"Two mugfuls!" groaned Mr. Parlin, distressed at what he considered a wilful lie; and the blows fell heavier and faster, while Willy's face whitened, and his teeth shut together hard. Mr. Parlin had never acted from purer motives; still Willy felt that the punishment was not just, and it only served to call up what the boys termed his "Indian sulks."

Angry and smarting with pain in mind and body, he walked off that afternoon to the old red store. Fred was sitting under a tree, chewing gum.

"Had to take it, I guess, Billy?"

"Yes, an awful whipping," replied Willy; "did you?"

"Me? Of course not. Do you know how I work it? When father takes down the cowhide, I look him right in the eye, and that scares him out of it. He darsn't flog me!"

This was a downright lie. Fred was as great a coward as ever lived, and screamed at sight of a cowhide. He had been whipped for cheating about the cider, but would not tell Willy so.

Willy looked at him with surprise and something like respect. He could never seem to learn that Freddy's word was not to be trusted.

"Well, I'll do so next time," cried he, his eyes flashing fire.

"Look here," said Fred, crossing his knees, and looking important; "let's run away."

"Why, Fred Chase! 'Twould be wicked!"

"'Twouldn't, either. Things ain't wicked when folks don't catch you at it; and we can go where folks won't catch us, now I promise you."

Willy's heart leaped up with a strange joy. He would not run away, but if Fred had a plan he wanted to hear it.

"Why, where could we go?"

"To sea."

"Poh! our Caleb got flogged going to sea."

"O, well, Captain Cutter never flogs. He's a nice man,—lives down to Casco Bay. And of all the oranges that ever you saw, and the guava jelly, and the pine-apples! he's always sending them to mother."

"I never ate a pine-apple."

"Didn't you? Well, come, let's go; Captain Cutter will be real glad to see us; come, to-night; he'll treat us first rate."

"'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.'"

It seemed as if Willy could hear his mother saying the words.

"You and I are the best kind of friends, Willy. We'd have a real nice time, and come home when we got ready."

Willy did not respond to this. He did not care very much about Fred,—nobody did,—and if he should be persuaded to go with him, it would not be from friendship, most certainly.

"I wouldn't go off and leave mother; 'twould be real mean: but sometimes I don't like father one bit,—now, that's a fact," burst forth Willy, with a heaving breast. "I told him I didn't like your cider, and didn't take but two mugfuls; but he didn't believe a word I said."

"You're a fool to stand it, Billy."

"I won't stand it again—so there!"

"There, that's real Injun grit," said Fred, approvingly; "stick to it."

"Father thinks children are foolish; he hates to hear 'em talk," pursued Willy; "and then, when you don't talk, he says you're sulky."

"Well, if you go off he won't get a chance to say it again."

"O, but you see, Fred—"

"Pshaw! you darsn't!"

"Now, you're not the one to call me a coward, Fred Chase."

"Well, if you dars, then come on."

Willy did not answer. He was deliberating; and I wish you to understand that in a case like this "the child that deliberates is lost."

Without listening to any more of the boys' conversation, we will go right on to the next chapter, and see what comes of it.



CHAPTER X.

GOING TO SEA.

Seven o'clock was the time appointed to meet, and Willy watched the tall clock in the front entry with a dreadful sinking at the heart. His mother was not at the supper-table and he was glad of that. Ever since muster she had staid in her room, suffering from a bad toothache. As her face was tied up, and she could not talk, Willy was not quite sure how she felt.

"How can I tell whether she has been crying or not? Her eyes are swelled, any way. Perhaps she doesn't care much. She used to love me, but she thinks I act so bad now that it's no use doing anything with me. I can't make her understand it at all."

It was a pity he thought of his mother just then, for it was hard enough, before that, swallowing his biscuit.

"She said to me, out in the orchard, one day,—says she, 'Willy, if a boy wants to do wrong, he'll find some way to do it;' and I s'pose she was thinking about me when she said it. S'pose she thinks I'm going to be bad—mother does. Well, then, I ought to go off out of the way; she doesn't want me here; what does she want of a bad boy? She'll be glad to get rid of me; so'll Love."

You see what a hopeless tangle Willy's mind was in. What ailed his biscuit he could not imagine, but it tasted as dry as ashes.

"Why, sonny," said Stephen, "what are you staring at your plate so for? That's honey. Ever see any before?"

"This is the last chance Steve will have to pester me," thought the child; and he almost pitied him.

"Guess he'll feel sorry he's been so hard on a little fellow like me."

As for grown-up Seth, it was certain that his conscience would prick, and on the whole Willy was rather glad of it, for Seth had no right to correct him so much. "Only eighteen, and not my father either!"

Willy did not think much about himself, and how he would be likely to feel after he had left this dear old home—the home where every knot-hole in the floor was precious. It would not do to brood over that; and besides, there was sullen anger enough in his heart to crowd out every other feeling.

There were circles in the wood of the shed-door which he had made with a two-tined fork; and after supper he made some more, while waiting for a chance to pocket a plate of doughnuts. Of course it wasn't wrong to take doughnuts, when it was the last morsel he should ever eat from his mother's cupboard. He had the whole of eighteen cents in his leathern wallet; but that sum might fail before winter, and it was best to take a little food for economy's sake.

At quarter of seven he put on his cap, and was leaving the house, when his father said, severely,—

"Where are you going, young man?"

Mr. Parlin did not mean to be severe, but he usually called Willy a "young man" when he was displeased with him.

