In the morning I was awakened very early by the light streaming in the window, the blinds of which I had left open the night before.  The air was alive with bird-songs, and the eastern sky was flushing with tints which no painter’s canvas ever caught.  But ante-sunrise skies and songs are not fit subjects for the continued contemplation of men who read until midnight; so I hastily closed the blinds, drew the shade, dropped the curtains and lay down again, dreamily thanking heaven that I was to fall asleep to such exquisite music.  I am sure that I mentally forgave all my enemies as I dropped off into a most delicious doze, but the sudden realization that a light hand was passing over my cheek roused me to savage anger in an instant.  I sprang up, and saw Budge shrink timidly away from my bedside.

“I was only a-lovin’ you, cos you was good, and brought us candy.  Papa lets us love him whenever we want to—­every morning he does.”

“As early as this?” demanded I.

“Yes, just as soon as we can see, if we want to.”

Poor Tom!  I never could comprehend why with a good wife, a comfortable income, and a clear conscience, he need always look thin and worn—­worse than he ever did in Virginia woods or Louisiana swamps.  But now I knew all.  And yet, what could one do?  That child’s eyes and voice, and his expression, which exceeded in sweetness that of any of the angels I had ever imagined,—­that child could coax a man to do more self-forgetting deeds than the shortening of his precious sleeping-hours amounted to.  In fact, he was fast divesting me of my rightful sleepiness, so I kissed him and said:—­

“Run to bed, now, dear old fellow, and let uncle go to sleep again.  After breakfast, I’ll make you a whistle.”

“Oh, will you?” The angel turned into a boy at once.  “Yes; now run along.”

“A loud whistle—­a real loud one?”

“Yes, but not if you don’t go right back to bed.”

The sound of little footsteps receded as I turned over and closed my eyes.  Speedily the bird-song seemed to grow fainter; my thoughts dropped to pieces; I seemed to be floating on fleecy clouds, in company with hundreds of cherubs with Budge’s features and night-drawers—­

“Uncle Harry!”

May the Lord forget the prayer I put up just then!

“Uncle Harry!”

“I’ll discipline you, my fine little boy,” thought I.  “Perhaps, if I let you shriek your abominable little throat hoarse, you’ll learn better than to torment your uncle, that was just getting ready to love you dearly.”

“Uncle Har-Ray!”

“Howl, away, you little imp,” thought I.  “You’ve got me wide awake, and your lungs may suffer for it.”  Suddenly I heard, although in sleepy tones, and with a lazy drawl, some words which appalled me.  The murmurer was Toddie:—­

“Want—­she—­wheels—­go—­wound.”

“Budge!” I shouted, in the desperation of my dread lest Toddie, too, might wake up, “what do you want?”