"Yes, you do! Who is he? What's his name?"
"I don't know, sir. Honestly I don't."
"Don't know, you young rascal! You have eyes. What's his name?"
But Cyrus, with a protesting, most polite and sorrowful gesture with
both his hands, again proclaimed his ignorance. "I really don't know,
sir. The air is so full of snow I didn't see his face."
Deacon Whitlock again spluttered. His speech was incoherent, but doubt
and anger were plainly indicated. However, he turned away--still
muttering.
Then the Guardian Angel approached the liar. "Cyrus Alton! How can you
do such a thing?"
"What thing?"
"Deacon Whitlock knows perfectly well you knew who it was, and that
you told him a lie. And he will despise you for it. So would everybody
else. So do I despise you for it."
His only answer to this was a look of mingled sorrow and remonstrance.
Then, instead of trying to defend himself, as the Guardian Angel
expected, he looked away. He also heaved a sigh,--a sigh of weariness
and discouragement, an unboylike, elderly sigh such as grown-ups use.
The Guardian Angel continued. "And I should think you would be ashamed
to be such a coward."