When he came to the period of authentic history, or that which was stored up in his memory, he grew eloquent, and the narrative glowed with the living fire of the hero. Julia was quite as much interested as Desdemona in the story of the swarthy Moor. His "round, unvarnished tale," adorned only with the flowers of youthful simplicity, enchained her attention, and she "loved him for the dangers he had passed;" loved him, not as Desdemona loved, but as a child loves. She was sure now that he was not a bad boy; that even a good boy might do such a thing as run away from cruel and exacting guardians.
"What a strange story, Harry! How near you came to being drowned in the river! I wonder the man had not killed you! And then they wanted to send you to prison for setting the barn afire!" exclaimed Julia, when he had finished the story.
"I came pretty near it; that's a fact!" replied Harry, warming under the approbation of his partial auditor.
"And you killed the big dog?"
"I don't know; I hope I didn't."
"But you didn't steal the horse?"
"I didn't mean to steal him."
"No one could call that stealing. But what are you going to do next, Harry?"
"I am going to Boston."
"What will you do when you get there?"