Chapter 4

           Foradaythatwasbegunsoill,thedaypassedfairlywell.Wehadtheporridgecoldagainatnoon,andhotporridgeatnight;porridgeandsmallbeerwasmyuncle’sdiet.Hespokebutlittle,andthatinthesamewayasbefore,shootingaquestionatmeafteralongsilence;andwhenIsoughttoleadhimtotalkaboutmyfuture,slippedoutofitagain.Inaroomnextdoortothekitchen,wherehesufferedmetogo,Ifoundagreatnumberofbooks,bothLatinandEnglish,inwhichItookgreatpleasurealltheafternoon.Indeed,thetimepassedsolightlyinthisgoodcompany,thatIbegantobealmostreconciledtomyresidenceatShaws;andnothingbutthesightofmyuncle,andhiseyesplayinghideandseekwithmine,revivedtheforceofmydistrust.

           OnethingIdiscovered,whichputmeinsomedoubt.Thiswasanentryonthefly-leafofachap-book(oneofPatrickWalker’s)plainlywrittenbymyfather’shandandthusconceived:“TomybrotherEbenezeronhisfifthbirthday.”Now,whatpuzzledmewasthis:That,asmyfatherwasofcoursetheyoungerbrother,hemusteitherhavemadesomestrangeerror,orhemusthavewritten,beforehewasyetfive,anexcellent,clearmanlyhandofwriting.