Kneeling down at the refrigerator, she fumbled for the lock. The door slid open silently. A small pail of milk stood behind the butter-plate, and Tessibel, clutching it in her fingers, rose up. As she did so, a light flashed into her face, and she looked up to find Dominie Graves towering over her, his brows caught together with anger.

"So Miss Skinner is the thief who takes our milk! The hymn-singing girl!... Ah, it is you!"

Tessibel dropped her eyes, still holding the can of milk.

"I air a-stealin' yer milk," she said presently, lifting her gaze. "Air ye goin' to--let me have it?"

"No, my lady, I am not going to let you have it," he mimicked. "But something else you are going to get."

The Dominie stepped to the kitchen door leading into the yard, and turned the key in the lock. He placed the lamp on the table, the squatter waiting with fear-laden eyes.

"For a long time," went on the Dominie, in slow, measured tones, "I have thought it would be a good thing to give you a sound whipping. The Bible says, 'Spare the rod, and spoil the child.' ... I am going to do something your father forgot to do, Miss Skinner."

The sneer in his voice and his slur on her father brought a bright flush of anger to Tessibel's face.