“Eat,” said the boy, “I shall say nothing.”

Bonaparte, who knew the truth when another spoke it, closed the door, carefully putting on the button. Then he looked to see that the curtain of the window was closely pulled down, and seated himself at the table. He was soon munching the cold meat and bread. Waldo knelt on the floor, bathing the foot with hands which the dog licked lovingly. Once only he glanced at the table, and turned away quickly.

“Ah, yes! I don’t wonder that you can’t look at me, Waldo,” said Bonaparte: “my condition would touch any heart. You see, the water was fatty, and that has made all the sand stick to me; and my hair,” said Bonaparte, tenderly touching the little fringe at the back of his head, “is all caked over like a little plank: you wouldn’t think it was hair at all,” said Bonaparte, plaintively. “I had to creep all along the stone walls for fear she’d see me, and with nothing on my head but a red handkerchief tied under my chin, Waldo; and to hide in a ‘sloot’ the whole day, with not a mouthful of food, Waldo. And she gave me such a blow, just here,” said Bonaparte.

He had cleared the plate of the last morsel, when Waldo rose and walked to the door.

“Oh, Waldo, my dear boy, you are not going to call her,” said Bonaparte, rising anxiously.

“I am going to sleep in the wagon,” said the boy, opening the door.

“Oh, we can both sleep in this bed: there’s plenty of room. Do stay, my boy, please.”

But Waldo stepped out.

“It was such a little whip, Waldo,” said Bonaparte, following him deprecatingly. “I didn’t think it would hurt you so much. It was such a little whip. I’m sure you didn’t take the peaches. You aren’t going to call her, Waldo, are you?”

But the boy walked off.

Bonaparte waited till his figure had passed round the front of the wagon-house, and then slipped out. He hid himself round the corner, but kept peeping out to see who was coming. He felt sure the boy was gone to call Tant’ Sannie. His teeth chattered with inward cold as he looked round into the darkness, and thought of the snakes that might bite him, and the dreadful things that might attack him, and the dead that might arise out of their graves if he slept out in the field all night. But more than an hour passed, and no footstep approached.

Then Bonaparte made his way back to the cabin. He buttoned the door and put the table against it, and, giving the dog a kick to silence his whining when the foot throbbed, he climbed into bed. He did not put out the light for fear of the ghost, but, worn out with the sorrows of the day, was soon asleep himself.

About four o’clock Waldo, lying between the seats of the horse-wagon, was awakened by a gentle touch on his head.