"Ah!" said the lady to herself. "That's the way he came in without my seeing him."
"Have you been awake long, Ernest?" asked his mother.
"Henry waked me, getting in through the window. I wish he'd stayed away. He's made my head ache so."
"I've made you some milk porridge, dear; I'll bring you a cupful; and then perhaps you'll fall asleep again. I'll lock the window this time."
Ernest drank his favorite porridge; but he could not sleep. Henry's words were constantly recurring to his mind. "If you tell, father 'll half kill me. He's awful angry now."
Ernest was a timid boy, not tough and hearty, like his cousin, but feeble from his infancy; "only raised to the age of eleven years," as the doctor said, "by the unwearied nursing of a good mother."
Ernest had a great dread of his uncle's rough word's and hot temper, very different from the manners of his own parents. One time and another, from being a constant companion of his cousin, he had experienced a good deal of harsh treatment from the carpenter. Now he lay, tossing and turning his head on the pillow, thinking of Henry's words, wondering whether he could be induced to confess, and dreading his uncle's wrath.
At noon, when his father, who was a clock-maker, came home to his dinner, after hearing the story from his wife, he found his son's face burning with fever.
"O pa!" exclaimed the boy. "I'm so glad you've come. Is it ever right to break a promise?"
"That depends, my boy, on what kind of a promise it is. Suppose I, to escape an assassin, should promise a wicked man that I would help him murder his neighbor; ought I therefore to keep the promise?"