ush of anxious bewilderment. "Why,
Dannie," cries he, "it cannot be! Lost? Some poor wee lads lost? _You_
lost, Dannie? My God! _You_, Dannie--you that lies there tender an'
kind an' clean o' soul in your little bed? You that said the little
prayer t' the tender Shepherd? _You_ lost! God! it _could_ not be.
What's this you're tellin' me? I'm not able t' blaspheme the Lord God
A'mighty in a way that's vile as that. Not you, lad--not you! Am I t'
curse the God that would have it so?" cries he, in wrath. "Am I t'
touch your young body here in the solemn night, am I t' look into your
unspoiled eyes by day, an' feel that you fare into the dark alone, a
child, an' without hope? _Me_ think that? Ol' Nick Top? Not I! Sin?
Ay; _you'll_ sin. God knows so well as I you'll sin. He made you, lad,
an' knows full well. You'll be sore hurt, child. For all he learns o'
righteousness, Dannie, a man suffers; an' for all he learns o' sin he
pays in kind: 'tis all the same--he learns o' good an' evil an' pays
in the same coin o' sorrow. I'm not wishin' you sorrow: I'm wishin'
you manhood. You'll wander, like all lads, as God knows, who made un
an' the world they walks in; but the Shepherd will surely follow an'
fetch home all them that stray away upon hurtful roads accordin' t'
the will He works upon the sons o' men. They's no bog o' sin in all
the world He knows not of. He'll seek the poor lads out, in patience
an' love; an' He'll cure all the wounds the world has dealt un in dark
places, however old an' bleared an' foul they've growed t' be, an'
He'll make un clean again, rememberin' they was little lads,
once--jus' like you. _Why, by God! Dannie,_" cried he, "_I'd do as
much meself!_"

"Ay," quoth I; "but the parsons says they're lost for good an' all."

"Does they?" he asked, his eyes blank.

"Deed so--an' often!"

"Ah, well, Dannie!" said he, "bein' cut off from the discussion o'
parsons by misdeeds, I'm not able t' say. But bein' on'y a lost soul
I'm 'lowed t' think; an' I've thunk a idea."

I wondered concerning it.

"Which is, speakin' free an' easy," said he, "that they lie!"

"'Twill be hard," I argued, "'t save un all."

"'Twould be a mean poor God," he replied, "that couldn't manage a
little thing like that."

My uncle's soul, as I had been taught (and but a moment gone
informed), was damned.

"Uncle Nick," I inquired, "will the Shepherd find you?"

"Me?" cries he.

"Ay," I persisted; "will he not seek till he fi