"Yes, you do!" I cried; "you understand me too well, and that is why you torture me."
"What!" exclaimed Alf, springing to his feet, "are you on the gridiron? Has she got you where somebody has got me? By—there comes mother."
I looked back as I passed out of the room, and Guinea sat there, musing. Alf put his arm about me as we went up the stairs. We did not light the lamp, but sat down in the dark, sat there and for a long time were silent.
"Bill, oh, Bill."
"Yes," I answered.
"Bill, don't ask me anything. Father may tell you something to-morrow. God bless you, Bill. You have stood by me. Good-night."
CHAPTER IX.
It must have been daylight before I worried my way into a sleep that seemed jagged and sharp-cornered with many an evil turn; and when I awoke the sun was shining. I looked out, and far across the field I saw Alf, walking behind his plow. The hour was late for one to rise in the country, for the sun was far above the tops of the trees. But I cared not for any impression that might be made by my apparent laziness; my head was heavy and my heart was crushed. No sound came from below, and after dressing—and how mean my clothes did look—I sat down at my writing desk—sat and mused, just as I had seen Guinea sitting, with her elbows on the table and with her chin in her hands. And Alf would ask the old man to tell me something. Tell me what?
I went down stairs. Mrs. Jucklin was sweeping the yard. She put down her broom upon seeing me and came forward, wiping her hands. I began to apologize for being so late. "Oh, that makes no difference," she said. "Alf told us not to wake you. I will go in and fix you something to eat."