“Ay,” she said, with quiet conviction, “he will forget, and he will hide them. Why should he lay the burden of our sins upon others? And if he does not why should we?”
“Do you mean we need not always tell? I'd like to tell my—some one.”
“Ay,” she replied, “it's a weary wark and a lanely to carry it oor lane, but it's an awfu' grief to hear o' anither's sin. An awfu' grief,” she repeated to herself.
“But,” burst out Hughie, “I'll never be right till I tell my mother.”
“Ay, and then it is she would be carrying the weight o' it.”
“But it's against her,” said Hughie, his hands going up to his face. “Oh, Mrs. Finch, it's just awful mean. I don't know how I did it.”
“Ye can tell me, laddie, if ye will,” said she, kindly, and Hughie poured forth the whole burden that had lain so long upon him, but he told it laying upon Foxy small blame, for during those days, his own part had come to bulk so large with him that Foxy's was almost forgotten.
For some moments after he had done Mrs. Finch sat in silence, leaning forward and patting the boy's bowed head.
“Ay, but he is rightly named,” she said, at length.
“Who?” asked Hughie, surprised.