Blythe if it isn't."

Faith felt she would rather submit then ask Jem Blythe about such
a matter. She was beginning to realize that her offence was a
quite shameful one.

"I'll do it, then," she muttered, a little sulkily.

"You're getting off easy," said, Jerry severely. "And no matter
how we punish you it won't help father. People will always think
you just did it for mischief, and they'll blame father for not
stopping it. We can never explain it to everybody."

This aspect of the case weighed on Faith's mind. Her own
condemnation she could bear, but it tortured her that her father
should be blamed. If people knew the true facts of the case they
would not blame him. But how could she make them known to all
the world? Getting up in church, as she had once done, and
explaining the matter was out of the question. Faith had heard
from Mary Vance how the congregation had looked upon that
performance and realized that she must not repeat it. Faith
worried over the problem for half a week. Then she had an
inspiration and promptly acted upon it. She spent that evening
in the garret, with a lamp and an exercise book, writing busily,
with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. It was the very thing!
How clever she was to have thought of it! It would put
everything right and explain everything and yet cause no scandal.
It was eleven o'clock when she had finished to her satisfaction
and crept down to bed, dreadfully tired, but perfectly happy.