terror--and of loneliness: for it seemed to my childish mind that when
my uncle was drunk I had no friend at all. But 'twas all plain sailing
afterwards--a sober, cheerful guardian, restless to be off to Twist
Tickle. My uncle would buy new outfits for me at the shops, arrange
the regular shipment of such delicacies as the St. John's markets
afforded according to the season, seek gifts with which to delight and
profit me, gather the news of fashion, lie in wait for dropped hints
as to the manners and customs of gentlemen, procure his allowance of
whiskey for the six months to come: in every way providing for my
happiness and well-being and for such meagre comfort as he would allow
himself.

Then off to Twist Tickle: and glad we were of it when the _Lake_ got
beyond the narrows and the big, clean, clear-aired sea lay ahead!

[3] My uncle would instantly have thrashed me had I approached an oath
(or any other vulgarity) in conversation upon ordinary
occasions.

VI

THE FEET OF CHILDREN

Once of a still night at Twist Tickle (when I was grown to be eleven)
my uncle abandoned his bottle and came betimes to my room to make sure
that I was snug in my sleep. 'Twas fall weather without, the first
chill and frosty menace of winter abroad: clear, windless, with all
the stars that ever shone a-twinkle in the far velvet depths of the
sky beyond the low window of my room. I had drawn wide the curtains to
let the companionable lights come in: to stare, too, into the vast
pool of shadows, which was the sea, unquiet and sombre beneath the
serenity and twinkling splendor of the night. Thus I lay awake, high
on the pillows, tucked to my chin: but feigned a restful slumber when
I caught the sigh and downcast tread of his coming.

"Dannie," he whispered, "is you awake?"

I made no answer.

"Ah, Dannie, isn't you?"

Still I would not heed him.

"I wisht you was," he sighed, "for I'm wonderful lonely the night,
lad, an' wantin' t' talk a spell."

'Twas like a child's beseeching. I was awake at once--wide awake for
him: moved by the wistfulness of this appeal to some perception of his
need.

"An' is you comfortable, Dannie, lyin' there in your own little bed?"

"Ay, sir."

"An' happy?"

"Grand, sir!" said I.

He crept softly to my bed. "You don't mind?" he whispered. I drew my
feet away to make room. He sat down, and for a moment patted me with
the tenderness of a woman. "You don't mind?" he vent