"And do you believe him, Uncle Otto?"

"Believe him? why of course I do. He himself told me the story three times
distinctly."

"If," said the girl slowly, "he had walked for only one day his boots would
not have looked so; and if--"

"If!" said the German starting up in his chair, irritated that any one
should doubt such irrefragable evidence--"if! Why, he told me himself!
Look how he lies there," added the German pathetically, "worn out--poor
fellow! We have something for him though," pointing with his forefinger
over his shoulder to the saucepan that stood on the fire. "We are not
cooks--not French cooks, not quite; but it's drinkable, drinkable, I think;
better than nothing, I think," he added, nodding his head in a jocund
manner that evinced his high estimation of the contents of the saucepan and
his profound satisfaction therein. "Bish! bish! my chicken," he said, as
Lyndall tapped her little foot up and down upon the floor. "Bish! bish! my
chicken, you will wake him."

He moved the candle so that his own head might intervene between it and the
sleeper's face; and, smoothing his newspaper, he adjusted his spectacles to
read.

The child's grey-black eyes rested on the figure on the bed, then turned to
the German, then rested on the figure again.

"I think he is a liar. Good night, Uncle Otto," she said slowly, turning
to the door.