“No, no! I’ll be livin’ where I’ve always lived––with mother.”
“Ye cannot live alone.”
“Ay; but I’m able t’ live alone––an’ fish alone––like mother done.”
“’Twas not her wish, child,” says my uncle. “She’d have ye live along o’ me. ‘Why, Judy,’ she’d have ye know, ‘do ye live along o’ he. Do ye trust, little maid,’ she’d have ye t’ know, ‘that there ol’ Nick Top. He’ve a powerful bad look t’ the eye in his head,’ she’d say, ‘an’ he’ve the name o’ the devil; but Lord love ye!’ she’d say, ‘he’ve a heart with room t’ contain ye, an’ a warm welcome t’ dwell within. He’ve took good care o’ little ol’ Dannie,’ she’d say, ‘an’ he’ll take good care o’ you. He’ll never see ye hurt or wronged or misguided so long as he lives. Not,’ she’d say, ‘that there damned ol’ rascal!’ An’ if ye come, Judy, dear,” my uncle entreated, “I won’t see ye wronged––I won’t!” My uncle’s little eyes were overrunning now––the little eyes he would not look into. The parson still paced the floor, still unheeding, still muttering fervent prayer of some strange sort; but my uncle, aged in sinful ways, was frankly crying. “Ye’ll come, Judy, will ye not?” he begged. “Along o’ ol’ Nick Top, who would not see ye wronged? Ah, little girl!” he implored––and then her head fell against him––“ye’ll surely never doubt Nick Top. An’ ye’ll come t’ he, an’ ye’ll sort o’ look after un, will ye not?––that poor ol’ feller!”
Judith was sobbing on his breast.
“That poor, poor ol’ feller!”
She wept the more bitterly.
“Poor little girl!” he crooned, patting her shoulder. “Ah, the poor little girl!”
“I’ll go!” cried Judith, in a passion of woe and gratitude. “I’ll go––an’ trust an’ love an’ care for you!”