“Well, let’s look. I want to lie down and have a sleep.”
“Sleep? At a time like this!”
“Why not, sir? I’m half asleep now. Can’t do anything better as I see.”
“Jem,” said Don passionately, “we’re being punished for all our discontent and folly, and it seems more than I can bear.”
“But we must bear it, sir. That’s what you’ve got to do when you’re punished. Don’t take on, sir. P’r’aps, it won’t seem so bad when it gets light. Here, help me find them bags he talked about.”
Don was too deep in thought, for the face of his mother was before him, and he seemed to see the agony she suffered on his account.
“Justly punished,” he kept muttering; “justly punished, and now it is too late—too late.”
“Here y’are, Mas’ Don,” cried Jem; “lots of ’em, and I can’t help it, I must lie down, for my head feels as if it was going to tumble off.”
Don heard him make a scuffling noise, as if he were very busy moving some sacks.
“There!” Jem cried at last; “that’s about it. Now, Mas’ Don, I’ve made you up a tidy bed; come and lie down.”