"Better wait for an invitation. How do you know we shall let you ride?" said Stephen, turning the horse's head towards home.
"First, we'd like to know what you've got to say for yourself," put in Seth, in that cold, hard tone, which always made Willy feel as if he didn't care how he had acted, and as if he would do just so again.
"I suppose you are aware that you have been a very wicked, deceitful, disobedient boy?"
Willy made no reply, but lay down on the floor of the wagon, and curled himself up like a caterpillar.
"Don't be too hard on him, Seth," said Stephen, who could not help pitying the poor little fellow in his shame and embarrassment; "I don't believe you meant to run away—now did you, Willy?"
The child was quite touched by this unexpected kindness. So they were not sure he did mean to run away? If he said "No," they would believe him, and then perhaps he wouldn't have to be whipped. But next instant his better self triumphed, and he scorned the lie. Uncurling himself from his caterpillar ball, he stammered,—
"Yes, I did mean to, too."
A little more, and he would have told the whole story. He longed to tell it—how life had seemed a burden on account of his whippings, and how he and Fred had planned to set up in business for themselves, but Fred had backed out. But before he had time to speak, Seth said, sternly,—
"You saucy child!"
He had taken Willy's quick "Yes, I did mean to, too," for impertinence; whereas it was one of the bravest speeches the boy ever made, and did him honor.