It was early, but she got some supper for him, and put him to bed, and
sat beside him until he went to sleep. She told him over and over that
she knew he "didn't," in reply to his piteous assertions, and all the
time she had not the least idea what it was all about.

After he had fallen asleep she went downstairs, and Grandma Stockton
told her. Willy's father had come, and he also heard the story.

"There's some mistake about it," said he. "I'll make Willy tell me
about it, to-morrow. Nothing is going to make me believe that he is
persisting in a deliberate lie in this way."

Willy's mother was crying herself, now. "He never--told me a lie in
his whole dear little life," she sobbed, "and I don't believe he has
now. Nothing will ever--make me believe so."

"Don't cry, Ellen," said her husband. "There's something about this
that we don't understand."

It was all talked over and over that night, but they were no nearer
understanding the case.

"I'll see what I can do with Willy in the morning," his father said
again, when the discussion was ended for the night.

Willy was not awake at the breakfast hour next morning, so the family
sat down without him. They were not half through the meal when there
were some quick steps on the path outside; the door was jerked open,
and there was aunt Annie and uncle Frank.