“Ah! yes, my boy; you’ll have to go back to school then and work away at your ciphering and French. I shall often think about you, Nat, when I am busy over the birds I have shot, skinning and preserving them; and when I come back, Nat, you must help me again.”
“When you come back?” I said dolefully.
“Yes, my lad. Let me see—you are fourteen now. In four or five years you will have grown quite a man. Perhaps you will not care to help me then.”
“Oh, uncle!” I cried; for I could keep it back no longer. It had been the one great thought of my mind night and day for weeks now, and if my prayer were not gratified the whole of my future seemed to be too blank and miserable to be borne.
“Why, what is it, my boy?” he said. “Nat, my lad, don’t be afraid to speak out. Is anything wrong?”
“Yes, uncle,” I panted; for my words seemed to choke me.
“Speak out then, my boy, what is it?”
“You—you are going away, uncle.”
“Well, Nat, you’ve known that for months,” he said, with a smile.
“Yes, uncle; but don’t go by yourself,” I cried. “Take me with you; I won’t want much to eat—I won’t give you any trouble; and I’ll work so very, very hard to help you always, and I could be useful to you. Pray—pray, uncle, take me too.”