"Mamma! mamma!" he cried at last, "Oh, why—why did you leave me?"
At these words Mr. Morton stayed his hand, the whip fell to the ground.
"Yet it is all for the boy's good," he muttered. "There, child, I hope this is the last time. There, you are not much hurt. Zounds, don't cry so!"
"He will alarm the whole street," said Mrs. Morton; "I never see such a child! Here, take this parcel to Mrs. Birnie's—you know the house—only next street, and dry your eyes before you get there. Don't go through the shop; this way out."
She pushed the child, still sobbing with a vehemence that she could not comprehend, through the private passage into the street, and returned to her husband.
"You are convinced now, Mr. M.?"
"Pshaw! ma'am; don't talk. But, to be sure, that's how I cured Tom of fibbing.—The tea's as cold as a stone!"
CHAPTER IV.
"Le bien nous le faisons: le mal c'est la Fortune.
On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort."—LA FONTAINE.
[The Good, we effect ourselves; the Evil is the handiwork of
Fortune. Mortals are always in the right, Destiny always in the
wrong.]