But the matter was very far from settled by Mrs. Perry’s testimony.  She only repeated what she had already told her daughter-in-law.

“The bundle came on the noon express,” said she, “and I told Mr. Perry to set it down in the kitchen, and I would see that it got over to you.  He didn’t know how to stop just then.  It laid there on one of the kitchen-chairs while I was clearing away the dinner-dishes.  Then about two o’clock I was changing my dress, when I heard Willy whistling out in the yard, and I ran into the kitchen and got the bundle, and called him to take it.  I opened the south door and gave it to him, and told him to take it right home to his grandpa.  He said he guessed he’d open it and see if his shoes had come, and I told him ‘no,’ he must go straight home with it.”

That was Mrs. Perry’s testimony.  Willy heard in the presence of all the family; then when the question as to the whereabouts of the coat was put to him, he made the same answer.  He also repeated that Grandma Perry had not given it to him.

“Don’t you let me hear you tell that wicked lie again,” said his Grandma Stockton.  She was nearly as much agitated as the boy.  She did not know what to do, and nobody else did.

Grandpa Perry came over with three sticks of twisted red and white peppermint candy, and three of barley.  He caught hold of Willy and swung him on to his knee.  He was a fleshy, jolly man.

“Now, sir,” said he, “let’s strike a bargain—­I’ll give you these six whole sticks of candy for your supper, and you tell me what you did with Grandpa’s coat.”

“I—­didn’t do—­any”—­Willy commenced between his painful sobs, but his grandmother interrupted—­“Hush! don’t you ever say that again,” said she.  “You did do something with it.”

“I’ll throw in a handful of raisins,” said Mr. Perry.  But it was of no use.

“Well, if the little chap was mine,” said Mrs. Perry finally, “I should give him his supper and put him to bed, and see how he would look at it in the morning.”

“I think that would be the best way,” chimed in aunt Annie eagerly.  “He’s all tired out and hungry, and doesn’t know what he does know—­do you, dear?”

So she poured out some milk, and cut off a big slice of cake, but Willy did not want any supper.  It was hard work to induce him to swallow a little milk before he went upstairs.  His grandmother heaved a desperate sigh after he was gone.

“If it was in the days of the Salem witches,” said she, “I’d know just what to think; as ’tis, I don’t.”

“That boy was never known to tell a lie before in his whole life—­his mother said so.  He never pestered her the way some children do, lyin’; an’ as for stealin’—­why, I’d trusted him with every cent I’ve got in the world.”  That was Grandpa Stockton.

During the next two or three days every inducement was brought to bear upon Willy.  He was scolded and coaxed, he was promised a reward if he would tell the truth, he was assured that he should not be punished.  Monday he was kept in his room all day, and was given nothing but bread and milk to eat.  Severer measures were hinted at, but Grandpa Stockton put his foot down peremptorily.  “That boy has never been whipped in his whole life,” said he, “an’ his own folks have got to begin it, if anybody does.”