Chapter Thirty Six.

In the Depths.

How easy to keep free from sin,
    How hard that freedom to recall!
For dreadful truth it is, that men
    Forget the heavens from which they fall.
 
Cov. Patmore.

It may be thought strange that Kenrick did not at once, while his heart was softened, and when he saw so clearly how much he had erred, go there and then to Walter, confess to him that everything was now explained, that he had never received his last note, and that, for his own sake, he desired to be restored, as far as was possible, to his former footing. If that had not been for Kenrick a period of depression and ill-repute, he would undoubtedly have done so; but he did not like to go, now that he was in disgrace, now that his friendship could do no credit, and, as he feared, confer no pleasure on any one, and under circumstances which would make it appear that he had changed his views under the influence of selfish interest, rather than of true conviction or generous impulse. He thought, too, that friendship over was like water spilt, and could not be gathered up again; that it was like a broken thread which cannot again be smoothly reunited. So things remained on the same footing as before, except that Kenrick’s whole demeanour was changed for the better. He bore his punishment in a quiet and manly way; took his place without a murmur below Henderson at the bottom of the monitors; did not by any bravado attempt to conceal that he felt justly humiliated, and gave Whalley his best assistance in governing the Noelites, and bringing them back by slow but sure degrees to a better tone of thought and feeling. Towards Walter especially his whole manner altered. Hitherto he had made a point of always opposing him, and taking every opportunity to show him a strong dislike. If Walter had embraced one opinion at a monitors’ meeting, it was quite sufficient reason for Kenrick to support another; if Walter had spoken on one side at the debating society, Kenrick held it to be a logical consequence that, whatever he thought, he should speak on the other, and use his powers of speaking, which were considerable, to throw on Walter’s illustrations and arguments all the ridicule he could. All this folly and virulence was now abandoned; the swagger which Kenrick had adopted was from that time entirely laid aside. At the very next meeting of the debating society he spoke, as indeed he generally thought, on the same side with Walter; and spoke, not in his usual flippant conceited style, but more seriously and earnestly, treating Walter’s speech with approval and almost with deference. Every one noticed and rejoiced in this change of manner, and none more so than Walter Evson and Power.

Kenrick finished with these words—“Gentlemen, before I sit down I have a task to perform, which, however painful it may be to me, it is due to you that I should not neglect. I may do it now, because I see that none but the sixth-form are present, and because I may not have another early opportunity. I have incurred, as you are all well aware, a unanimous vote of censure from my colleagues—unanimous, although, through a delicacy which I am thankful to be still capable of keenly appreciating, the name of one...” the word “friend” sprang to his lips, but humility forbade him to adopt it, and he said... “the name of one monitor is absent from the appended signatures. Gentlemen, I do not like public recantations or public professions, but I feel it my duty to acknowledge without palliation that I feel the censure to have been deserved.” His voice faltered with emotion as he proceeded: “I have been misled, gentlemen, and I have been labouring for a long time under a grievous mistake, which has led me to do much injustice and inflict many wrongs; for these errors I now ask the pardon of all, and especially of those who are most concerned. Your censure, gentlemen, concluded with a kind and friendly wish, and I cannot trust myself to say more now, than to echo that wish with all my heart, and to hope that ere long the efforts which I shall endeavour to make may succeed in persuading you to give me back your confidence and esteem, and to erase from the book the permanent record of your recent disapproval.”

Every one present felt how great must have been the suffering which could wring such an expression of regret from a nature so proud as Kenrick’s. They listened in silence, and when he sat down greeted him with an applause which showed how readily he might win their regard; while many of them came round him and shook hands with warmth.

“Gentlemen,” said Power, rising, “I am sure we all feel that the remarks we have just heard do honour to the speaker. I hold in my hand the monitors’ book, open at the page on which our censure was written. After what we have heard there can be no necessity why that page should remain where it is for a single day. I beg to move that leave may be given me to tear it out at once.”

