“He has the matter in his own hands. Now then, Dennis, are these tales of yours true?”
“Yes,” faltered the quivering lips.
“Once more, are they true?”
“They are true! they are true! What shall I do? If you kill me, they’re true.”
“I’m not at all likely to kill you, but I mean to cure you of lying. It’s obstinacy; for you must know you’ve told lies. Are these things true?”
“Y—ye—I mean—I think so,” hedged poor Dennis desperately.
“Go into the house,” said the man with a push. “You’ve brought it on yourself, and it serves you right.”
Consolatory reflection. The child slunk into the house crying bitterly. The girl attempted further intercession.
“It’s no good, Kate,” said the man angrily. “I’m shocked at the child’s obstinacy. He has told a gratuitous falsehood, and he must, as I said, take the consequences.”
So Dennis took the consequences, and woke up at night shrieking with nightmare as their direct result. Daily the same question was put to him, and received the same answer which produced the same pains and penalties, save that they grew a little more grievous daily because of the increasing blackness of his sin. Dennis went about with a white face and silent tongue; his eyes were red and swollen, and there were purple rings under them. At last on the fifth day the child breaking down confessed himself to be a wilful and egregious perverter of the truth.