“Well, yes,” said Dick, with the puzzled look very strong in his face. “I have kept it from you; but it’s a sort of religious oath—like freemasonry.”
“Like free stuffery!” cried Mrs Shingle. “When we were poor you never had any secrets from me.”
“No, my dear,” said Dick, kissing her—“never had one worth keeping; and see how badly it worked—how poor we were! Now I have got a secret from you—see how nicely it works, and how well off we are!”
“I’d rather be poor again, then.”
“Well, they was happy times,” said Dick; “but there was a very rough wrong side. It was like wearing a good pair of boots with the nails sticking up inside.”
“If I’ve asked you to tell me that secret night and day—I say, if I’ve asked you once,” cried Mrs Shingle, excitedly, “I’ve asked you—”
“Two thousand times at least,” said Dick, interrupting her: “you have, mother, you have—’specially at night.”
“Then I’ll make a vow too,” cried Mrs Shingle, throwing herself into a chair. “Never more—no, not even when I’m lying on my dying bed, will I ask you again.”
She leaned back, and looked at him angrily, as if she expected that this fearful vow would bring him on his knees at her feet. And certainly Dick did come over to her; but it was with a look of relief on his countenance as he bent down and kissed her.
“Thankye, mother,” he said—“thankye. You see, it’s a very strange secret, and mightn’t agree with you.”