"Going to the post-office, sir, just as I always do."

Willy spoke respectfully,—he had never done otherwise to his father,—and Mr. Parlin little suspected the tempest that was raging in the child's bosom.

"Very well; go! but don't be gone long."

"'Long?' Don't know what he calls long," thought the little boy. "P'raps I'll be gone two years; p'raps I'll be gone ten. Calls me a 'young man' after he has whipped me. Guess I will be a young man before I get back! Guess there won't be any more horsewhippings then!"

And, dizzy with anger, he walked fast to the post office, without turning his head.

Fred was there, anxiously waiting for him. The two boys greeted each other with a meaning look, and soon began to move slowly along towards the guide-board at the turn of the road.

To the people who happened to be looking that way, it seemed natural enough that Willy and Fred should be walking together. If anybody thought twice about the matter, it was Dr. Hilton; and I dare say he supposed they were swapping jack-knives.

As soon as they were fairly out of sight of the village, Fred said, sneeringly,—

"Well, I've been waiting most half an hour—I suppose you know. Began to think you'd sneaked out of it, Bill."

There is an insult in the word 'sneak' that no boy of spirit can bear, and Willy was in no mood to be insulted.

"Fred Chase," said he, bristling, "I'll give you one minute to take that back."

"O, I didn't mean anything, Billy; only you was so awful slow, you know."

"Slow, Fred Chase! You needn't call me slow! Bet you I can turn round three times while you're putting out one foot."

It is plain enough, from the tone of this conversation, that the boys had not started out with that friendly feeling, which two travellers ought to have for each other, who are intending to take a long journey in company. Fred saw it would not do for Willy to be so cross in the very beginning. He had had hard work to get the boy's consent to go, and now, for fear he might turn back, he suddenly became very pleasant.

"Look here, Billy; you can beat me running; I own up to that; but we've got to keep together, you know. Don't you get ahead of me—now will you?"

"I'll try not to," replied Willy, somewhat softened; "but you do get out of breath as easy as a chicken."

"Most time to begin to run?" said Fred, after they had trudged on for some time at a moderate pace.

"No; there's a man coming this way," replied the sharper-eyed Willy.

"O, yes; I see him now. Who suppose it is?"

"Why, Dr. Potter, of course. Don't you know him by his shappo brar?"

The chapeau bras was a three-cornered hat, the like of which you and I have never seen, except in very old pictures.

As Dr. Potter met the boys, he shook his ivory-headed cane, and said, playfully, "Good evening, my little men."

"Good evening, sir."

But it was certainly a bad evening inside their hearts, sulky and dark.

"What if Dr. Potter should tell where he met us?" exclaimed Fred. "Lucky 'twasn't Dr. Hilton.—There, he's out of the way; now let's run."

They were on the road to Cross Lots, a town about five miles from Perseverance. They had not as yet marked out their course very clearly, but thought after they should reach Cross Lots it would be time enough to decide what to do next.

They ran with all their might, but did not make the speed they desired, for they jumped behind the fences whenever they heard a wagon coming, and were obliged to stop often, besides, for Freddy to take breath. By the time they reached Cross Lots—a thriving little town with a saw-mill—it was pretty late; and if it had not been for the bright light of the moon and stars, they might have been a little disheartened.

They took a seat on a stump near the saw-mill, and prepared to talk over the situation. A lonesome feeling had suddenly come upon them, which caused them to gaze wistfully upon the "happy autumn fields" and the far-off sky.

"Stars look kind o' shiny—don't they?" said Fred, heaving a sigh.

Willy forced a gay tone.

"What s'pose makes 'em keep up such a winking? Like rows of pins, you know,—gold pins; much as a million of 'em, and somebody sticking 'em into a great blue cushion up there, and keeps a-sticking 'em in, but out they come again."

"I never heard of such a silly idea in my life," sneered Fred. "Pins!—H'm!"

"Why, can't you tell when a fellow's in fun, Fred Chase? Thought I meant real pins—did you? The stars are worlds, and I guess I know it as well as you do."

"Worlds? A likely story, Bill Parlin! Mother has said so lots of times, but you don't stuff such a story down my throat."

"Don't believe your mother!" exclaimed Willy, astonished. "Why, I always believe my mother. She never made a mistake in her life."

Fred laughed.

"She don't know any more'n anybody else, you ninny! only you think so because she makes such a baby of you."

Willy reddened with sudden shame, but retorted sharply,—

"Stop that! You shan't say a word against my mother."

"But you let me talk about your father, though. What's the difference?"

"Lots. You may talk about father as much as you've a mind to," said Willy, scowling; "for he no business to whip me so. He thinks boys are pretty near fools."

"That's just what my father thinks," returned Fred.

Whereupon the two boys were friends again, having got back to their one point of agreement.

"If I had a boy I wouldn't treat him so,—now I tell you," said Willy, clinching his little fists. "I'd let him have a good time when he's young."

"So'd I!"

"For when he's old he won't want to have a good time."

"That's so."

"And I wouldn't be stingy to him; I'd let him have all the money he could spend."

"So'd I," responded the ungrateful Fred, who had probably had more dollars given him to throw away than any other boy in the county.

"I'd treat a boy real well. I wouldn't make him work as tight as he could put in," pursued Willy, overcome with dreadful recollections.

"Nor I, neither! Guess I wouldn't!"

"Poh! what do you know about it, Fred? Your father's rich, and don't keep a pig!"

