use or eat herself, and thinks it ought to go as part of the
salary her husband signed to pay, but never does.

I just couldn't bear to wear those hateful stockings. They were
so ugly and rough and felt so scratchy. Everybody would have
made fun of me. I thought at first I'd pretend to be sick and
not go to church next day, but I decided I couldn't do that,
because it would be acting a lie, and father told us after mother
died that was something we must never, never do. It is just as
bad to act a lie as to tell one, though I know some people, right
here in the Glen, who act them, and never seem to feel a bit bad
about it. I will not mention any names, but I know who they are
and so does father.

Then I tried my best to catch cold and really be sick by standing
on the snowbank in the Methodist graveyard with my bare feet
until Jerry pulled me off. But it didn't hurt me a bit and so I
couldn't get out of going to church. So I just decided I would
put my boots on and go that way. I can't see why it was so wrong
and I was so careful to wash my legs just as clean as my face,
but, anyway, father wasn't to blame for it. He was in the study
thinking of his sermon and other heavenly things, and I kept out
of his way before I went to Sunday School. Father does not look
at people's legs in church, so of course he did not notice mine,
but all the gossips did and talked about it, and that is why I am
writing this letter to the _Journal_ to explain. I suppose I did
very wrong, since everybody says so, and I am sorry and I am
wearing those awful stockings to punish myself, although father
bought me two nice new black pairs as soon as Mr. Flagg's store
opened on Monday morning. But it was all my fault, and if people