And idly she looked at the printing on the paper that the parcel was
wrapped in.
Suddenly she clutched the parcel tighter and bent her head over it.
It seemed like some horrible dream. She read on--the bottom of the
column was torn off--she could read no farther.
She never remembered how she got home. But she went on tiptoe to
her room and locked the door. Then she undid the parcel and read
that printed column again, sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands
and feet icy cold and her face burning. When she had read all there
was, she drew a long, uneven breath.
"So now I know," she said.
What she had read was headed, 'End of the Trial. Verdict.
Sentence.'
The name of the man who had been tried was the name of her Father.
The verdict was 'Guilty.' And the sentence was 'Five years' Penal
Servitude.'
"Oh, Daddy," she whispered, crushing the paper hard, "it's not true-
-I don't believe it. You never did it! Never, never, never!"
There was a hammering on the door.
"What is it?" said Bobbie.
"It's me," said the voice of Phyllis; "tea's ready, and a boy's
brought Peter a guinea-pig. Come along down."
And Bobbie had to.
Chapter XI.
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