With a grin Webb mounted the platform and opened the door of the
closet. He opened it quite widely, that Dolly might look into the
receptacle from where she stood. And there against the wall, seated on
the floor, was Dolly's sister Ann, a slim-legged, rather pretty girl
about fourteen years of age, her eyes sullenly cast down. Around her
were some dismantled, ill-smelling lamps, a step-ladder, an old stove,
and a bench holding a stack of hymn-books.

"She ain't _quite_ dead," John said, dryly. "She's still breathin'
below the neck, an' she's got some red in the face."

"She ought to be red from head to foot," Dolly said, for the culprit's
ears. "Ann, come here!"

There was no movement on the part of the prisoner save a desultory
picking of the fingers at a fold of her gingham skirt.

"Didn't you hear what Dolly--what your teacher said?" Webb asked, in
an effort at severity which was far from his mood.

"Of course she heard," Dolly said, sharply. "She thinks it will mend
matters for her to pout awhile. Come here, Ann."

"I want to stay here," Ann muttered; "I like it. Shut the door, Uncle
John. It is cool and nice in here."

"She wants to stay." Webb's eyes danced as he conveyed the message.
"She says she likes it, an' I reckon she does. Scripture says them
whose deeds is evil likes darkness better'n light. You certainly made
a mistake when you clapped 'er in here--that is, if you meant to