"Was Auntie Lisbeth nearly drowned--really?" he inquired.
"Very nearly, and was only saved by a chance."
"All right, Uncle Dick, hit me," he said, and held out his hand. The stick whizzed and fell--once--twice. I saw his face grow scarlet and the tears leap to his eyes, but he uttered no sound.
"Did it hurt very much, my Imp?" I inquired, as I tossed the stick aside.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, while I turned to light my pipe, wasting three matches quite fruitlessly.
"Uncle Dick," he burst out at last, struggling manfully against his sobs, "I--I'm awfull'--sorry----"
"Oh, it's all right now, Imp. Shake hands!" Joyfully the little, grimy fingers clasped mine, and from that moment, I think, there grew up between us a new understanding.
"Why, Imp, my darling, you're crying!" exclaimed a voice, and, with a rustle of skirts, Lisbeth was down before him on her knees.
"I know I am--'cause I'm awfull' sorry--an' Uncle Dick's whipped my hands--an' I'm glad!"
"Whipped your hands?" cried Lisbeth, clasping him closer, and glaring at me "Whipped your hands? How dare he? What for?"