Its mystery must
remain its beauty.
"I want to save something from an awful, horrible death," he announced
one evening, looking up from _Half-hours with English Battles_ for a
sign of beauty in distress.
"Not so easy," his uncle warned him, equally weary of another
overrated book--his own.
"But I feel like it," he replied. "Come on."
Uncle Felix still held back. "That you feel like it doesn't prove that
there's anything that _wants_ rescuing," he objected.
The boy stared at him with patient tolerance and surprise.
"I promised," he said simply.
It was the other's turn to stare. "And when, pray?" They had been
alone for the last half hour. It seemed strange.
"Oh--just now," replied the boy carelessly. "A few minutes ago--
about."
"Indeed!" It seemed stranger still. No one had come in. Yet Tim never
prevaricated.
"Yes," he said, "I gave my wordy honour." It was so gravely spoken
that, while pledges involving life and death were obviously not new to
him, this one was of exceptional kind.
"Who, then, did you promise--whom, I mean?" the man demanded, fixing
him with his stern blue eyes.
And the answer came out pat: "Myself!"
"Aha!" said the other, with a sigh and a raising of the eyebrows, by
way of apology.
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