my two poor boys asleep, 'way up stairs in that lonesome room, and I declare to goodness I was that uneasy 't I crep' up there and locked 'em in!  I _did_.  And anybody would. Because, you know, when you get scared that way, and it keeps running on, and getting worse and worse all the time, and your wits gets to addling, and you get to doing all sorts o' wild things, and by and by you think to yourself, spos'n I was a boy, and was away up there, and the door ain't locked, and you--” She stopped, looking kind of wondering, and then she turned her head around slow, and when her eye lit on me--I got up and took a walk. Says I to myself, I can explain better how we come to not be in that room this morning if I go out to one side and study over it a little.  So I done it.  But I dasn't go fur, or she'd a sent for me.  And when it was late in the day the people all went, and then I come in and told her the noise and shooting waked up me and “Sid,” and the door was locked, and we wanted to see the fun, so we went down the lightning-rod, and both of us got hurt a little, and we didn't never want to try _that_ no more.  And then I went on and told her all what I told Uncle Silas before; and then she said she'd forgive us, and maybe it was all right enough anyway, and about what a body might expect of boys, for all boys was a pretty harum-scarum lot as fur as she could see; and so, as long as no harm hadn't come of it, she judged she better put in her time being grateful we was alive and well and she had us still, stead of fretting over what was past and done.  So then she kissed me, and patted me on the head, and dropped into a kind of a brown study; and pretty soon jumps up, and says: “Why, lawsamercy, it's most night, and Sid not come yet!  What _has_ become of that boy?” I see my chance; so I skips up and says: “I'll run right up to town and get him,” I says. “No you won't,” she says. “You'll stay right wher' you are; _one's_ enough to be lost at a time.  If he ain