Below, they's no mortal
way that I ever heared tell on. Prayer," says he, "wings aloft, far
beyond the stars, t' the ear o' God Hisself; an' I wisht--oh, I
wisht--they was the same sort o' telegraph wire t' hell! For," said
he, sadly, "I've got some news that I'd kind o' like t' send."

I could not help him.

"I'm _tired_!" he complained, with a quick-drawn sigh. "I'm all wore
out; an' I wisht I could tell Tom Callaway."

I, too, sighed.

"But I 'low," was my uncle's woe-begone conclusion, "that that there
poor ol' Tom Callaway 'll just have t' wait till I sees un."

'Twas with a start of horror that I surmised the whereabouts of my
father's soul.

* * * * *

We were but newly come from St. John's: a long sojourn in the
water-side tap-rooms--a dissipation protracted beyond the habit (and
will) of my uncle. I had wearied, and had wondered, but had found no
explanation. There was a time when the rage and stagger of his
intoxicated day had been exceeded past my remembrance and to my
terror. I forgave him the terror: I did, I am sure! there was no
fright or humiliation the maimed ape could put upon me but I would
freely forgive, remembering his unfailing affection. 'Twas all plain
now: the course of his rascality had not run smooth. I divined it; and
I wished, I recall, lying there in the light of the untroubled stars,
that I might give of myself--of the ease and placid outlook he
preserved for me--some help to his distress and melancholy. But I was
a child: no more than a child--unwise, unhelpful, in a lad's way
vaguely feeling the need of me from whom no service was due: having
intuitive discernment, but no grown tact and wisdom. That he was
scarred, two-fingered, wooden-legged, a servant of the bottle, was
apart: and why not? for I was nourished by the ape that he was; and a
child loves (this at least) him who, elsewhere however repugnant,
fosters him. I could not help with any spoken word, but still could
have him think 'twas grateful to me to have him sit with me while I
fell asleep; and this I gladly did.

* * * * *

My uncle looked up. "Dannie," said he, "you don't mind me sittin' here
for a spell on your little bed, do you? Honest, now?"

'Twas woful supplication: the voice a child's voice; the eyes--dimly
visible in the starlight--a child's beseeching eyes.

"Jus' for a little spell?" he pleaded.

I said that I was g