Aunt Nancy led Jack to the rear of the tent, and there, where no one could overhear, he told the whole story, concluding by saying,—
"You have felt so bad I had a great mind to go right up an' tell him how it happened you acted a lie."
"But, Jack dear, then he might drag you off to the poor farm."
"I had rather do that than have you feel as you do about it. Louis could stay here, an' I wouldn't tell him where you were, no matter how hard he might try to make me."
"I should go to him myself and confess all," the little woman said after a pause.
"Then the chances are he'd get hold of both Louis an' me. If it is to be done, I oughter do it."
"I declare I don't know what is best"; and Aunt Nancy stood with clasped hands as if expecting Jack would advise. "It is only right I should atone in some way for that which I did; but the flesh is indeed weak when it comes to parting with either of you."
"Perhaps there might be some way for me to get clear, an' you'd feel so much better that I'd be contented to stay almost anywhere."
The little woman made no reply; she remained silent so long Jack began to be afraid she was ill, and as he stood watching her, the notes of a song of praise to the Maker rose high above the deacon's querulous tones, while mingling with it was the murmur of the surf as it rolled up on the beach, the whole forming a sort of melody which was soothing to the little hunchback.