"What if he don't? What hurt does a pig do?"

"Why, you have to carry out swill to 'em. Then there's the wood-box, and there's the corn to husk, and the cows to bring up! It makes a fellow ache all over."

"No worse'n errands, Bill! Guess you never came any nearer blistering your feet than I did last summer, time we had so much company. Mother's a case for thinking up errands."

"Well, Fred, we've started to run away."

"Should think it's likely we had."

"I'm going 'cause I can't stand it to be whipped any more; but you don't get whipped, Fred. What are you going for?"

"Why, to seek my fortune," replied Fred, spitting, in a manly fashion, into a clump of smartweed. "Always meant to, you know, soon's I got so I could take care of myself; and now I can cipher as far as substraction, what more does a fellow want?"

"Don't believe you can spell 'phthisic,' though."

As this remark had nothing to do with the case in point, Fred took no notice of it. What if he couldn't spell as well as Willy? He was a year and a half older, and had the charge of this expedition.

"Which way you mean to point, Billy?"

"Why, I thought we were going to sea. That's what you said; and I put a lot of nutcakes in my pocket to eat 'fore we got to the ship."

"You did? Well, give us some, then, for I'm about starved."

"So'm I, too."

And one would hardly have doubted it, to see them both eat. The doughnuts were sweet and spicy, and cheering to the spirits; the young travellers did not once stop to consider that they might need them more by and by. Children are not, as a general rule, very deeply concerned about the future. Birds of the air may have some idea where to-morrow's dinner is coming from; but these boys neither knew nor cared.

"First rate," remarked Fred, as the last doughnut disappeared. "But I don't know about going to sea. It's plaguy tough work climbing ropes, they say, and I heard of a boy that got whipped so hard he jumped overboard."

"Let's not go, then," cried Willy.

"Catch me!" said Fred. "I've been thinking of the lumb'ring business. They make money fast as you can wink up there to the Forks."

"Let's go lumbering, then."

"Guess we will, Billy. You see the trees don't cost anything,—they grow wild,—and all you've got to do is to chop 'em down."

"Yes," said Willy, "and we need red shirts for that. I never chopped a tree's I know of. Could, though, if I had a sharp axe. Guess I could, I mean,—I mean if the tree wasn't too big!"

"O, we shan't chop 'em ourselves," said Fred, spitting grandly. "Wasn't my father a lumberman once, and got rich by it? But did he ever cut down a tree? What's the use? Hire men, you know."

"O!" exclaimed Willy. But a gleam of common sense striking him next moment, he added, "but the money; where'll we get that?"

"O, we'll get it after a while," replied Fred, vaguely. "My father was a poor boy once. Fact! I've heard him tell about it. Nothing but tow-cloth breeches, and wale-cloth jacket, off there to Groton. And he made butter tubs and potash tubs, sir. And he took his pay in beaver skins. And then he went afoot to Boston, and he rolled a barrel of lime round the Falls, sir. I've heard him tell it five million times. And my aunt Tempy, she rode a-horseback three hundred miles to Concord.—O, poh! there's lots of ways to make money, if you try. And once he took his pay in potash,—my father did; and he sold tobacco. O, there's ways enough to make money if you keep your eyes open; that's what my father says."

Willy's eyes were open enough, if that were all. At any rate, he was trying his very best to keep them open. Half of his mind was sleepy, and half of it very wide awake indeed. There was something so inspiring in Fred's confident tone. Rather misty his plans might be as yet; but hadn't Willy heard, ever since he could remember, that people were sure to succeed if they were only "up and doing?"

"Come, let's start," said he, rising eagerly, as the bell rang for nine. "If we are going to the Forks we must go to Harlow first; I know that much."

And turning the corner at the left, the two wise little pilgrims set out upon their travels,—

"Strange countries for to see."



CHAPTER XI.

TO THE FORKS.

Willy started upon the run; but Fred, as soon as he could overtake him, and speak for puffing, exclaimed,—

"Now, Will Parlin, what's the use? We've got a good start, and let's take it fair and easy."

This was the most sensible remark Fred had made for the evening. Lazy and good-for-nothing as he was, he had spoken the truth for once. If they were ever to arrive at the Forks, they were likely to do it much sooner by walking than running. Willy did not understand this. Being as lithe as a young deer, he preferred "bounding over the plains" to lagging along with such a slow walker as Fred.

The town of Harlow was twelve miles away, and it was Fred's opinion that they should reach it in season for an early breakfast.

"I've got two dollars in my pocket," said he, "and I guess we shan't starve this fall."

Willy thought of the eighteen cents he had been six weeks in saving, but was ashamed to speak of such a small sum.

"Well, we shan't get to Harlow, or any where else, till day after to-morrow afternoon, if you don't hurry up," said he, impatiently. "You say you can't run, but I should think you might do as much as to march. Now, come,—left, foot out,—while I whistle."

Fred tried his best, but he was one of the few boys born with "no music in his soul," and he could not keep step.

"What's the matter with you, Fred Chase?"

"Don't know. Guess you haven't got the right tune."

Willy stopped short in "Come, Philander," and turned it into "Hail, Columbia;" but it made no difference. "Roy's Wife," or "Fy! let us a' to the wedding," was as good as anything else. Fred took long steps or short steps, just as it happened, and Willy never had understood, and could not understand now, what did ail Fred's feet; it was very tiresome, indeed.

"Look here: what tune have I been whistling now? See if you know?"

