Grandfather nodded his head. Then he tramped up and down in the garden. He forgot to smoke. Crime weighed upon his soul.
"Boy," said he, sternly, stopping in his walk. "You must never be naughty again. Do you hear me?"
"I won't, Grandfather."
Grandfather resumed his tramping; then paused and turned to where you sat on the wheelbarrow.
"But if you ever are naughty again, you must go at once and tell Mother. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Grandfather."
Up and down Grandfather tramped moodily, his head bent, his hands clasped behind him—up and down between the verbenas and hollyhocks. He paused irresolutely—turned—turned again—and came back to you.
"Boy, Grandfather's just as bad and wicked as you are. He ought to have made you tell Mother about the pitcher first, and take it to the tinker afterwards. You must never keep anything from your mother again—never. Do you hear?"
"Yes, Grandfather," you whimpered, hanging your head.
"Come, boy."