"Oh!" exclaimed the Imp, and his beloved bow slipped from his nerveless fingers. "Imp," I went on, "it was a wicked thing to cut that rope, a mean, cruel trick, Don't you think so?" "I 'specks it was, Uncle Dick." "Don't you think you ought to be punished?" He nodded. "Very well," I answered, "I'll punish you myself. Go and cut me a nice, straight switch," and I handed him my open penknife. Round-eyed, the Imp obeyed, and for a space there was a prodigious cracking and snapping of sticks. In a little while he returned with three, also the blade of my knife was broken, for which he was profusely apologetic. "Now," I said as I selected the weapon fittest for the purpose, "I am going to strike you hard on either hand with this stick that is, if you think you deserve it." "Was Aunt Lisbeth nearly drowned—really?" he inquired. "Very nearly, and was only saved by a chance." "All right, Uncle Dick, hit me," he said, and held out his hand. The stick whizzed and fell—once—twice. I saw his face grow scarlet and the tears leap to his eyes, but he uttered no sound. "Did it hurt very much, my Imp?" I inquired, as I tossed the stick aside. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, while I turned to light my pipe, wasting three matches quite fruitlessly. "Uncle Dick," he burst out at last, struggling manfully against his sobs, "I—I'm awfull'—sorry—" "Oh, its all right now, Imp. Shake hands!" Joyfully the little, grimy fingers clasped mine, and from that moment I think there grew up between us a new understanding. "Why, Imp, my darling, you're crying!" exclaimed a voice, and with a rustle of skirts Lisbeth was down before him on her knees. "I know I am—'cause I'm awfull' sorry—an' Uncle Dick's whipped my hands—an' I'm glad!" "Whipped your hands?" cried Lisbeth, clasping him closer, and glaring at me, "Whipped your hands—how dare he! What for?" "'Cause I cut the rope an' let the boat go away with you, an' you might have been drowned dead in the weir, an' I'm awfull' glad Uncle Dick whipped me." "O-h-h!" exclaimed
Prev.
Back
Top