"They 'pose upon you," said he. "I never'd stand it."

Until Freddy told him he was imposed upon, w.i.l.l.y had never suspected it; but, after that, he saw he had nearly all the work to do, and that Seth and Stephen did not help as much as they might. The more he reflected upon the subject, the more unhappy he grew, and the more he lingered over his wood and chips.

"Did you ever hear of the little boy and the two pails of water?" said his mother.

"O, what about him, mamma? Do tell me."

"Why, the boy was told to draw two pails of water from the well; but instead of drawing them he sat down and dreaded it, till he pined away, and pined away, and finally died."

w.i.l.l.y ran out with his basket, and never asked again to hear the story of the boy and the two pails. But the wood-pile seemed to be lying on top of his heart, crushing him, till he was relieved by a bright idea.

Why not stand some sticks upright in the bottom of the box, and then lay the rest of the wood on top of them? It would look just the same as usual; but _what_ a help!

The box was in the entry, and the "fore-room" door shut; he could cheat as well as not.

"Now I'll have lots of time to play!"

"What, you here yet, w.i.l.l.y?" said his mother, opening the door. She thought he had been an unusually long while filling the box; and so he had. It was new business, doing it in this way, and it took time.

"I supposed you had gone, darling, for I didn't hear you whistle."

w.i.l.l.y whistled faintly, as he laid on the last stick. How lucky his mother hadn't opened the door sooner!

"That's a nice big box full, my son. You please your mother this morning. Come here and kiss me."

w.i.l.l.y went, and then Mrs. Parlin, who was a fine singer, and knew a great many ballads, sang, smiling,--

"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray?

And why doth thy nose look so blue?"

She often sang that when he came into the house cold, and then he would sing in reply, with a voice almost as sweet as her own,--

"'Tis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new, Well-a-day!"

But he was not in a musical mood this morning: he felt in a hurry to be off; and giving his mother a hasty kiss, he bounded away without his shingle-covered spelling-book, and had to come back after it.

Foolish w.i.l.l.y! Did he think his mamma would not find out the deep-laid plot, which had cost him so much labor? Children have no idea how bright their parents are! It was a very cold day in December, and as Mrs.

Parlin kept up a roaring fire, she came before noon to the upright sticks standing in the wood-box, as straight as soldiers on a march. She sighed a little, and smiled a little, but said not a word, for she was a wise woman, was Mrs. Parlin.

"Well, w.i.l.l.y boy," said she, when he came home from school, and had had his supper of brown bread, baked apples, and milk, "come, let us have a sing."

There was nothing w.i.l.l.y and his mother enjoyed better than a "sing," she holding him in her lap and rocking him the while. He put his whole soul into the music, miscalling the Scotch words sometimes so charmingly that it was a real delight to hear him. People often stopped at the threshold, I am told, or at the open window in summer, to listen to the clear childish voice in such ballads as,--

"Fy! let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there; For Jock's to be married to Maggie, The la.s.s wi' the gowden hair."

To-night it was "Colin's Come to Town;" and w.i.l.l.y's tones rang sweet and high,--

"His very step has music in't, As he comes up the stair."

"Did you ever hear the beat of that little chap for singing?" said Caleb, in the bar-room, to Dr. Hilton and Mr. Griggs.

Since that sad affair of the ox-money Caleb had loved w.i.l.l.y better than ever, though it would be hard to tell why; perhaps because the child had been so glad to see him come back again.

"Bless him!" said Love, bringing the bra.s.s warming-pan into the "fore-room," to fill it with coals at the fireplace. "Why, mother, I never hear the name 'w.i.l.l.y,' but it makes me think of music. It sounds as sweet as if you said 'nightingale.'"

Mrs. Parlin answered by folding the singing-bird closer to her heart.

"And do you know what the word 'Mother' makes me think of?--Of a great large woman, always just ready to hug somebody."

Mrs. Parlin laughed.

"Yes, indeed it does. And it doesn't seem as if a small woman is really fit to be called mother. There's Dorcas Lyman: when she says 'Mother' to that little woman, it sounds so queer to me; for Mrs. Lyman isn't big enough, you know."

"_Course_ she isn't; not half big enough," said w.i.l.l.y. "I could 'most lift her with my little finger. But, then, that baby--she's got a real nice baby; wish she'd give Patty to me."

Love smiled, and walked off, with her long-handled warming-pan, to heat a traveller's bed in the icy north chamber.

w.i.l.l.y's heart was full of tenderness for his mother, whom he kept kissing fondly. Now was a good time to speak of the upright, deceitful sticks of wood, perhaps; but Mrs. Parlin did not do it. She began the Evening Hymn, and w.i.l.l.y sang with her:--

"Glory to Thee, my G.o.d, this night, For all the blessings of the light; Keep me, O keep me, King of kings, Beneath thine own almighty wings.

"Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son, The ills which I this day have done, That with the world, myself, and Thee, I, ere I sleep, at peace may be."

"Now, w.i.l.l.y," said Mrs. Parlin, pausing, "let us think a while, and try to remember what we have done to-day that is wrong. You think, and I will think, too."

He looked up, and she knew by the cloud in his eyes that his conscience was troubled.

"Well, I'll think. But _you_ haven't done anything wrong, mamma?"

"O, yes, dear; many things."

"Well, so've I, too. Want me to tell what?"

"Not unless you choose, my child. Only be sure you tell G.o.d."

They were silent a few moments.

"There, that's the _last_ time I'll ever stand the sticks up on end in the wood-box," burst forth w.i.l.l.y.

"I thought so," said his mother, kissing him.

So she had known about it all the while!

But not another word did she say; and they went on with the hymn:--

"Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed.

Teach me to die, that so I may Triumphing rise at the last day."