“And I am eager to second the motion,” said Henderson, starting up at the same moment with several others; “and, Kenrick—if I may break through, on such an occasion as this, our ordinary forms, and address you by name—I am sure you will believe that though I have very often opposed you, no one will be more glad than myself to welcome you back as a friend, and to hope that you may soon be, what you are so capable of being, not only our greatest support, but also one of the brightest ornaments of our body.” He held out his hand, which Kenrick readily grasped, whispering, with a sigh, “Ah, Flip, how I wish that we had never broken with each other!”

The proposal was carried by acclamation, and Power accordingly tore out the sheet and put it in the fire. And that night brightened for Kenrick into the dawn of better days. Twenty times over Walter thought that Kenrick was going to speak to him—for his manner was quite different; but Kenrick, though every particle of ill-will had vanished from his mind, and had been replaced by his old unimpaired affection, put off the reconciliation until he should have been able in some measure to recover his old position, and to meet his friend on a footing of greater equality.

Do not let any one think that his reformation was too easy. It took him long to conquer himself, and he found the task sorely difficult; but after many failures and relapses, the words of another who had sinned and suffered three thousand years ago, and who, after many a struggle, had discovered the true secret, came home to Kenrick and whispered to him the message—“Then I said, It is mine own infirmity: but I will remember the years of the right-hand of the Most Highest.”

It was not long before one great difficulty confronted him, the consequence of former misdeeds, and put him under circumstances which demanded the whole courage of his character, and thoroughly tested the sincerity of his repentance.

After Mackworth’s expulsion, and under Whalley’s good government, the state of the Noelites greatly improved. Charlie Evson, for whom, now, by the by, Kenrick always did everything that lay in his power, became far more a model among the younger boys than Wilton had ever been, and there was a final end of suppers, smoking parties, organised cribbing, and recognised “crams.” But just as the house was recovering lost ground, and had ceased to be quite a byeword in the school, it was thrown into consternation by a long-continued series of petty thefts.

Small sums were extracted from the boys’ jacket pockets after they had gone to bed; from the play-boxes which were not provided with good locks and keys; from the private desks in the classrooms, from the dormitories, and from several of the studies. There was no clue to the offender, and first of all suspicion fell strongly on the new boy, little Elgood. A few trifling items of circumstantial evidence seemed to point him out, and it began to be gradually whispered, no one exactly knew how or by whom, that he must be the guilty boy. Hints were thrown out to him to this effect; little bits of paper, on which were written the words “Thou shalt not steal,” or “The devil will have thieves,” were dropped about in his books and wherever he was likely to find them, and whenever the subject was brought on the tapis his manner was closely watched. The effect was unsatisfactory; for Elgood was a timid nervous boy, and the uneasiness to which this nervousness gave rise was set down as a sign of guilt. At length a sovereign and a half were stolen out of Whalley’s study, and as Elgood, being Whalley’s fag, had constant access to the study, and might very well have known that Whalley had the money, and in what place he kept it, the prevalent suspicions were confirmed. The boys, with their usual thoughtless haste, leapt to the conclusion that he must have been the thief.

The house was in a perfect ferment. However lightly one or two of them, like Penn, may have thought about taking trifles from small tradesmen, there was not a single one among them, not even Penn himself, whose morality did not brand this thieving from schoolfellows as wicked and mean. The boys felt, too, that it was a stigma on their house, and unhappily Just at the time when the majority were really anxious to raise their corporate reputation. Every one was filled with annoyance and disgust, and felt an anxious determination to discover and give up the thief.

At last the suspicions against Elgood proceeded so far, that out of mere justice to him the heads of the house, Whalley, Kenrick, and Bliss, thought it right that he should be questioned. So, after tea, all the house assembled in the classroom, and Elgood was formally charged with the delinquency, and questioned about it, Wilton, in particular, urging him in almost a bullying tone to surrender and confess. The poor child was overwhelmed with terror—cried, blushed, answered incoherently, and lost his head, but would not for a moment confess that he had done it, and protested his innocence with many sobs and tears.

“Well, I suppose if he persists in denying it, we can’t go any further,” said Kenrick; “but I’m afraid, Elgood, that you must have had something to do with it, as every one seems to see ground for suspecting you.”

“Oh, I hadn’t, I hadn’t; indeed I hadn’t,” wailed Elgood; “I wish you wouldn’t say so, Kenrick; indeed I’m innocent, and I’d rather write home for the money ten times over than be suspected.”

