“I’m afraid, my boy, we must be very wicked and deceitful.”
“Deceitful, uncle?”
“Yes, my boy, or your aunt will never forgive us.”
“Why, what do you mean, uncle?” I said.
“I’ve been thinking, my boy, that I might go out somewhere and buy a grey parrot—one already stuffed. I dare not face her without.”
I felt puzzled, and with a strong belief upon me that we were going to do a very foolish thing.
“Wouldn’t it be better to go and tell Aunt Sophia frankly that we have had an accident, and spoiled the parrot, uncle?”
“Yes, my boy, much better,” he said, “very much better; but—but I dare not do it, Nat, I dare not do it.”
I felt as if I should like to say, “I’ll do it, uncle,” but I, too, shrank from the task, and we were saved from the underhanded proceeding by the appearance of my aunt at the tool-house door.
My unfortunate attempt at restuffing poor Polly made me less a favourite than ever with Aunt Sophia, who never let a day pass without making some unpleasant allusion to my condition there. My uncle assured me that I was in no wise dependent upon them, for my mother’s money gave ample interest for my education and board, but Aunt Sophia always seemed to ignore that fact, so that but for Uncle Joe’s kindness I should have been miserable indeed.