"When that letter's written will be time enough for your assistance," she snapped.
Reba turned her back, went up to her room, and remained there all the morning, embroidering on a centerpiece, keeping her fingers busy with filling in the petals of a large rose with various shades of pink silk, concentrating her eyes and fingers on the six-inch white linen circle, bound tightly over embroidery hoops, while her thoughts ran far and wide, and her tumultuous feelings circled large areas. At noon her mind was made up. Only in defiance lay self-respect. She must prove now the stuff she was made of, or forever after hang her head before her grandfather's proud shaft of granite. It was while her cheeks were still hot with her resolve that Reba wrote to the Women's New England Alliance and told them she would take the room. She ran out and mailed the letter before dinner that noon.
After supper that same night, Aunt Augusta, who had been waiting all day for some sign of surrender from Reba, patience and curiosity tried to the point of exhaustion, inquired briefly, abruptly, "What about that letter?"
Reba had come into her mother's room for her work-bag which always hung on a certain door-knob there. She was on her way out, when her aunt's question hit her square in the chest.
"Why—why—what letter?" she stammered, trying to prepare herself for the conflict.
"You know well enough."
Reba fumbled with a ribbon-bow on her work-bag, eyes upon it, and backed up against the door-casing for support.
