The afternoon turned out very wet, and I was sorry that I should be
troubled with his company all day in the house. I was making a shirt
for Moodie from some cotton that had been sent me from home, and he
placed himself by the side of the stove, just opposite, and
continued to regard me for a long time with his usual sullen stare.
I really felt half afraid of him.
"Don't you think me mad!" said he. "I have a brother deranged;
he got a stroke of the sun in India, and lost his senses in
consequence; but sometimes I think it runs in the family."
What answer could I give to this speech, but mere evasive
common-place!
"You won't say what you really think," he continued; "I know you
hate me, and that makes me dislike you. Now what would you say if I
told you I had committed a murder, and that it was the recollection
of that circumstance that made me at times so restless and unhappy?"
I looked up in his face, not knowing what to believe.
"'Tis fact," said he, nodding his head; and I hoped that he would
not go mad, like his brother, and kill me.