"Why, that's—that's—some kind of a dancing tune. Can't think. O, yes; 'Old Hundred.'"

"Fred Chase!" thundered Willy; "that's 'Yankee Doodle!' Anybody that don't know Yankee Doodle must be a fool!"

"Why, look here now: I know Yankee Doodle as well as you do, Will Parlin, only you didn't whistle it right!"

At another time Willy would have been quick to laugh at such an absurd remark; but now, tired as he was, it made him downright angry. He stopped whistling, and did not speak again for five minutes. Meanwhile he began to grow very sleepy.

"Wish we were going to battle," said Fred at last, for the sake of breaking the silence. "I'd like to be in a good fight; that is, if they had decent music. I could march to a fife and drum first rate."

"Could, hey! Then why didn't you ever do it?"

"Do you mean to say I don' know how to march? Know how as well as you do."

"Think's likely," snarled Willy, "for I can't march if I have you to march with. Can't keep step with anybody that ain't bright!"

"Nor I can't, either, Will Parlin; that's why I can't keep step with you."

"Well, then, go along to the other side of the road—will you? I won't have you here with your hippity-hop, hippity-hop."

"Go to the other side of the road your own self, and see how you like it," retorted Fred. "I won't have you here, with your tramp, tramp, tramp."

Was ever anybody so provoking as Fred? Willy had an impulse to give him a hard push; but before he could extend his arm to do it, he had forgotten what they were quarrelling about. That strange sleepiness had drowned every other feeling, and Fred's "tramp, tramp, tramp," spoken in such drawling tones, had fairly caused his eyes to draw together.

"Guess I'll drop down here side of the road, and rest a minute," said he.

"So'll I," said Fred, always ready for a halt if not for a march.

But it was a cold night. As soon as they had thrown themselves upon the faded grass they began to feel the pinchings of the frost.

"None of your dozing yet a while," said Fred, who, though tired, was not as sleepy as Willy. "We must push along till we get to a barn or something."

Willy rose to his feet, promptly.

"Look up here and show us your eyes, Billy. I've just thought of something. How do I know but you're sound asleep this minute? Generally sleep with your eyes open—don't you—and walk round too, just the same?"

Fred said this with a cruel laugh. He knew Willy was very sensitive on the subject of sleep-walking, and he was quite willing to hurt his feelings. Why shouldn't he be? Hadn't Willy hurt his feelings by making those cutting remarks in regard to music? As for the Golden Rule, Master Fred was not the boy to trouble himself about that; not in the least.

"I haven't walked in my sleep since I was a small boy," said Willy, trying his best to force back the tears; "and I don't think it's fair to plague me about it now."

"Well, then, you needn't plague me for not keeping step to your old whistling. If you want to know what the reason is I can't keep step, I'll tell you; it's because my feet are sore. They've been tender ever since I blistered 'em last summer."

Willy was too polite this time, or perhaps too sleepy, to contradict.

It did seem as if the road to Harlow was the longest, and the hills the steepest, ever known.

"Call it twelve miles—it's twenty!" said Fred, beginning to limp.

"Would be twenty-five," said Willy, "if the hills were rolled out smooth."

They trudged on as bravely as they could, but, in spite of the cold, had to stop now and then to rest, and by the time they had gone eight miles it seemed as if they could hold out no longer.

"I shouldn't be tired if I were in your place," said Fred; "it's my feet, you know."

"Here's a barn," exclaimed Willy, joyfully.

"Hush!" whispered cautious Fred; "don't you see there's a house to it, and it wouldn't do to risk it? Folks would find us out, sure as guns."

A little farther on there was a hayrack at the side of the road, filled with boards; and after a short consultation the boys decided to climb into it, and "camp down a few minutes."

"It won't do to stay long," said Fred, "for it must be 'most sunrise; and we should be in a pretty fix if anybody should go by and catch us."

It was only one o'clock! The boards were not as soft as feathers, by any means, but the boys thought they wouldn't have minded that if they could only have had a blanket to spread over them. More forlorn than the "babes in the wood," they had not even the prospect that any birds would come and cover them with leaves.

As they stretched themselves upon the boards, Willy thought of his prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep." Never, since he could remember, had he gone to bed without that. Would it do to say it now? Would God hear him? Ah, but would it do not to say it? So he breathed it softly to himself, lest Fred should hear and laugh at him.

It was so cold that Fred declared he couldn't shut his eyes, and shouldn't dare to, either; but in less than a minute both the boys were fast asleep.

They had slept about three hours, without stirring or even dreaming, when they were suddenly wakened by the glare of a tin lantern shining in their eyes, and a gruff voice calling out,—

"Who's this? How came you here?"

Willy stared at the man without speaking. Was it to-night, or last night, or to-morrow night?

Fred had not yet opened his eyes, and the worthy farmer was obliged to shake him for half a minute before he was fairly aroused.

"Who are you? What are you here for?" repeated he.

Then the boys sat upright on the boards and looked at each other. They were both covered with a thick coating of frost, as white as if they had been out in a snowstorm. What should they say to the man? It would never do to tell him their real names, for then he would very likely know who their fathers were, and send them straight home. Dear! dear! What a pity they happened to fall asleep! And why need the man have come out there in the night with a lantern?—a man who probably had a bed of his own to sleep in.

