"Ida, what IS the matter with you?" drawled her mother, looking
through the open door-way of her adjacent room. "You act as if
you were demented."
"Why did you make me what I am?" she exclaimed, turning upon her
mother in a sudden passion.
"Good gracious! what are you?" ejaculated that matter-of-fact lady.
"I'm as good as you are--as good as our set averages, I suppose,"
she answered in a weary, careless tone. "Good night;" and she
closed and locked her door.
"Oh, pshaw!" said Mrs. Mayhew, petulantly; "those hymns have made
her out of sorts with herself and everything. They used to stir
me up in the same way. Why can't people learn to perform their
religious duties properly and then let the matter rest;" and with
a yawn she retired at peace with herself and all the world.
Ida threw herself on a lounge and looked straight before her with
that fixed, vacant stare which indicates that nothing is seen save
by the eye of the mind.
"Father's drunk to-night," she moaned; "I know it as surely as if
I saw him. I also know that I'm in part to blame for it. Could
outward beauty mask a blacker heart than mine? It does not mask
it from him who sang those words," and she buried her face in her
hands and sobbed, until, exhausted and disheartened, she sough such
poor rest and respite as a few hours of troubled sleep could bring.
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