“I don’t”—he began after a pause. “Yes. I do, yes I do, I see a little house and a cornfield and a—O, there it’s gone!”
The man laid his finger-tips lightly on the child’s shoulder. “Get up and listen to me,” he said gravely. Dennis rose; the touch had not been at all rough; on the contrary it was very gentle, and the voice was quiet, but there was a sense of danger in the air; an ominous thrill; and the child’s eyes, why he knew not, grew slightly frightened.
“What you have just said is a lie,” said his elder very distinctly, “and you know that just as well as I do; you are very young yet, and I don’t want to be hard on you. If you confess that you told a lie, I won’t say any more about it, unless you do it again. Come.”
“But—I can’t. It wasn’t a lie.”
“Take care now. Tell me you said what wasn’t true and are sorry; and then run into tea and forget about it.”
The child began to tremble. “But I can’t—it wasn’t—indeed—it—O dear, O dear!”
“I tell you I don’t want to be hard upon you. I mean to be, and I hope I always am, perfectly just. I shall ask you three times whether your stories are true. If you say no—well and good. If you persist in saying yes, you’ll—take the consequences, that’s all. I shall ask you this question every day till I make you speak the truth.”
Things were now looking very serious. The little girls were struck with awe. The young girl and the lad exchanged glances and strove to extenuate the crime of Dennis.
“O please, Mr. March,” said the girl softly, “he’s so very little and he’s imaginative, you know.”
“He’s dotty, poor little chap,” said the boy cheerily. “He means no harm, dad. He’ll be all right when he goes to school. Let him off this once.”