"But, uncle," I murmured, full of wonder which had had no time to take
shape, "how is it?"
He answered in a whisper that seemed to dread the ear of the wind, lest
it should hear him--
"You saw, did you?"
"I saw you upon Death away there in the middle of the lightning. I was
going to you. I don't know what to think."
My uncle and I often called the horse by his English name.
"Neither do I," he returned, with a strange half voice, as if he were
choking. "It must have been--I don't know what. There is a deep bog away
just there. It must be a lake by now!"
"Yes, uncle; I might have remembered! But how was I to think of that when
I saw you there--on dear old Death too! He's the last of horses to get
into a bog: he knows his own weight too well!"
"But why did you come out on such a night? What possessed you, little
one--in such a storm? I begin to be afraid what next you may do."
"I never do anything--now--that I think you would mind me doing," I
answered. "But if you will write out a little book of _mays_ and
_maynots_, I will learn it by heart."
"No, no," he returned; "we are not going back to the tables of the law!
You have a better law written in your heart, my child; I will trust to
that.--But tell me why you came out on such a night--and as dark as
pitch."
"Just because it was such a night, uncle, and you were out in it," I
answered.
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