"Then you'll be a tell-tale, Mr. Seth."
"Do you think I'll have my little brother grow up a thief?"
"I wasn't a thief; but you're a tell-tale. You said, yesterday, little boys mustn't tattle, and I guess big boys mustn't tattle, neither," chuckled the aggravating Willy, dragging his basket of iron into the kitchen.
"Mother," said Seth, as Mrs. Parlin passed through the shed with a pan of sour milk, "there's got to be something done with Willy; he has taken to stealing."
Mrs. Parlin set the pan upon a bench, and sank down on the meat-block, too weak to stand.
"I caught him just now, mother, lugging off a great basket full of old iron; and if you don't go right in and stop him, he'll take it up to the store to sell."
"Is that all?" exclaimed Mrs. Parlin, drawing a deep breath. "Why, how you frightened me! His father gave him leave to collect what old iron he could find, and sell it to make up for the medal he lost the other day."
"Well there, mother, I'm glad to hear it—that's a fact! But why didn't the little rogue tell me? I declare, he deserves a good whipping for imposing upon me so."
"He ought to have told you; but perhaps you spoke harshly to him, my son. You know Willy can't bear that."
"I don't think I was very harsh, mother. You wouldn't have me see the child doing wrong, and not correct him—would you?"