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“You’ll go into the water, youngsters!” shouted some one from the shore. It was Pilot Stiansen. With the utmost caution, the boy laid the burning stick down on the faintly red ashes of the threads and arranged other sticks on it. Then, gently, he breathed over it and the little flame grew and multiplied. Soon it was going briskly, but it was not till then that the load of fear dropped from Bob’s shoulders. He was off, leaping up the steep road. Christina looked at the money and then at the disappearing boy and said, “How queer he was!”.

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Bob—that was the horse’s name—knew Johnny whenever he went into the stable; there was no doubt about that, for the little horse would turn around in his stall and whinny at the sound of the boy’s step or voice. Of course Johnny always had sugar for him and brushed his pretty coat for him every day—dear, cunning little Bob! “Can’t you and I go to the stable instead?” ventured Johnny. “It will be so tiresome in the house.” Your words have stabbed my heart. No power on earth could restore the peace you have destroyed. I will escape from my torture. When you read this, I shall be no more. But the triumph shall no longer be yours—the draught you have drank was given by the hand of the injured “Hev ye ben doin’ suthin’ bad? Dassn’t ye go git yer things?”.