"I—I—" said Willy, brushing the frost off his knees; and that is probably as far as he would have gone with his speech, for his tongue failed him entirely; but Fred, being afraid he might tell the whole truth,—which was a bad habit of Willy's,—gave him a sly poke in the side, as a hint to stop. Willy couldn't and wouldn't make up a wrong story; but Fred could, and there was nothing he enjoyed more.

"Well, sir," said he, clearing his throat, and looking up at the farmer with a face of baby-like innocence, "I guess you don't know me—do you? My name's Johnny Quirk, and this boy here's my brother, Sammy Quirk."

Willy drew back a little. It seemed as if he himself had been telling a lie. Ah! and wasn't it next thing to it?

"Quirk? Quirk? I don't know any Quirks round in these parts," said the farmer.

"O, we live up yonder," said Fred, pointing with his finger. "We live two miles beyond Harlow, and we were down to Cross Lots to aunt Nancy's, you see, and they sent for us to come home,—mother did. Our father's dreadful sick: they don't expect he'll get well."

"You don't say so! Poor little creeturs! And here you are out doors, sleeping on the rough boards. Come right along into the house with me, and get warm. What's the matter with your father?"

"Some kind of a fever; and he don't know anything; he's awful sick," replied Fred, running his sleeve across his eyes.

The good farmer's heart was touched. He thought of his own little boys, no older than these, and how sad it would be if they should be left fatherless.

"Come in and get warm," said he. "It's four o'clock, and you shall sleep in a good bed till six, and then I'll wake you up, and give you some breakfast."

"O, I don't know as we can; we ought to be going," said Fred, wiping his eyes; "father may be dead."

"Yes, but you shall come in," persisted the farmer; "you're all but froze. If 'twas my little boys, I should take it kindly in anybody that made 'em go in and get warm. Besides, you can travel as fast again if you start off kind of comfortable."

A good bed was so refreshing to think of that the boys did not need much urging; but Willy entered the house with downcast eyes and feelings of shame, whereas Fred could look their new friend in the face, and answer all his questions without wincing.

Mr. Johonnet thought himself a shrewd man, but he could not see into the hearts of these young children. He liked the appearance of "Johnny Quirk," an "open-hearted, pretty-spoken little chap, that any father might be proud of;" but "Sammy" did not please him as well; he was not so frank, or so respectful,—seemed really to be a little sulky. There are some boys who pass off finely before strangers, because they are not in the least bashful, and have a knack of putting on any manner they choose; and Fred was one of these. Willy, a far nobler boy, was naturally timid before his betters; but even if he had been as bold as Fred, his conscience would never have let him say and do such untrue things.

Willy suffered. Although he had told no lies himself, he had stood by and heard them told without correcting them. How much better was that? Still it seemed as if, as things were, he could not very well have helped himself. So much for falling into bad company. "Eggs should not dance with stones."

"Well; I never'd have come with Fred Chase if father hadn't whipped me 'most to death."

And, soothed with this flimsy excuse, Willy was soon asleep again.

At six o'clock Mr. Johonnet called the little travellers to breakfast. The coffee was very dark-colored, with molasses boiled in it, and there were fried pork, fried potatoes swimming in fat, and clammy "rye and indian bread." None of these dishes were very inviting to the boys, who both had excellent fare at home; and they would have made but a light meal, if it had not been for the pumpkin pie and cheese, which Mr. Johonnet asked his wife to set on the table.

"Poor children, they must eat," said he; "for they've got to get home to see their sick father."

There were so many questions to be asked, that the boys made quick work of their breakfast and hurried away.

"There, glad we're out of that scrape," said Fred.

"But didn't you lie? Why, Fred, how could you lie so?"

"H'm! Did it up handsome—didn't I, though? Wouldn't give a red cent for you. You haven't the least gumption about lying."

Willy shivered and drew away a little. His fine nature was shocked by Fred's coarseness and lack of principle; still, this was the boy he had chosen for an intimate friend!

"If it hadn't been for me you'd have let the cat out of the bag," chuckled Fred. "You hung your head down as if you'd been stealing a sheep."

It was three miles farther to Harlow, and Fred grumbled all the way about his sore feet.

"See that yellow house through the trees?" said he. "That's my uncle Diah's; wish we could go there and rest."

"But what's the use to wish?" returned Willy. "Look here, Fred; isn't there a ford somewhere near here?"

To be sure there was. They had forgotten that; and sometimes the ford was not fordable, and it was necessary to go round-about in order to cross a ferry. While they were puzzling over this new dilemma, a stage-horn sounded.

"That's the Harlow driver; he knows us," cried Fred; "let's hide quick."

They concealed themselves behind some aspen trees on the bank, and "peeking" out, could see the stage-coach and its four sleek horses, about an eighth of a mile away, driving down the ferry-hill into the river.

"Good!" said Willy; "there's the ford, and now we know. And the water isn't up to the horses' knees; so we can cross well enough."

"Yes, and get our breeches wet," groaned Fred.

"O, that's nothing. Lumbermen don't mind wet breeches," said Willy, cheerily.

"Lumbermen? Who said we were lumbermen? I shan't try it yet a while; my feet are too plaguy sore!"

"Shan't try what?"

"Well, nothing, I guess," yawned Fred; "lumber nor nothing else."

The stage had passed, by this time, and they were walking towards the ford. When they reached it, Willy, nothing daunted, drew off his stockings and shoes, and began to roll up his pantaloons.

"Look here, Billy; if you see any fun in this business, I don't!"

"Fun? O, but we don't spect that, you know," said heroic Willy, stepping into the stream.

