The Window Seat
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The cold winter wind drives the rain against the windowpane, but you are safe—for now. You have stolen away to the breakfast-room, hiding behind the scarlet drapery of the window seat. On your knees lies Bewick’s History of British Birds.
To your left, the glass protects you from the dreary November day. To your right, the red curtain separates you from your cruel cousins and your cold aunt, Mrs. Reed. You are happy in your own way, lost in pictures of solitary rocks and Arctic seas.
Suddenly, the door handle turns. It is John Reed.
"Boh! Madam Mope!" he cries, not seeing you yet. "Where the dickens is she?"
You tremble. If he finds you, he will hurt you. He always does.