“She thinks I did it now,” he said to himself; and when his uncle left the table and went into his study he had full proof, for Mrs Fidler seized the opportunity, and shaking her head at him again, said in a whisper—
“Oh, Master Tom, my dear, the truth may be blamed, but can never be shamed.”
“Well, I know that,” cried the boy angrily.
“Hush, my dear! I know it’s very hard, but do—do go and tell your uncle the truth, and he’ll forgive you.”
“I have told him the truth,” cried Tom hotly.
“Oh, my dear, my dear, I’m afraid not, or else your face wouldn’t be so dreadfully red and guilty-like, and I’m sure as your uncle thinks you broke it.”
“Yes,” cried Tom; “everybody seems to think so.”
“Then pray, pray, my dear, be open.”
“Don’t, Mrs Fidler, don’t,” cried Tom pettishly. “I feel as if I can’t bear it.”
“Now, sir, I’m waiting,” said Uncle Richard, suddenly appearing at the open window. “Come over to the observatory at once.”