"Cold as ice, I know by the way you cringe," said lazy Fred, who had not yet untied his shoes.

"Come on, Fred; who minds the cold?"

"Now wait a minute, Billy. I hadn't got through talking. I'm not going to kill myself for nothing; I want some fun out of it."

"Do come on and behave yourself," called back Willy; "when we get rich we'll have the fun."

"Well, go and get rich then," cried Fred; "I shan't stir another step! My father's got money enough, and I needn't turn my hand over."

Willy stopped short.

"But you are going to the Forks with me?"

"Who said I was?"

"Why, you said so, yourself. You were the one that put it in my head."

"O, that was only talk. I didn't mean anything."

Willy turned square round in the water, and glared at Fred, with eyes that seemed to shoot sparks of fire.



"Yes—well, yes, I did kind of mean to, too," cried Fred, shrinking under the gaze; "but I've got awful sick of it."

"Who called me a SNEAK?" exclaimed Willy, his voice shaking with wrath. "Who called me my mamma's cry-baby? Who said he spected I'd back out?"

"But you see, Billy, my feet!"

Willy, whose own feet were nearly freezing, replied by a sniff of contempt. He planted himself on a rock in the middle of the river, and awaited the rest of Fred's speech.

"You know I've got folks living this side, back there a piece—my uncle Diah. That's where I'll go. They'll let me make a visit, and carry me home: they did it last spring."

"And what about me, Fred Chase?"

"You? Why, you may go where you're a mind to."

"What? Me, that you coaxed so to come?"

Fred quailed before the look and the tone.

"Well, I'd take you to uncle Diah's, Willy, only—well—I can't very well, that's all."

Willy suddenly turned his back, and cleared the stream with one bound.



CHAPTER XII.

"I HA'E NAEBODY NOW."

Standing on the bank, Willy looked back over his shoulder at Fred, and saw him dart off into a shady cow-path. No doubt he was going to his uncle Diah's. When he was fairly out of sight, and Willy comprehended at last that he had really left him, and did not mean to come back, he sat down on a stone by the wayside, and began to rave.

"The tormentable, mean, naughty boy! I'd be ashamed to treat a skeeter the way he's treated me! Did I ever coax a boy to go anywhere with me, and then run off and leave him right in the middle of the river? No, sir. Sore feet, hey? Didn't anybody ever have sore feet 'fore now, I wonder? Why, I had chilblains last winter so deep they dug a hole into my heels, and,—well, it's no use to make a great fuss,—I didn't cry but two or three times. Blisters! what's that? Nothing but little puffs of water! Perhaps that wasn't why he stopped, though. Just as likely as not he meant all the time to stop, and come a-purpose to see Mr. Diah. How can you tell? A boy that lies so! There, there, come to think of it, shouldn't wonder if his feet weren't sore a bit! Wish I'd looked at 'em!

"Well, he's backed out, Fred Chase has! I should think he'd feel so mean he never'd want to show his head anywhere again! 'Fore I'd sneak out when I got started! Eh, for shame!"

Willy tore up a handful of grass, and threw it into the road, and the action served to relieve him a little.

"Well, what'll I do? now let's think. If a tiger should come right down this ferry-hill, and tear me all to pieces, Fred wouldn't care. 'Course not. All he cares is to get enough to eat, and not make his feet sore. He don't care what comes of me. I've got to think it out for myself, what I'd better do. Got to do it myself, too, all alone, and there won't be anybody to help me. Pretty scrape, I should think! Might have known better'n to come!

"Well; will I be a lumberman and go up to the Forks? Let's see; I don' know the way up there. That makes it bad, 'cause I guess there isn't much of any road to it 'cept spotted trees; that's what I heard once. Most likely I'd get lost. Fred wouldn't care if I did; be glad, I s'pose. But, then, there's bears. Ugh! Pshaw! who's afraid of bears? And then there's mother—O, I didn't mean to think about mother!"

Willy sighed, but soon roused himself.

"Well, what'll I do? O, wasn't that a real poor breakfast the woman gave us? Don't see how I swallowed it! Makes me sick to think of it. Didn't taste much like mother's breakfasts! I don't want to go where I'll have to drink molasses in my coffee, and eat fatty potatoes too.

"And who'd take a little boy like me? Folks laugh at little boys—think they don't know a thing. And folks always ask so many questions. They want to know where you come from, and who your father is, and if he's got any cows. And I won't lie. And next thing they'd be sending me home. They'd say home was the best place for little boys. H'm! So it is, if you don't have to get whipped!

"O, my! Didn't I have to take it that last time? Father never hurt so before. Made all the bad come up in my throat, and I can't swallow it down yet. It would be good enough for him if I was dead; for then every time he went out to the barn there'd be that horsewhip hanging up on the nail; and he'd think to himself—'Where's that little boy I used to whip?' And then the tears will come into his eyes, I pretty much know they will. I saw the tears in his eyes once when I was sick. He felt real bad; but when I got well, first thing he did was to whip me again. Whippings don't do any good. All that does any good is when mother talks to me; and that don't do any good, either. She made me learn this verse:—

"'And thou, Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers, and serve him with a perfect heart and a willing mind. If thou seek him, he will be found of thee, but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off forever.'

"There, I know that straight as a book. She prays to God to make me better, but He doesn't do it yet, and I should think she'd get discouraged. 'Heart like a stone,' she said. That made me want to laugh, for I could feel it beating all the time she spoke, and it couldn't if it was a stone! Bad heart, though, or I wouldn't be so bad myself.

