"I saw you upon Death away there in the middle of the lightning. I was
going to you. I don't know what to think."

My uncle and I often called the horse by his English name.

"Neither do I," he returned, with a strange half voice, as if he were
choking. "It must have been--I don't know what. There is a deep bog away
just there. It must be a lake by now!"

"Yes, uncle; I might have remembered! But how was I to think of that when
I saw you there--on dear old Death too! He's the last of horses to get
into a bog: he knows his own weight too well!"

"But why did you come out on such a night? What possessed you, little
one--in such a storm? I begin to be afraid what next you may do."

"I never do anything--now--that I think you would mind me doing," I
answered. "But if you will write out a little book of _mays_ and
_maynots_, I will learn it by heart."

"No, no," he returned; "we are not going back to the tables of the law!
You have a better law written in your heart, my child; I will trust to
that.--But tell me why you came out on such a night--and as dark as
pitch."

"Just because it was such a night, uncle, and you were out in it," I
answered. "Ain't I your own little girl? I hope you ain't sorry I came,
uncle! I am glad; and I shouldn't like ever to be glad at what made you
sorry."