“So would any one, you little fool,” said Wilton.

“Don’t bully him in that way, Wilton,” said Whalley; “it’s not the way to get the truth out of him. Elgood, I should have thought you innocent, if you didn’t behave so oddly.”

“May I speak?” modestly asked a new voice. The speaker was Charlie Evson.

“Yes, certainly,” said Kenrick, in an encouraging tone.

“Well then, please, Kenrick, and the whole of you, I think you have had the truth out of him; and I think he is innocent.”

“Why, Charlie?” said Whalley; “what makes you think so?”

“Because I’ve asked him, and talked to him privately about it,” said Charlie; “when you frighten him he gets confused, and contradicts himself, but he can explain whatever looks suspicious if you ask him kindly and Quietly.”

“Bosh!” said Wilton; “who frightened him?”

“Silence, Wilton,” said Whalley. “Well, Charlie, will you question him now for us?”

“That I will,” said Charlie, advancing and putting his hand kindly round Elgood’s shoulder, as he seated himself on the desk by which Elgood was standing. “Will you tell us, as I ask you, all you told me this morning?”

“Yes,” said Elgood eagerly, while his whole manner changed from nervous tremor to perfect simplicity and quiet new that he had a friend to stand by him.

“Well, now, about the money you’ve been spending lately?” questioned Charlie, with a smile. “You usen’t to be so flush of cash, you know, a month ago.”

“I can tell you,” answered Elgood; “I had a very large present—large for me, I mean—three weeks ago. My father sent me a pound, because it was my birthday, and my big brother and aunt sent me each a pound too.”

“I can answer for that being perfectly true,” said Charlie, “for I went with my brother to the post-office this afternoon and asked, and found that Elgood had had three money-orders changed there. And now, Elgood, can you trust me with your purse?”

“Of course I can, Charlie,” said Elgood, readily producing it, and almost forgetting that the others were present.

“Ah, well, now you see I’m going to rifle it. Ah! what have we here? why, here’s a whole sovereign, and eight shillings; that looks suspicious, doesn’t it?” said Charlie archly.

“No,” said Elgood, laughing; “you went with me yourself when I bought my desk for eighteen shillings, and the rest—”

“All right,” said Charlie. “Look, you fellows: Elgood and I put down this morning the other things he’s bought, and they come to fourteen shillings. I know they’re right, for I didn’t like Elgood to be wrongly suspected, so Walter want with me to the shops; indeed it was chiefly spent at Coles’s”—at which remark they all laughed, for Coles’s was the favourite “tuck shop” of the boys. “Well, now, 1 pound, 8 shillings plus 18 shillings plus 14 shillings makes 3 pounds, the sum which Elgood received from home. Is that plain?”

“As plain as a pike-staff,” said Bliss; “and you’re a little brick, Evson; and it’s a chouse if any one suspects Elgood any more.”

Wilton suggested something about Elgood being Whalley’s fag.

“Shame, Raven,” said Kenrick; “why, what a suspicious fellow you must be; there’s no ground whatever to suspect Elgood now.”

“I only want the fellow found out for the honour of the house,” said Wilton, with a sheepish look at this third rebuff.

“Oh, I forgot about that for the moment,” said Charlie; “Whalley, please, you know the time, don’t you, when the money was taken from your desk?”

“Yes; it must have been between four and six, for I saw it safe at four, and it was gone when I came back after tea.”

“Then all right,” said Charlie joyfully, “for at that very time, all of it, Elgood was in my brother’s study with me, learning some lessons. Now then, is Elgood clear?”

“As clear as noonday,” shouted several of them, patting the poor child on the head.

“And really, Charlie, we’re all very much obliged to you,” said Whalley, “for setting this matter straight. But now, as it isn’t Elgood, who is the thief? We must all set ourselves to discover.”

“And we shall discover,” said Bliss; “he’s probably here now. Who is it?” he asked, glancing round. “Well, whoever it is, I don’t envy him his sensations at this minute.”

The meeting broke up, and Kenrick accompanied Whalley to his study to concert further measures.

