a child!" he snapped. "Put the stopper in the bottle. 'Tis
time you was in bed."

'Twas an unexpected rebuke. I was made angry with him, for the only
time in all my life; and to revenge myself I held the bottle to the
lamp, and deliberately measured its contents, before his astonished
eyes, so that, though I left it with him, he could not drink another
drop without my knowing it; and I stoppered the bottle, as tight as I
was able, and left him to get his wooden toe from the stool with the
least agony he could manage, and would not bank the fire or light his
night-lamp. I loved my tutor, and would not have him corrupted; 'twas
a hateful thought to conceive that he might come unwittingly to ruin
at our hands. 'Twas a shame in my old uncle, thinks I, to fetch him to
despair. John Cather's soul bargained for and bought! 'Twas indeed a
shame to say it. There was no evil in him when he came clear-eyed from
the great world beyond us; there should be no evil in him when he left
us, whenever that might be, to renew the life he would not tell us
of. I looked my uncle in the eye in a way that hurt and puzzled him. I
wish I had not; but I did, as I pounded the cork home, and boldly
slipped the screw into my pocket. He would go on short allowance, that
night, thinks I: for his nails, broken by toil, would never pick the
stopper out. And I prepared, in a rage, to fling out of the room,
when--

"Dannie!" he called.

I halted.

"What's this?" says he, gently. "It never happened afore, little
shipmate, betwixt you an' me. What's this?" he begged. "I'm
troubled."

I pulled the cork of his bottle, and poured a dram, most liberally, to
delight his heart; and I must turn my face away, somehow, to hide it
from him, because of shame for this mean doubt of him, ungenerous and
ill-begotten.

"I'm troubled," he repeated. "What's this, lad?"

I could not answer him.

"Is I been unkind, Dannie?"

"No," I sobbed. "'Tis that I've been wicked t' _you_!"

He looked at me with eyes grown very grave. "Ah!" says he, presently,
comprehending. "That's good," says he, in his slow, gentle way.
"That's very good. But ye'll fret no more, will ye, Dannie? An' ye've
growed too old t' cry. Go t' bed, lad. Ye're all wore out. I'll manage
the lamp alone. God bless ye. Go t' bed."

I waited.

"That's good," he repeated, in a muse, staring deep into the red coals
in the grate. "That's very good."

I ran away--closed my door upon this wretched behav