the friends I have, and that like me!"

"Na, na; na, na," he said, very earnestly. "I like you fine; we'll agree
fine yet; and for the honour of the house I couldna let you leave the
way ye came. Bide here quiet, there's a good lad; just you bide here
quiet a bittie, and ye'll find that we agree."

"Well, sir," said I, after I had thought the matter out in silence,
"I'll stay a while. It's more just I should be helped by my own blood
than strangers; and if we don't agree, I'll do my best it shall be
through no fault of mine."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Moistens.

[2] Dark as the pit.

[3] Sold up.

CHAPTER IV

I RUN A GREAT DANGER IN THE HOUSE OF SHAWS

For a day that was begun so ill, the day passed fairly well. We had the
porridge cold again at noon, and hot porridge at night; porridge and
small beer was my uncle's diet. He spoke but little, and that in the
same way as before, shooting a question at me after a long silence; and,
when I sought to lead him in talk about my future, slipped out of it
again. In a room next door to the kitchen, where he suffered me to go, I
found a great number of books, both Latin and English, in which I took
great pleasure all the afternoon. Indeed the time passed so lightly in
this good company, that I began to be almost reconciled to my residence
at Shaws; and nothing but the sight of my uncle, and his eyes playing
hide and seek with mine, revived the force of my distrust.

One thing I discovered, which put me in some doubt. This was an entry on
the fly-leaf of a chap-book (one of Patrick Walker's) plainly written by
my father's hand and thus conceived: "To my brother Ebenezer on his
fifth birthday." Now, what puzzled me was this: That as my father was of
course the younger brother, he must either have made some strange error,
or he must have written, before he was yet five, an excellent, clear,
manly hand of writing.

I tried to get this out of my head; but though I took down many
interesting authors, old and new, history, poetry, and story-book, this
notion of my father's hand of writing stuck to me; and when at length I
went back into the kitchen, and sat down once more to porridge and small
beer, the first thing I said to uncle Ebenezer was to ask him if my
father had not been very quick at his book.

"Alexander? No' him!" was the reply. "I was far quicker mysel'; I was a
clever chappie when I was young. Why, I could read as soon as he could."

This puzzled m