“What in the devil’s name now?” cried Mr. Riddle, angrily.  “Here’s this imp again.”

Nicholas stopped in front of him, and, thrusting his hand in his breeches pocket, fished out a handful of gold and silver, which he held out to the confounded Mr. Riddle.

“Harry,” said he, “here’s something of yours I found last night.”

“You found?” echoed Mr. Riddle, in a strange voice, amidst a dead silence.  “You found where?”

“On the table beside you.”

“And where the deuce were you?” Mr. Riddle demanded.

“In the window behind you,” said Nick, calmly.

This piece of information, to Mr. Riddle’s plain discomfiture, was greeted with a roar of laughter, Mr. Darnley himself laughing loudest.  Nor were these gentlemen satisfied with that.  They crowded around Mr. Riddle and slapped him on the back, Mr. Darnley joining in with the rest.  And presently Mr. Riddle flung away his sword, and laughed, too, giving his hand to Mr. Darnley.

At length Mr. Darnley turned to Nick, who had stood all this while behind them, unmoved.

“My friend,” said he, seriously, “such is your regard for human life, you will probably one day—­be a pirate or an outlaw.  This time we’ve had a laugh.  The next time somebody will be weeping.  I wish I were your father.”

“I wish you were,” said Nick.

This took Mr. Darnley’s breath.  He glanced at the other gentlemen, who returned his look significantly.  He laid his hand kindly on the lad’s head.

“Nick,” said he, “I wish to God I were your father.”

After that they all went home, very merry, to breakfast, Nick and I coming after them.  Nick was silent until we reached the house.

“Davy,” said he, then, “how old are you?”

“Ten,” I answered.  “How old did you believe me?”

“Eighty,” said he.

The next day, being Sunday, we all gathered in the little church to hear Mr. Mason preach.  Nick and I sat in the high box pew of the family with Mrs. Temple, who paid not the least attention to the sermon.  As for me, the rhythm of it held me in fascination.  Mr. Mason had written it out and that afternoon read over this part of it to Nick.  The quotation I recall, having since read it many times, and the gist of it was in this wise:—­

“And he said unto him, ’What thou wilt have thou wilt have, despite the sin of it.  Blessed are the stolid, and thrice cursed he who hath imagination,—­for that imagination shall devour him.  And in thy life a sin shall be presented unto thee with a great longing.  God, who is in heaven, gird thee for that struggle, my son, for it will surely come.  That it may be said of you, “Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver, I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.”  Seven days shalt thou wrestle with thy soul; seven nights shall evil haunt thee, and how thou shalt come forth from that struggle no man may know.’”