When Una got home Faith was lying face downwards on her bed, utterly refusing to be comforted. Aunt Martha had killed Adam. He was reposing on a platter in the pantry that very minute, trussed and dressed, encircled by his liver and heart and gizzard. Aunt Martha heeded Faith’s passion of grief and anger not a whit.
“We had to have something for the strange minister’s dinner,” she said. “You’re too big a girl to make such a fuss over an old rooster. You knew he’d have to be killed sometime.”
“I’ll tell father when he comes home what you’ve done,” sobbed Faith.