"Yes, Uncle," I replied.

"Did you eat your meat?"

"No; I threw it out of the window. I don't like meat."

"You told your aunt an untruth, then."

"No; she asked me if I had eaten my dinner, and I answered that I had,
but I did not say that I had eaten my meat."

"What punishment has she given you?"

"I am to write out 'Our Father' and the 'Creed' three times before going
to bed."

"Do you know them by heart?"

"No, not very well; I make mistakes always."

And the adorable man would then dictate to me "Our Father" and the
"Creed," and I copied it in the most devoted way, as he used to dictate
with deep feeling and emotion. He was religious, very religious indeed,
this uncle of mine, and after the death of my aunt he became a
Carthusian monk. As I write these lines, ill and aged as he is, and bent
with pain, I know he is digging his own grave, weak with the weight of
the spade, imploring God to take him, and thinking sometimes of me, of
his little Bohemian. Ah, the dear, good man, it is to him that I owe all
that is best in me. I love him devotedly and have the greatest respect