He was coming
straight up to the oratory. In another minute he threw open the door;
he had a little cluster of buttercups in his hand, and was so intent
upon putting them in the vase that he was half-way across the room
before he noticed the broken pieces on the floor. When he did so, he
stopped and glared at his sister.
"O Larry," she stammered, contritely, "it was an accident! See!
Marion Gaines gave me those lovely May-flowers, and I thought you'd be
pleased to have them in your vase. Just as I went to put it back, it
fell over. I'm awfully sorry!"
Larry's eyes flashed angrily, and his face grew crimson.
"Abby Clayton," he broke out, "you are always meddling! Why can't you
let things that don't belong to you alone?"'
A storm of reproaches would no doubt have followed, but just then his
angry glance turned toward the statue. There stood the image of Our
Lady, so meek and beautiful and mild. And there, in a tiny frame at
the front of the altar, hung father Dominic's words of advice: "Try
every day to do some little thing to honor our Blessed Mother."
Larry paused suddenly; for his indignation almost choked him.
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