Tillie never heard it. At half-past two o'clock in the morning,
when the tallow candle was beginning to sputter to its end, she
still was reading, her eyes bright as stars, her usually pale face
flushed with excitement, her sensitive lips parted in breathless
interest--when, suddenly, a stinging blow of "the strap" on her
shoulders brought from her a cry of pain and fright.

"What you mean, doin' somepin like, this yet!" sternly demanded
her father. "What fur book's that there?"

He took the book from her hands and Tillie cowered beneath the
covers, the wish flashing through her mind that the book could
change into a Bible as he looked at it!--which miracle would
surely temper the punishment that in a moment she knew would be
meted out to her.

"'Iwanhoe'--a novel! A NOVEL!" he said in genuine horror. "Tillie,
where d'you get this here!"

Tillie knew that if she told lies she would go to hell, but she
preferred to burn in torment forever rather than betray Miss
Margaret; for her father, like Absalom's, was a school director,
and if he knew Miss Margaret read novels and lent them to the
children, he would surely force her out of "William Penn."

"I lent it off of Elviny Dinkleberger!" she sobbed.

"You know I tole you a'ready you darsen't bring books home! And
you know I don't uphold to novel-readin'! I 'll have to learn you
to mind better 'n this! "Where d' you get that there candle?"