to disobey her mother," she announced with chastened triumph.
"Penance?" we murmured in bewilderment.
"Yes. I'm going to deny myself everything I like, and do everything I can think of that I don't like, just to punish myself for being so wicked. And if any of you think of anything I don't, just mention it to me. I thought it out last night. Maybe Sara won't be so very sick if God sees I'm truly sorry."
"He can see it anyhow, without you're doing anything," said Cecily.
"Well, my conscience will feel better."
"I don't believe Presbyterians ever do penance," said Felicity dubiously. "I never heard of one doing it."
But the rest of us rather looked with favour on the Story Girl's idea. We felt sure that she would do penance as picturesquely and thoroughly as she did everything else.
"You might put peas in your shoes, you know," suggested Peter.
"The very thing! I never thought of that. I'll get some after breakfast. I'm not going to eat a single thing all day, except bread and water—and not much of that!"
This, we felt, was a heroic measure indeed. To sit down to one of Aunt Janet's meals, in ordinary health and appetite, and eat nothing but bread and water—that would be penance with a vengeance! We felt we could never do it. But the Story Girl
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