"I was thinking about your going out there, uncle, all alone."

"Well, my boy, do you suppose I shall be frightened?"

"No, uncle, of course not; but won't you be dull?"

"I shall be too busy to be dull, my boy. The only likely time for me to be dull is of an evening, and then I shall go to sleep."

He went on with his work until it grew dark, and then at his request I lit the lamp, placed it down close to his writing, and remained standing there by his elbow wanting to speak but not daring to do so, till he suddenly turned round and looked me in the face.

"Why, Nat, my boy, what's the matter? Are you unwell?"

"No, uncle," I said slowly.

"What then? Is anything wrong?"

"I--I was thinking about when you are gone, uncle."

"Ah! yes, my boy; you'll have to go back to school then and work away at your ciphering and French. I shall often think about you, Nat, when I am busy over the birds I have shot, skinning and preserving them; and when I come back, Nat, you must help me again."

"When you come back?" I said dolefully.

"Yes, my lad. Let me see--you are fourteen now. In four or five years you will have grown quite a man. Perhaps you will not care to help me then."

"Oh, uncle!" I cried; for I could keep it back no longer. It had been the one great thought of my mind night and day for weeks now, and if my prayer were not gratified the whole of my future seemed to be too blank and miserable to be borne.

"Why, what is it, my boy?" he said. "Nat, my lad, don't be afraid to speak out. Is anything wrong?"

"Yes, uncle," I panted; for my words seemed to choke me.

"Speak out then, my boy, what is it?"

"You--you are going away, uncle."

"Well, Nat, you've known that for months," he said, with a smile.

"Yes, uncle; but don't go by yourself," I cried. "Take me with you; I won't want much to eat--I won't give you any trouble; and I'll work so very, very hard to help you always, and I could be useful to you.

Pray--pray, uncle, take me too."

He pushed his chair away from the table and sat gazing at me with a frown upon his face, then he jumped up and began walking swiftly up and down the room.

"I would hardly let you know that I was with you, uncle, and there should be nothing you wanted that I would not do. Don't be angry with me for asking to go, for I do want to go with you so very, very much."

"Angry, my boy! No, not angry," he cried; "but no, no; it is impossible."

"Don't say that, uncle," I cried; "I would work so hard."

"Yes, yes, my boy, I know that; but it would not be just to you to drag you away there to those wild lands to live like a savage half your time."

"But I should like that, uncle," I cried excitedly.

"To expose you to risks of voyaging, from the savages, and from disease.

No, no, Nat, you must not ask me. It would not do."

"Oh, uncle!" I cried, with such a pitiful look of disappointment on my face, that he stopped and laid his hand upon my shoulder.

"Why, Nat, my boy," he said in a soft, gentle way, very different to his usual mode of speaking, "nothing would be more delightful to me than to have you for my companion; not for my servant, to work so hard, but to be my friend, helpmate, and counsellor in all my journeyings. Why, it would be delightful to have you with me, boy, to enjoy with me the discovery of some new specimen."

"Which we had hunted out in some wild jungle where man had never been before, uncle!"

"Bird or b.u.t.terfly, it would be all the same, Nat; we should prize it and revel in our discovery."

"Yes, and I'd race you, uncle, and see which could find most new sorts."

"And of an evening we could sit in our tent or hut, and skin and preserve, or pin out what we had found during the day, Nat, eh?"

"Oh, uncle, it would be glorious!" I cried excitedly. "And I say-- birds of paradise! We would make such a collection of all the loveliest kinds."

"Then we should have to hunt and fish, Nat, for the pot, for there would be no butchers' and fishmongers' shops, lad."

"Oh! it would be glorious, uncle!" I cried.

"Glorious, my boy!" he said as excitedly as I; "why, we should get on splendidly, and--tut, tut, tut! what an idiot am I! Hold your tongue, sir, it is impossible!"

"Uncle!"

"Here have I been encouraging the boy, instead of crushing the idea at once," he cried impatiently. "No, no, no, Nat, my boy. It was very foolish of me to speak as I did. You must not think of it any more."

"Oh! uncle, don't talk to me like that," I cried. "Pray, pray take me with you."

"I tell you no, boy," he said impatiently. "It would be unjust to you to encourage you to lead such a vagabond life as mine. Say no more about it, sir," he added harshly. "It is impossible!"

A deep sigh escaped my lips, and then I was silent, for my uncle turned to his writing again, and for the next week he was cold and distant to me, while I went on with my task in a dull, spiritless manner, feeling so miserable that I was always glad to go and hide myself away, to sit and think, and wonder what I should do when my uncle had gone.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

UNCLE d.i.c.k SAYS "YES!"

It was about a fortnight after this conversation, during the whole of which time Uncle d.i.c.k seemed to have kept me so at arm's-length that my very life had become wretched in the extreme, when, being in the drawing-room one evening, my aunt, who had been talking to him about his preparations for going away in three weeks' time, suddenly drew his attention to me.

"Do you see how ill and white this boy has turned, Richard? Now it's of no use you denying it; he's quite upset with your nasty birds and stuff."

"No, he is not," cried Uncle d.i.c.k suddenly; and his whole manner changed. "The boy is fretting."

"Fretting!" cried my aunt; "with plenty to eat and drink, and a good bed to sleep on! What has he to fret about?"

"He is fretting because he has taken it into his head that he would like to go with me."