human
And then one day when I came home from a missionary meeting where I had read a paper telling how cruelly young girls were treated by their parents in India, and how there was no joy and love and beauty in their lives, I-- Ann hid her face and it was a drawn, grayish face she raised after a minute--
gpt
Tono was not there. I called and called him. My father was writing a sermon. He let me go on calling. I could not understand it. Tono always came running down the walk, wagging his tail and giving his little barks of joy when I came. It had made coming home seem different from what it had ever seemed before. But that day he was not there watching for me. My father let me go on calling for a long time. At last he came to the door and said--'Please stop that unseemly noise. The dog has been sent away.' 'Sent _away_?' I whispered. 'What do you mean?' 'I mean that I have seen fit to dispose of him,' he answered. I was trembling all over. 'What right had you to dispose of him?' I wanted to know. 'He wasn't your dog--' The answer was that I was to go up to my room and learn Bible verses until the Lord chastened my spirit. Then I said things. I would _not_ learn Bible verses. I _would_ have my dog. It ended --Ann was trembling uncontrollably--
human
I wouldn't, Ann dear--it isn't worth while. It's all over now. Wouldn't it be better to forget?