"Well, it's no use to think about badness or goodness now," said Willy, flinging another handful of grass into the road. "What'll I do? That's the question.

"You see, now, folks have such a poor opinion of boys," added he, his thoughts spinning round the same circle again. "Most wish I was a girl. O, my stars, what an idea!"

And completely disgusted with himself, he jumped up and turned a somerset.

"Better be whipped three times a day than be a girl!

"But father felt real bad that time I was sick, for I saw him. Not so bad as mother, though. Poor mother! I no business to gone off and left her. What you s'pose she thought last night, when I didn't come back from the post office?"

This question had tried to rise before, but had always been forced back.

"She waited till nine o'clock, and didn't think much queer. But after that she come out of the bedroom, with her face tied up, and said she, 'Hasn't Willy got home yet?' Then they told her 'No,' and father scowled. And she sat up till ten o'clock, and then do you s'pose anybody went out doors to hunt? She didn't sleep a wink all night. Don't see how folks can lie awake so. I couldn't if I should try; but I'm not a woman, you know, and I don't believe I should care much about my boys, if I was. Would I mend their trousis for 'em, when they tore 'em on a nail, going where I told 'em not to? For, says I, I can't bear the sight of a child that won't mind. But you see, mother—

"Poor mother, what'll she do without me? She said there wasn't anybody she could take in her arms to hug but just me. Stephen's too big to sit in her lap, and Love's too big; and there wouldn't anybody think of hugging Seth, if he was ever so little.

"Yes, mother wants me. I remember that song she sings about the Scotch woman that lost her baby, and she cries a little before she gets through."

The words were set to a plaintive air, and Willy hummed it over to himself,—

"I ha'e naebody now, I ha'e naebody now To clasp at my bosom at even, O'er his calm sleep to breathe out a vow, And pray for the blessing of Heaven."

"Poor mother, how that makes her cry! Why, I declare, I'm crying too! Somehow seems's if I couldn't get along without mother. But there, I won't be a cry-baby! Hush up, Willy Parlin!

"WHAT'LL I DO? Wish I hadn't come. Wish I'd thought more about mother—how she's going to feel.

"What if I should turn right round now, and go home? Why, father'd whip me worse'n ever—that's what. Well, who cares? It'll feel better after it's done smarting. Guess I can stand it. Look here, Will Parlin, I'm going."

Bravo, Willy! With both feet he plunged into the river, and waded slowly across. Very slowly, for his mind was not fully made up yet. There was a great deal of thinking to be done first; but he might as well be moving on while he thought. Every now and then rebellious pride, or anger, or shame would get the better of him, and he would wheel round, with the impulse to strike off into the unknown Somewhere, where boys lived without whippings. But the thought of his mother always stopped him.

Was there an invisible cord which stretched from her heart to his—a cord of love, which drew him back to her side? He could see her sorrowful face, he could hear her pleading voice, and the very tremble in it when she sang,—

"I ha'e naebody now, I ha'e naebody now."

"But I'd never go back and take that whipping, if it wasn't for mother!"

He no longer felt obliged to hide from the approach of every human being; and when a pedler, driving a "cart of notions," called out, "Want a lift, little youngster?" he was very glad to accept the offer. To be sure, he only rode two or three miles, but it was a great help.

It was noon, by that time, "high noon too," and the smell of nice dinners floated out to him from the farm-houses, as he trudged by; but to beg a meal he was ashamed. When he reached Cross Lots it was the middle of the afternoon. He went up to the stump near the mill, where he and Freddy had sat the night before; and, as he seated himself, he thought with a pang of that pocket full of doughnuts, so freely made way with.

He had eighteen cents in his wallet; but what good did it do, when there was no store at hand where a body could buy so much as a sheet of gingerbread? He was starving in the midst of plenty, like that unfortunate man whose touch turned all the food he put in his mouth into gold.

Beginning to think he would almost be willing to be whipped for the sake of a good supper, he rose and walked on.

When he reached the Noonin farm, a mile and a half from home, the night shadows were beginning to fall, but he could see in the distance a horse and wagon coming that made his heart thump loud. The horse was old Dolly; and what if one of the men in the wagon should be his father?

No, it was only Seth and Stephen; but Seth was almost as much to be dreaded as Mr. Parlin himself.

"You here, you young rogue?" called out Stephen, in a tone between laughing and scolding, for he would not have Willy suspect how relieved they were at finding him. "You here? And where's Fred?"

"Up to Harlow, to Mr. Diah's," replied Willy, and coolly climbed into the wagon.

"Better wait for an invitation. How do you know we shall let you ride?" said Stephen, turning the horse's head towards home.

"First, we'd like to know what you've got to say for yourself," put in Seth, in that cold, hard tone, which always made Willy feel as if he didn't care how he had acted, and as if he would do just so again.

"I suppose you are aware that you have been a very wicked, deceitful, disobedient boy?"

Willy made no reply, but lay down on the floor of the wagon, and curled himself up like a caterpillar.

"Don't be too hard on him, Seth," said Stephen, who could not help pitying the poor little fellow in his shame and embarrassment; "I don't believe you meant to run away—now did you, Willy?"

The child was quite touched by this unexpected kindness. So they were not sure he did mean to run away? If he said "No," they would believe him, and then perhaps he wouldn't have to be whipped. But next instant his better self triumphed, and he scorned the lie. Uncurling himself from his caterpillar ball, he stammered,—

"Yes, I did mean to, too."

