He nodded, not trusting himself to speak, while I turned
to light my pipe, wasting three matches quite fruitlessly.
"Uncle Dick," he burst out at last, struggling manfully against his
sobs, "I - I'm awfull' - sorry - "
"Oh, ifs all right now, Imp. Shake hands!" Joyfully the little,
grimy fingers clasped mine, and from that moment I think there grew
up between us a new understanding.
"Why, Imp, my darling, you're crying!" exclaimed a voice, and with
a rustle of skirts Lisbeth was down before him on her knees.
"I know I am - 'cause I'm awfull' sorry - an' Uncle Dick's whipped
my hands - an' I'm glad!"
"Whipped your hands?' cried Lisbeth, clasping him closer, and
glaring at me, "Whipped your hands - how dare he! What for?"
"'Cause I cut the rope an' let the boat go away with you, an' you
might have been drowned dead in the weir, an' I'm awfull' glad
Uncle Dick whipped me."
"0-h-h!" exclaimed Lisbeth, and it was a very long drawn "oh!" indeed.
"I don't know what made me do it," continued the imp. "I 'specks
it was my new knife - it was so nice an sharp, you know.
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