Papa woke up, frightened out of his wits, and picked up Florrie. Minelda, in the crib, started to bawl, too. Florrie woke up at Papa’s voice and burst into hysterics, telling the whole story about her crochet hook and the string. Papa was very quiet and asked his wife what this was all about.

“Of course, I put it away,” She said stoutly. “Florrie’s fidgety enough as it is without giving her more things to fidget with. Next she’ll have St. Vitus’ dance.”

Papa carried Florrie back to her bed, where she sobbed, trembling for hours. Lena and Marcia were afraid they would catch it on Florrie’s account but they heard Papa arguing in the next room for a long time, and in the morning their stepmother’s eyes were as red-rimmed as Florrie’s, and she was more subdued than they had ever seen her. The next day, however, Marcia could not find her notebooks or dictionary and her stepmother found her looking for them all over the barn.

“If you’re looking for that trash of yours, I just burned it,” She said shrilly. “I’m not going to look after a loony child in this family.”

Marcia’s chest filled with murderous fury. She felt faint with the desire to kill Her. She looked around to see if Grandpa and Lena had heard her precious things called “trash” and burned, but they pretended not to hear. That was the trouble with everybody in the same boat; they wouldn’t lift a finger to help you because they were afraid of catching it themselves.

“That was a twenty-five-cent notebook,” Marcia said icily. “My father gave it to me.”

“It’ll be a long time before your father gives you another twenty-five cents to waste on such junk, when you’re needing schoolbooks,” She said, her eyes glittering. She started to go indoors, but decided to round off the discipline.

“Mr. Willard, you don’t need to sit out front gabbing with those girls so everybody can hear you a block away. Anybody eating us out of house and home ought to make themselves useful.”

“You can’t talk that way to Grandpa,” Marcia shouted, shaking her fist.

“Hush,” said Grandpa quietly. He didn’t look at Her as She locked the screen door to prevent them coming indoors without permission, but scratched his head thoughtfully. Then he stumped down the front walk, holding himself very straight, the way a drummer boy should. Marcia and Lena did not look at each other. Marcia shut her lips tightly together. Make yourself numb, she said to herself, draw deep breaths. Pretend you’re dead. If you’re dead it doesn’t matter about notebooks or dictionaries or crochet hooks or Grandpa. Nobody can hurt a dead person.

It was some satisfaction to have Papa worried about Grandpa not showing up for supper, and Her sullen uneasiness. She chewed her fingernails every time Papa went down the cellar to look for Grandpa, and gave a gasp of relief when the familiar step was heard on the front walk, finally.