A little more, and he would have told the whole story. He longed to tell it—how life had seemed a burden on account of his whippings, and how he and Fred had planned to set up in business for themselves, but Fred had backed out. But before he had time to speak, Seth said, sternly,—

"You saucy child!"

He had taken Willy's quick "Yes, I did mean to, too," for impertinence; whereas it was one of the bravest speeches the boy ever made, and did him honor.

After this rebuke from Seth, Willy could not very well go on with his confessions; the heart was gone out of him, and he curled up, limp and quiet, like a caterpillar again.

"Meant to run away—did you?" went on Seth, who ought to have known better than to pursue the subject; "to run away like a little dirty vagabond! You've nearly killed mother, I wish you to understand. You'll get a severe thrashing for this. I shall tell father not to show you any mercy."

"Come, now, don't kick a fellow when he's down," said Stephen. "Willy will be ashamed enough of this."

"Well, he ought to be ashamed! If he'd had a teaspoonful of brains he'd have known better than to cut up such a caper as this. Did you think you could run off so far but that we could find you, child?"

No answer.

"What did you little goslings mean to do with yourselves? Live on acorns? And what did Fred's uncle say when he saw him coming into the house in that shape?"

No answer.

Stephen looked down at the curled-up bunch on the floor of the wagon, and as it did not move, he gently touched it with his foot.

"Poor little thing," said he, "I guess he's had a pretty hard cruise of it; he's sound asleep."



CHAPTER XIII.

CONCLUSION.

Mrs. Parlin saw the wagon driving up to the porch door, and came out trembling and too much frightened to speak. She supposed at first that Willy had not come, for she did not see him till Seth and Stephen lifted him out of the wagon, a dead weight between them.

O, her baby—her baby; what had happened to her dear wee Willie?

"There, there, mother, don't be frightened," said Stephen, cheerily; "his tramp has been too much for him; that's all. I guess we'll carry him right up stairs to bed."

"I—want—some—supper," moaned the little rebel, waking up just as they were laying him on his bed in the pink chamber.

His mother and Love watched him with real pleasure, as he devoured cold meat and bread, all they dared let him have, but not half as much as he craved. Then he fell asleep again, and did not wake till noon of the next day. His mother was bending over him with the tenderest love, just as if he had never given her a moment's trouble in his life. That was just like his dear mother, and it was more than Willy could bear; he threw his arms round her neck, and buried his face in her bosom, completely subdued.

"O, mother, mother, I'll never do so again."

"My darling, I am sure you never will."

"Where's father?"

"Down stairs in the dining-room, I think."

"Well, I'm ready; will you tell him I'm ready," cried Willy, drawing a quick breath.

"Ready for what, dear?"

"Well, he is going to whip me, I suppose, and I want it over with."

"And how do you feel about it, my son? Don't you think you deserve to be whipped?"

"Yes'm, I do," replied Willy, with a sudden burst of candor; "I don't see how anybody can help whipping a boy that's acted the way I have."

"That's nobly said, my child," exclaimed Mr. Parlin, stepping out of the large clothes-press. "I happened to be in there over-hauling the trunk that has my Freemason clothes in it, and I couldn't but overhear what you've been saying."

Willy buried his face in the pillow. He was willing his mother should know his inmost thoughts, but he had always been afraid of his father.

"And, Willy, since you take so kindly to the idea of another whipping, I don't know but I shall let you off this time."

Willy opened his eyes very wide.

"I'll tell you why," went on Mr. Parlin. "You didn't deserve the last whipping you had; so that will go to offset this one, which you do deserve."

Willy's eyes sparkled with delight; still there was a look in them of question and surprise. The idea of his ever having a whipping that his father thought he didn't deserve!

"You were in a shameful state that night, Willy; I can't call it anything else but drunk; but I know now how it happened; there was brandy in the cider."

"Brandy, papa?"

"Yes. Dr. Potter and I examined the barrel yesterday, and the mixture in it was at least one third brandy."

"O, papa, was that why it tasted so bad? I drank one mugful, and didn't like it; and then by and by I drank another mugful; but that was all."

"Yes, Willy; so you told me when I talked with you; and I didn't believe you then; but I believe you now."

"O, father, I'm so glad!" cried Willy, with a look such as he had never before given his father—a beaming look of gratitude and love. I think he was happier at that moment to know that his father trusted him, than to know he would not be punished.

He little thought then that he should never have another whipping as long as he lived; but so it proved. Not that Mr. Parlin ever changed his mind about the good effects of the rod; but when he saw that Willy was really trying to be a better boy, he had more patience with him.

And Willy was trying. He continued to be rather hasty and headstrong, but the "Indian sulks" gradually melted out of his disposition like ice in a summer river. This exploit of running away had a humbling effect, no doubt; but more than that, as he grew older he learned to understand and love his father better. He found that those dreadful whippings had been given "more in sorrow than in anger,"—given as a help to make him better; and the time came when he thanked his father for them.

* * * * *

And this is all I have to tell of his younger days. When he was twenty-seven years old, and pretty Patience Lyman was twenty, they were married in Squire Lyman's parlor, by Elder Lovejoy, then a very old man.

After the wedding they rode at once to Willowbrook, where they have both lived to this day; she, the dearest of old ladies, and he, a large, beautiful, white-headed old man, whom no one would now think of calling the Little Grandfather.

THE END