“They had kept up a racket before going out,” said James; “and that left her wide awake. It wasn’t her fault.”
“I’ll be bound it wasn’t!” exclaimed the mother, with tears in her eyes.
“Well?” said the judge, silencing Mrs. Smith with a gesture of the hand.
“Well, sir, I—I sat down by her and rocked the cradle till she fell asleep.”
The poor boy confessed this with a glow of burning shame in his eyes and cheeks; it was the only thing in his young life that he shrank from making known; the great cross taken up to save his mother and sisters from starvation.
“Well, when the child was asleep—what next?”
“I drank a glass of root beer that tasted of paregoric, and went to sleep myself. It was wrong, but I could not help it.”
“But you woke up again?” said the magistrate.
“Not till the folks came home.”
“And this is all?”