Then she caught up her cloak and hood, and rushed
down the stairs. Lucy ran to open the yard gate for her, and thrust
the apple into her hand as she passed.
Flurried and short of breath, she reached home just as Mrs. Conwell
rang the door-bell. She did not hasten as usual to greet her mother;
but, hurrying to her own little room, shut herself in, and sat down on
the bed to recover from her confusion.
It happened that the cook claimed Mrs. Conwell's attention in regard to
some domestic matter, and thus she did not at once inquire for her
little daughter, supposing that the child was contentedly occupied.
Annie, therefore, had some time in which to collect her thoughts. As
her excitement gradually died away, she found that, instead of feeling
the satisfaction she expected in having spent the afternoon as she
pleased and yet escaped discovery, she was restless and unhappy. Upon
her neat dressing-table lay the apple which Lucy had given her. It was
ripe and rosy, but she felt that a bite of it would choke her. Above
the head of the bed hung a picture of the Madonna with the Divine
Child.
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