“Yes,” he said huskily, and with his arm still across his eyes. “I’m going back, and old Sibery may cut me to pieces,” he added passionately. “I don’t care.”
“Look up at me, Dexter,” said Helen gently, as she laid her hand upon the boy’s arm. “Tell me,” she continued, “which will you do?—go back, or try to be a good boy, and do what you know I wish you to do, and stay!”
He let her arm fall, gazed wildly in her eyes, and then caught her hand and dropped upon his knees, sobbing passionately.
“I will try; I will try,” he cried, as soon as he could speak. “Take me down to him, and let him cane me, and I won’t cry out a bit. I’ll take it all like Bill Jones does, and never make a sound, but don’t, don’t send me away.”
Helen Grayson softly sank upon her knees beside the boy, and took him in her arms to kiss him once upon the forehead.
“There, Dexter,” she said gently, as she rose. “Now bathe your eyes, dress yourself again, and come downstairs to me in the dining-room, as quickly as you can.”
Helen went to her own room for a few moments to bathe her own eyes, and wonder how it was that she should be so much moved, and in so short a time.
The doctor was anxiously awaiting her return.
“Well!” he said; “where is the young scamp!”
“In his room,” replied Helen, “and—”