ation
of my spirit, laying my head upon my arms and crying like a girl.

For a few minutes Uncle Joe was so taken aback that he sat there
breathing hard and staring at me.

"Why, Nat--Nat, my boy," he said at last, as he got down off the tub and
stood there patting my shoulders. "What is the matter, my boy; are you
poorly?"

"No--no--no," I sobbed. "It's horrid, horrid, horrid!"

"What's horrid, Natty?" he said.

"That dreadful bird. Oh, uncle," I cried passionately, "I knew I
couldn't do it when I began."

"The bird? What! Humpty Dumpty? What! Polly? Why, my boy, she's
splendid, and your aunt will be so--"

"She's not," I cried, flashing into passion. "She isn't like a bird at
all. I know how soft and rounded and smooth birds are; and did you ever
see such a horrid thing as that? It's a beast, uncle! It's a regular
guy! It's a--oh, oh!"

In my rage of disappointment at the miserable result of so much hard
work I tore the lump of feathered wood from the bench, dashed it upon
the ground, and stamped upon it. Then my passion seemed to flash away
as quickly as it had come, and I stood staring at Uncle Joe and Uncle
Joe stared at me.

CHAPTER SIX.

A PIECE OF DECEIT THAT WAS NOT CARRIED OUT.

For a few minutes neither of us spoke. Uncle Joe seemed to be astounded
and completely taken off his balance. He put on his glasses and took
them off over and over again. He laid down his pipe and rubbed his
hands first and then his face with his crimson silk handkerchief, ending
by taking off his glasses and rolling them in the handkerchief, flipping
them afterwards under the bench all amongst the broken flower-pots. And
all the time I felt a prey to the bitterest remorse, and as if I had
done something so wicked that I could never be forgiven again.

"Oh, uncle! dear Uncle Joe," I cried passionately. "I am so--so sorry."

"Sorry, Nat!" he said, taking my outstretched hands, and then drawing me
to his breast, holding me there and patting my back with both his hands.
"Sorry, Nat! yes, that's what I felt, my boy. It was such a pity, you
know."

"Oh, no, Uncle Joe," I cried, looking down at my work. "It was
horrible, and I've been more ashamed of it every day."

"Have you, Nat, my boy?" he said. "Oh, yes, uncle, but I kept on hoping
that--that somehow--somehow it would come better."

"That's what I've been hoping, my boy," he said, "for you did try very
hard."

"Yes, uncle, I tried very, v