“My po’ little lammie!” he sobbed. “Work away, Cynthy. Dat chile mus’ be saved, even if I should have ter go over ter de judge’s for anudder quart o’ whisky. Nuthin’ shall be spared to save that preciousest kid o’ my ole age.”

Miss Clara did not encourage his self-sacrificing proposal; but for all that, it was not long before Tiddlekins grew warm and lively, and winked at his father—so that good old man declared—as he lay on his back, placidly sucking a pig’s tail. Savannah had roasted it in the ashes, and it had been cut from the piece of pork that had shared the well with Tiddlekins. The pork belonged to a neighbour, by the way; but at such a time the Pop family felt that they might dispense with the vain and useless ceremony of asking for it.

The excitement was over, the baby asleep, Miss Clara gone, and the sun well on its way to China, when a small figure was seen hovering about the gate. It had a limp air of dejection, and seemed to feel some delicacy about coming further.

“The miscreant is got back,” remarked Savannah.

“Hironymus,” calls Mrs. Pop, “you may thank yo’ heavenly stars dat you ain’t a murderer dis summer day—”

“A-waitin’ ter be hung nex’ wild-grape-time,” finished Weekly pleasantly.

Mr. Pop said nothing. But he reached down from the mantelshelf a long thin something, shaped like a snake, and quivered it in the air.

Then he walked out to Hi, and taking him by the left ear, led him to the wood-pile. And here—But I draw a veil.

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