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“And you always encourage Benny so in being lazy,” said Eliza.

Then the Reverend Silas joined in. “You should have more sense of responsibility toward your brother, your only brother, Annie,” he said, in his deep pulpit voice.

“It was after two o’clock when you went out,” said Imogen.

“And all you had to do was the dinner-dishes, and there were very few to-day,” said Jane.

Then Annie turned with a quick, cat-like motion. Her eyes blazed under her brown toss of hair. She gesticulated with her little, nervous hands. Her voice was as sweet and intense as a reed, and withal piercing with anger.

“It was not half past one when I went out,” said she, “and there was a whole sinkful of dishes.”

“It was after two. I looked at the clock,” said Imogen.

“It was not.”

“And there were very few dishes,” said Jane.

“A whole sinkful,” said Annie, tense with wrath.

“You always are rather late about starting,” said Susan.

“I am not! I was not! I washed the dishes, and swept the kitchen, and blacked the stove, and cleaned the silver.”

“I swept the kitchen,” said Imogen, severely. “Annie, I am surprised at you.”

“And you know I cleaned the silver yesterday,” said Jane.

Annie gave a gasp and looked from one to the other.

“You know you did not sweep the kitchen,” said Imogen.

Annie’s father gazed at her severely. “My dear,” he said, “how long must I try to correct you of this habit of making false statements?”

“Dear Annie does not realize that they are false statements, father,” said Jane. Jane was not pretty, but she gave the effect of a long, sweet stanza of some fine poetess. She was very tall and slender and large-eyed, and wore always a serious smile. She was attired in a purple muslin gown, cut V-shaped at the throat, and, as always, a black velvet ribbon with a little gold locket attached. The locket contained a coil of hair. Jane had been engaged to a young minister, now dead three years, and he had given her the locket.

Jane no doubt had mourned for her lover, but she had a covert pleasure in the romance of her situation. She was a year younger than Annie, and she had loved and lost, and so had achieved a sentimental distinction. Imogen always had admirers. Eliza had been courted at intervals half-heartedly by a widower, and Susan had had a few fleeting chances. But Jane was the only one who had been really definite in her heart affairs. As for Annie, nobody ever thought of her in such a connection. It was supposed that Annie had no thought of marriage, that she was foreordained to remain unwed and keep house for her father and Benny.

When Jane said that dear Annie did not realize that she made false statements, she voiced an opinion of the family before which Annie was always absolutely helpless. Defense meant counter-accusation. Annie could not accuse her family. She glanced from one to the other. In her blue eyes were still sparks of wrath, but she said nothing. She felt, as always, speechless, when affairs reached such a juncture. She began, in spite of her good sense, to feel guiltily responsible for everything — for the spoiling of the hay, even for the thunder-storm. What was more, she even wished to feel guiltily responsible. Anything was better than to be sure her sisters were not speaking the truth, that her father was blaming her unjustly.

Benny, who sat hunched upon himself with the effect of one set of bones and muscles leaning upon others for support, was the only one who spoke for her, and even he spoke to little purpose.

“One of you other girls,” said he, in a thick, sweet voice, “might have come out and helped Annie; then she could have got the hay in.”

They all turned on him.

“It is all very well for you to talk,” said Imogen. “I saw you myself quit raking hay and sit down on the piazza.”