when she had to wait at the level crossing while a train went by, she rested the parcel on the top of the gate. 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 further.
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! Never, never, never!"