“Have you any suspicion at all about it, Whalley?”

“Not the least. Have you? No. Well, then, what shall we do?”

“Why the thief isn’t likely to visit your study again, Whalley; very likely he’ll come to mine. Suppose we put a little marked money in the secret drawer. It’s rather a joke to call it the secret drawer, for there’s no secret about it; anyhow, it’s an open secret.”

“Very good; and then?”

“Why, you know the money generally goes at one particular time on half-holidays. I’m afraid the rogue, whoever he is, has got a taste for it by this time, and will come to money like a fly to a jam-pot. Now, outside my room, a few yards off, is the shoe-cupboard; what if you and I, and a few others, agree to shut ourselves up there in turns, now and then, on half-holidays between roll-call and tea-time?”

“I see,” said Whalley; “well, it’s horribly unpleasant, but I’ll take my turn first. Isn’t the door usually locked, though?”

“Yes, but so much the better; we can easily get it left open, and the thief won’t suspect an ambuscade. He must be found out, for the sake of all the boys who are innocent and to wipe out the blot against the house.”

“All right; I’ll ensconce myself there to-morrow. I say, Ken, isn’t young Evson a capital fellow? how well he managed to clear Elgood, didn’t he? I declare he taught us all a lesson.”

“Yes,” said Kenrick; “he’s his brother all over; just what Walter was when he came.”

“What, you say that?” said Whalley, smiling and arching his eyebrows.

“Indeed I do,” said Kenrick, with some sadness; “I haven’t always thought so, the more’s the pity;” and he left the room with a sigh.

After his turn for incarceration in the shoe-cupboard, Bliss complained loudly that it wasn’t large enough to accommodate him, and that it cramped his long arms and legs, to say nothing of the unpleasant vicinity of spiders and earwigs. But the others, laughing at him, told him that, if the experiment was to be of any use whatever, they must persevere in it, and Bliss allowed himself to be made a victim. For a time nothing happened, but they had not to wait very long.

One day, Kenrick had been mounting guard for about half an hour, and was getting very tired, when a light and hasty step passed along the passage, and into his room. The boy found the study empty, and proceeded noiselessly to open Kenrick’s desk, and examine the contents. At length he pulled open the secret drawer; it opened with a little click, and there lay before him two half-sovereigns and some silver. He was a wary fellow, for he scrutinised these all over most carefully to see if they were marked, and finding no mark of any kind on them—for it almost required a microscope to see the tiny scratch between the w.w. on the smooth edge of the neck—he took out his purse, and was proceeding to drop them into it, when a heavy hand was laid upon his shoulder, and Kenrick and Wilton—the detected thief—stood face to face. The purse dropped on the floor.

For a moment they stood silent, staring at each other, and drawing quick breaths. Wilton stood there pale as death, and looked up at Kenrick trembling, and with a frightened stare. It was too awful to be so suddenly surprised; to have had an unknown eye-witness standing by him all the while that, fancying himself unseen, he was in the very act of committing that secret deed of sin; to be arrested, detected, exposed, as the boy whose hidden misdoings had been, for so long, a source of discomfort, anxiety, and shame.

“You, Wilton—you, you, you, the disturber of the house, you, who have so long been treated by me as a friend, and allowed at all times to use my study; you, the foremost to throw the suspicion on others!” He stopped, breathless, for his indignation was rushing in too deep and strong a torrent to find vent in words.

“O Kenrick, don’t tell of me.”

“Don’t tell of you! Good heavens! is that all you can find to say? Not one word of sorrow—not one word of shame. Abandoned, heartless, graceless fellow!”

“I was driven to it, Kenrick, indeed I was. I owed money to Dan, and to—to other places, and they threatened to tell of me if I didn’t pay. Then Harpour and those fellows quite cleared me out at cards; I believe they did it by cheating. O, don’t tell of me.”

“I cannot screen a thief,” was the freezing reply; and the change from flame to ice showed into what commotion his feelings had been thrown.

“Well, then, if it comes to that,” said Wilton, turning sullen, “I’ll tell of you. It’ll all come out; remember it was you who first took me to Dan’s, and that’s not the only thing I could tell of you. O Kenrick, don’t tell, or it will get us all into trouble.”

