“Who has been at my muffin?” said he, in a voice that seemed to Sidney like the voice he had always supposed an ogre to possess. “Have you, Master Sidney?” “N--n--no, sir; indeed, sir!” “Then Tom has. Where is he?” “Gone up stairs for his handkerchief, sir.” “Did he take my muffin? Speak the truth!” “No, sir; it was the--it was the--the cat, sir!” “O you wicked, wicked boy!” cried Mrs. Morton, who had followed her husband into the parlour; “the cat kittened last night, and is locked up in the coal-cellar!” “Come here, Master Sidney! No! first go down, Margaret, and see if the cat is in the cellar: it might have got out, Mrs. M.,” said Mr. Morton, just even in his wrath. Mrs. Morton went, and there was a dead silence, except indeed in Sidney’s heart, which beat louder than a clock ticks. Mr. Morton, meanwhile, went to a little cupboard;--while still there, Mrs. Morton returned: the cat was in the cellar--the key turned on her--in no mood to eat muffins, poor thing!--she would not even lap her milk! like her mistress, she had had a very bad time! “Now come here, sir,” said Mr. Morton, withdrawing himself from the cupboard, with a small horsewhip in his hand, “I will teach you how to speak the truth in future! Confess that you have told a lie!” “Yes, sir, it was a lie! Pray--pray forgive me: but Tom made me!” “What! when poor Tom is up-stairs? worse and worse!” said Mrs. Morton, lifting up her hands and eyes. “What a viper!” “For shame, boy,--for shame! Take that--and that--and that--” Writhing--shrinking, still more terrified than hurt, the poor child cowered beneath the lash. “Mamma! mamma!” he cried at last, “Oh, why--why did you leave me?” At these words Mr. Morton stayed his hand, the whip fell to the ground. “Yet it is all for the boy’s good,” he muttered. “There, child, I hope this is the last time. There, you are not much hurt. Zounds, don’t cry so!” “He will alarm the whole street,” said Mrs. Morton; “I never see such a child! Here, take this parcel to Mrs. Birnie’s--you know the house--only next street, and dry your eyes before you get there. Don’t go through the shop; this way out.” She pushed the child, still sobbing with a vehemence that she could not comprehend, through the private passage into the street, and returned to her husband. “You are convinced now, Mr. M.?” “Pshaw! ma’am; don’t talk. But, to be sure, that’s how I cured Tom of fibbing.--The tea’s as cold as a stone!” CHAPTER IV. “Le bien nous le faisons: le mal c’est la Fortune. On a toujours raison, le Destin toujours tort.”--LA FONTAINE. [The Good, we effect ourselves; the Evil is the handiwork of Fortune. Mortals are always in the right, Destiny always in the wrong.]