"Oh, Cecile!" he gasped. "Oh! oh! oh!" and here he buried his head
on his sister's breast.
"What is it, Maurice? Maurice, speak to me," implored his sister.
"Maurice, are very ill? Do speak to me, darling?"
"No, Cecile, I'm not ill," said the little boy, when he could find
voice after his agitation. "But, oh! Cecile, you must never be angry
with me for hating Aunt Lydia again. Cecile, Aunt Lydia is the
dreadfullest woman in all the world. _Do_ you know what she
meant by a yard of rope?"
"No, Maurice; tell me," asked Cecile, her face growing white.
"It means, Cecile, that our dog--our darling, darling Toby--is to be
hung, hung till he dies. Our Toby is to be murdered, Cecile, and Aunt
Lydia is to be his murderer. That's what it means."
"But, Maurice, how do you know? Maurice, how can you tell?"
"It was last week," continued the little boy, "last week, the day
you would not come out, Toby and me were in the wood, and we came on
a dog hanging to one of the trees by a bit of rope, and the poor dog
was dead, and a big boy stood by. Toby howled when he saw the dog,
and the big boy laughed; and I said to him, 'What is the matter with
the poor dog?' And the dreadful boy laughed again, Cecile, and he
said, 'I've been giving him a yard of rope.'
"And I said, 'But he's dead.'
"And the boy said, 'Yes, that was what I gave it him for.' That boy
was a murderer, and I would not stay in the wood all day, and that is
what Aunt Lydia will be; and I hate Aunt Lydia, so I do.
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