That soft slinking with his hand behind his back at once struck me as suspicious; and my face fell; and, bursting into tears, I cried:
"Oh, father, I thought I was giving it to God!"
"Lord, lad, what a duffer—what an idiot you are!" cried my father. "You're much too good for this world and yet quite too silly to die! What you want is to have your soul thrashed out of your skin with a stout besom."
And then, when the hand with the twisted birch-rod came in view, I raised a great hullabaloo.
Mother came rushing up at once. As a rule, she seldom interfered when father was correcting me; but, this time, she caught hold of his hand and said:
"I dare say I can sew the jacket together again, father. Come with me: I have something to tell you."
They both went out into the kitchen; I think they must have discussed the story of St. Martin. Presently, they came back to the room.
Father said:
"All right now, be quiet; there's nothing going to be done to you."
And mother whispered in my ear: