“When I said the Good Old Man wasn't a good man, I didn't want to set you against him. I want you to be good to him.”
“Yes, mother,” the boy assented in a puzzle. “But if he ain't good—”
“He ain't, Joey. He's a wicked man. Sometimes I think he's the wickedest man in the world. But I want you to watch out, and if ever you can help him, or do anything for him, remember that I wanted you to do it: a boy can often help a man.”
“I will, mother. But I don't see the reason, if he's so very wicked, why—”
“That's the very reason, Joey dear. And go and tell Benny now that I let you go. And—don't tell him what I said about the Good Old Man.”
“Oh, I woon't, I woon't, mom! Oh, glory—Oh, I didn't mean to say it, and I didn't, really, did I? But I'm so glad, and Benny'll be, too! Can I tell him now? To-night?”
“Yes. Run along.”
He hesitated; then he leaped into the air with a joyful yell and vanished round the corner of the cabin into the dusk.
His mother did not leave her place on the threshold, but sat with her face bowed in her hands. By and by Jane Gillespie came to the door from within, and then Nancy lifted her head and made room for her to sit beside her. She told her what had passed, and Jane said, “If I was a man I would—Well, I know what I would do!”
She did not sit down, but stood behind Nancy and talked down over her shoulder. “Yes,” Nancy said, “that's what I used to say when I was a girl. But now I'm glad I ain't a man, for I wouldn't know what to do.”