"Well," said Stephen, in a teasing tone, "he wouldn't have gone off if it hadn't been for you, Master Willy! You said he wanted father's money, you know, and that was what put us to thinking."
"O, yes, he telled me he wanted it," cried the little fellow stoutly.
"Willy, Willy, you should be more careful in repeating other people's words," said Mrs. Parlin, looking up from the jacket she was making. "Little boys like you are so apt to make mistakes, that they ought to say, 'Perhaps,' or, 'I think so,' and never be too sure."
"Then I'm not sure; but perhaps I know, and I guess I think so real hard."
"That's right, little Pawnee Indian," laughed Stephen. "Indians like you always stick fast to an idea when they once get hold of it."
"I'm not an Indian," said Willy, ready to cry; "and I never said Caleb stealed; 'twas you said so; you know you did."
It grew very cold that winter, about "Christmas-tide," and one night the wind howled and shrieked, while up in the sky the moon and stars seemed to shiver and shine like so many icicles. Willy had been put to bed at the usual time, and nicely tucked in, and it was nearly half past eight, the time for him to begin his wanderings. Lydia sat by the kitchen fireplace, comforting herself with hot ginger tea.
"It would be too bad for that little creetur to get out of bed such a night as this," thought she; "I'm going in to see if he has enough clothes on. Who knows but his dear little nose is about fruz off by this time?"
So she stole into the bedroom, which opened out of the kitchen, took a peep at her beloved Willy, made sure his nose was safe, and turned down the coverlet to see if his hands were warm.
"Poor, sweet little lamb! Not much cold now; but thee will be cold; this room is just like a barn."