showed no displeasure. The fact was, she had forgotten the affair
of the night before; it was the children's obvious alarm which
reminded her that the business of scolding and punishing must be
attended to. She got up from the table and stood behind them,
with her back to the fire; she began to nibble the upper joint of
her forefinger, wondering just how to begin. This silent
inspection of their shoulders made the little creatures quiver.
Nannie crumbled her bread into a heap, and Blair carried an empty
spoon to his mouth with automatic regularity; Harris, in the
pantry, in a paroxysm of sympathy, stretched his lean neck to the
crack of the half-open door.

"Children!"

"Yes, ma'am," Nannie quavered.

"Turn round."

They turned. Nannie began to cry. Blair twisted a button on his
coat with a grip that made his fingers white.

"Come into my room."

The children gasped with dismay. Mrs. Maitland's bedroom was a
nightmare of a place to them both. It was generally dark, for the
lower halves of the inside shutters were apt to be closed; but,
worse than that, the glimmering glass doors of the bookcases that
lined the walls held a suggestion of mystery that was curiously
terrifying. Whenever they entered the room, the brother and
sister always kept a frightened eye on those doors. This dull