"What didst thee want to sit up for?" pursued my father, keen and
sharp as a ferret at a field-rat's hole, or a barrister hunting a
witness in those courts of law that were never used by, though often
used against, us Quakers.

John hesitated, and again his painful, falsely-accusing blushes tried
him sore. "Sir, I'll tell you; it's no disgrace. Though I'm such a
big fellow I can't write; and your son was good enough to try and
teach me. I was afraid of forgetting the letters; so I tried to make
them all over again, with a bit of chalk, on the bark-shed wall. It
did nobody any harm that I know of."

The boy's tone, even though it was rather quick and angry, won no
reproof. At last my father said gently enough--

"Is that all, lad?"

"Yes."

Again Abel Fletcher fell into a brown study. We two lads talked
softly to each other--afraid to interrupt. He smoked through a whole
pipe--his great and almost his only luxury, and then again called
out--

"John Halifax."

"I'm here."

"It's time thee went away to thy work."