Willie is about. I thought I heard him coming down. Isn't it time,
David, we did something about his schooling? It won't do to have him
idling about this way all day long.'

'He's a mere child,' returned my uncle. 'I'm not forgetting him. But I
can't send him away yet.'

'You know best,' returned my aunt.

_Send me away!_ What could it mean? Why should I--where should I go?
Was not the old place a part of me, just like my own clothes on my own
body? This was the kind of feeling that woke in me at the words. But
hearing my aunt push back her chair, evidently with the purpose of
finding me, I descended into the room.

'Come along, Willie,' said my uncle. 'Hear the wind how it roars!'

'Yes, uncle; it does roar,' I said, feeling a hypocrite for the first
time in my life. Knowing far more about the roaring than he did, I yet
spoke like an innocent!

'Do you know who makes the wind, Willie?'

'Yes. The trees,' I answered.

My uncle opened his blue eyes very wide, and looked at my aunt. He had
had no idea what a little heathen I was. The more a man has wrought out
his own mental condition, the readier he is to suppose that children
must be able to work out theirs, and to forget that he did not work out
his information, but only his conclusions. My uncle began to think it