"You wrote on your own hook? You actually sat down, without a word to me, or to your mother, or to your father, and asked about single rooms off there in Boston—about single rooms for yourself, to occupy alone,—is that what you did?"
"Well, I"
Aunt Augusta jerked down her glasses. "Have you lost your mind, Rebecca Jerome?" she demanded.
Reba made no reply. She just sat there with stooped shoulders, as if she had been caught in a sudden hailstorm miles away from shelter, and attempted no defense.
"You didn't ask permission because you knew you wouldn't get it," went on Aunt Augusta, "and that's next door to disobedience—that's what it is, and what's more, it's deceitful—sly and deceitful—and you a member of the church! I don't know what came over you. Pass that letter here." Reba obeyed. "There! There!" Aunt Augusta exclaimed, as she ripped the thin page twice in two, "I'll settle that. You write those people that you won't need that room, after all. Understand? And you write 'em to-night, and bring me the answer before you go to bed. You must be crazy, thinking you can go gallivanting off to Boston without a chaperon. Stark crazy!"
Reba's father had stepped noiselessly out of the room. Her mother's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright, as usual whenever a little excitement made her forget herself. Aunt Emma, too, had an alert and interested expression. Reba took in all these details as she raised her eyes an instant in one tremulous glance. No one to defend her! She pushed back her chair and rose. She couldn't help with the dishes
