angry helplessness, was emptying the coffee-pot into her mother's
nice sink. Maria stood trembling at his elbow. "I don't believe
that's where mother empties it," she ventured.

"It has got to be emptied somewhere," said her father, and his tone
sounded as if he swore. Maria shrank back. "They've got to have some
coffee, anyhow."

Maria's father carried the coffee-pot over to the stove, in which a
freshly kindled fire was burning, and set it on it, in the hottest
place. Maria stealthily moved it back while he was searching for the
coffee in the pantry. She did not know much, but she did know that an
empty coffee-pot on such a hot place would come to ruin.

Her father emerged from the pantry with a tin-canister in his hand.
"I've sent a telegram to our aunt Maria for her to come right on,"
said he, "but she can't get here before afternoon. I don't suppose
you know how much coffee your mother puts in. I don't suppose you
know about anything."

Maria realized dimly that she was a scape-goat, but there was such
terrible suffering in her father's face that she had no impulse to
rebel. She smelled of the canister which her father held out towards
her with a nervously trembling hand. "Why, father, this is tea; it
isn't coffee," said she.

"Well, if you don't know anything that a big girl like you ought to
know, I should think you might know enough not to try to make coffee
with tea," said her father.