When Friday came she didn’t go to Miss Waters’. She had not intended to
tell Miss Amy she wasn’t going, but to her dismay Miss Amy suddenly
returned at noon, and found her playing on the piano, one of the babyish
pieces of her small repertory, taught her by Miss Julie: “The Brownies’
Ball.” Small consolation in that sprightly little tune for a suffering
heart, but it was all the music she could make, and she needed music.
“What are you doing at home?” asked Miss Amy. “Isn’t it your day for
going to Miss Waters’?”
“I don’t feel well,” said Rosaleen. “I have a headache.”
“Then you’d better lie down, instead of sitting drumming on the piano.”
“I feel better when I’m sitting up, Miss Amy.”
“I dare say you’re bilious. Put on your things and go take a good brisk
walk.”
“I don’t feel a bit like taking a walk!” Rosaleen protested, but in
vain.
“All the more reason for going!” said Miss Amy. “That sluggishness is a
symptom. Run along now!”
She stood by grimly while the miserable and reluctant girl got ready and
went out. Then she went into the kitchen for a glass of water, and she
saw hanging up on a rack one of her blouses, beautifully laundered that
morning by the child who said she had a headache. It hung before her,
soft, lustrous, every little gather in place, the collar so crisp and
smooth, the embroidery standing out in fine relief. It looked like....
Did it look like a reproach?