Tom’s fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning Sid said:

“Tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me awake half the time.”

Tom blanched and dropped his eyes.

“It’s a bad sign,” said Aunt Polly, gravely. “What you got on your mind, Tom?”

“Nothing. Nothing ’t I know of.” But the boy’s hand shook so that he spilled his coffee.

“And you do talk such stuff,” Sid said. “Last night you said, ‘It’s blood, it’s blood, that’s what it is!’ You said that over and over. And you said, ‘Don’t torment me so⁠—I’ll tell!’ Tell what ? What is it you’ll tell?”