“Mother has often told me that the language of heaven is truth, and that whosoever _loveth or maketh a lie_ shall never be admitted to that happy place! But why should my mind be so troubled?—I have not said a single word that is not true. But I have concealed the truth. And why?—because of _the fear of man_, which the Bible tells me _bringeth a snare_. What then would be my straight course of duty? to confess that I threw down the poison? Would not that bring my brother into trouble? No; for it was I who climbed on the chair, I who knocked over the bottle, I who last shut the door—all the mischief was done by me, though it was not done for my own pleasure. I know what will be my best plan,” said Alie, with a sigh of relief at coming to anything like a decision: “I’ll confess all to mother when she comes back from the village; and she will choose a good time, when my uncle is in a pleasant temper and I am out of the way, and tell him that I killed poor Tabby, but am exceedingly sorry that I did it.”
So Alie returned to the kitchen, and put on the water to boil for tea and sat down to her unfinished work, awaiting her mother’s return. Her heart beat faster than usual when she heard the clump, clump of her uncle’s wooden leg, but still more when he entered the house alone.
“She’s gone to the vicarage,” replied Jonas. “She met a messenger to tell her that the lady there is taken very ill, and wants some one to nurse her; so she sheered off straight for Brampton, and desired me to come back and tell you.”
“When will she return?” asked Alie with anxiety.
“That’s when the lady gets better, I s’pose. I suspect that she’s cast anchor for a good while, from what I hear,” replied the sailor. “But pluck up a good heart, little lass, and don’t look as though you were about to set the water-works going; I’ve brought you something to cheer you up a bit;” and slowly unfolding his red pocket-handkerchief, Jonas displayed a large cake of gingerbread. “Here’s for you,” he said, holding it out to his niece.
“Oh! uncle!” cried Alie, without attempting to touch it.
“Take it, will you,” said he sharply; “what are ye hanging back for?” Alie took the cake, and thanked her uncle in a faltering voice. Jonas stooped down, lighted his pipe, and as he glanced at the warm corner which used to be his favourite’s chosen place, and missed her well-known purr, the old sailor gave an unconscious sigh, and “Poor Tabby!” escaped from his lips.