“He is not a bad man, is he, Uncle Colonel?” His lips could hardly frame the words.
“Certainly not. He is not a bad man. He is a—a good man, but he is having a very bad time.”
“He said—he said—” Paul’s voice dropped almost to a whisper, “he said—he did—a—an awful bad thing—before—before Peter was born. But he did not—did he, Uncle Colonel?”
The Colonel swore a deep oath, consigning Asa to depths of condemnation unutterable. The boy’s honest clear blue eyes the Colonel felt were boring clean down into his very soul. Nothing but the truth seemed possible. He would have given untold wealth to have been able to “lie like a gentleman.” But those blue eyes boring into the secret places of his very being disconcerted the little Colonel. He hesitated just a moment, then knew it was too late for anything but straight talking.
“Peg, ride on,” he commanded, and Peg, recognising the tone, without question or hesitation obeyed.
Dismounting, the Colonel drew the boy down to a seat beside him and there, face to face and as if man to man, told him the wretched tale, seeing with the boy’s pure clean eyes all its sordidness in such light as he had never before conceived it.
An hour passed, and the boy still lay on his face, shuddering and sobbing. The Colonel sat down beside him, striving with word and touch to lay what healing balm he might upon that raw and quivering wound. Gradually the boy’s sobbing grew quiet. He rose from the ground, exhausted, white and trembling.
“I think, Uncle Colonel,” he said, making a brave attempt to steady his lips, “I’ll ride home.”
The Colonel searched his white face.
“Paul, you will come home with me tonight,” he said firmly, “and tomorrow we shall have another talk.”