thing as having too much
'make-believe.' I would rather have a little sensible truth now and
then."

"But, father, really and truly--" chokingly, for his words were as drawn
swords to my loving heart.

He pushed my hand away from his arm.

"When you look and behave less like a crazy child, I will hear what you
have to say. Where did you get those things?"

I wished that the ground would open and swallow me away from his cold,
contemptuous eye. I had forgotten my ridiculous costume entirely. The
shame and humiliation of having exposed myself to his just criticism,
the added disgrace of the grinning gardener's enjoyment of the figure I
had cut--the absurd coal-scuttle of a bonnet hanging down my back, the
black silk apron streaming behind me like a half-inflated
balloon--overwhelmed me with speechless confusion. I hung my head in an
agony.

"Where did you get them, I say?" repeated my father.

"Up in the lumber-room," I stammered, faintly and sheepishly.

"Go, put them back where you found them! Then, come to me. As I was
saying, James--"

He went on with his directions to the gardener.

I slunk away, forgetful of everything except my personal discomfiture,
dodging from one clump of shrubbery to another, lest I should be seen
from the windows of the house, going almost on all-fours in exposed
stretches of walk or garden-beds, and so making my retreat to the side
door of the north wing. I had stripped off the hateful masquerade
habiliments and rolled them into a compact bundle, but anybody who met
me would ask what I was carrying under my arm, and I could bear no more
that day. Unable to contain myself a minute longer, I sank down in the
solitude of the steep staircase leading to the lumber-room, and had my
cry--if not out--so nearly to the end that I felt adequate to making my
judge see reason,--if only he would not look at me as if he were ashamed
of his daughter! Was it very wrong to take those things on the sly?
Would I be punished for it? Had he told my mother yet? And did Mary
'Liza know about it? I could never, never tell her that I had worn the
_nasty_ bonnet and cloak as mourning to Musidora's funeral. I would be
whipped first.

Crying again in anticipation of the dilemma, I trudged slowly up the
steps, and pushed back the door, which stuck fast again although I did
not recollect shu