“This, then, is the creature whom I have suffered to call me friend!” said Kenrick; “for whom I have given up some of the best friends in the school! And this is your gratitude! Why, you worm, Wilton, what do you take me for? Do you think that fear of your disclosures will make me hush up twenty thefts? You enlist the whole strength of my conscience against you, lest I should seem to screen you for my own sake. Faugh! your very touch sickens me!—go!”

“O Kenrick, don’t be so angry; I didn’t mean to say it; I didn’t know what I was saying; I am driven into a corner by shame and misery. I know I have been a mean dog; but even if you tell of me, don’t crush me so with your anger, for indeed, indeed, I have been grateful, and have loved you, Kenrick. But oh, don’t tell, I implore, I entreat you, Ken. How little I thought that I should have to speak to you like this!”

But Kenrick could only say—“You the thief; you, the last fellow of all I should have suspected; you whom I have called friend, O heavens! Yes, I know that I’ve done you harm by bad example, I know that I’ve much to answer for but at any rate I never taught you to be a thief.”

“But one thing comes of another, Ken; it all came of my being so much with those brutes, and going to Dan’s; it all came of that. I shouldn’t have thought myself that I could do it or do half the bad things I have done, two months ago. It all came of that; and you used to go with those fellows, Ken, and you went with me to Dan’s;” and the boy wrung his hands, and wept, and flung himself on his knees. “I must tell all, if you tell of me.”

“Say that again,” said Kenrick, spurning him scornfully away, “say it once again, and I go straight to Dr Lane. Poor worm, you don’t understand me, you don’t seem to have the capability of a high thought in you. I tell you that nothing you can say of me shall shake my purpose. I am going now.”

But before he could get his straw hat Wilton had clasped him by the knees, and in a voice of agony was beseeching him to relent.

“It’s all true, Kenrick; I am base, I know it; I have quenched all honour in me. I won’t say that again, but do, for God’s sake, forgive me this once, and not tell of me. O Kenrick, have you never had to say forgive? Do, do, pity me, as you hope to be forgiven; don’t ruin me, and give me a bad name; I am so young, so young, and have fallen into bad hands from the first.”

He still knelt on the floor, exhausted with the violence of his passion, hanging his head upon his breast, sobbing as if his heart would break. It was sad to see him, a mere child still, who might have been so different, long a little reprobate, and now a convicted thief. His face bathed in tears, his voice choked with sobs, the memory of the past, consciousness that much which he said was only too true, touched Kenrick with compassion; the tears rolled down his own face fast, and he felt that, though personal fear could not influence him, pity would perhaps force him to relent, and wring from him in his weakness a reluctant promise not to disclose Wilton’s discovered guilt.

“What can I say to you, Wilton? you know that I have liked you, but I never thought that you could act like this.”

“Nor I, Kenrick, a short time ago; but the devil tempted me, and I have never learned to resist.”

“From my very heart I do pity you; but I fear I must tell; I fear it’s my duty, and I have neglected so many that I dare neglect no more; though indeed, I’d rather have had any duty but this.”

Wilton was again clasping his knees and harrowing his soul by his wild anguish, imploring to be saved from the horror of open shame, and, accustomed as Kenrick was to grant anything to this boy, he was reduced to great distress. Already his whole manner had relented from the loathing and anger he first displayed. He could stand no more at present.

“O Wilton,” he said, “you will make me ill if you go on like this. I cannot, must not, will not make you any promise now; but I will think what to do.”

“I will go,” said Wilton, deeply abashed; “but before I go, promise me one thing, Ken, and that is, even if you tell of me, don’t quite cast me off. I shouldn’t like to leave and think that I hadn’t left one behind me to give me a kind thought sometimes.”

“O Ra, Ra, to think that it was you all the while who were committing all these thefts!”

“You will cast me off then?” said Wilton, in a voice broken by penitence; “O! what a bitter bitter thing it is to feel shame like this.”

“I have felt it too in my time, Raven. Poor, poor fellow! who am I that I should cast you off? No, you unhappy child, I may tell of you, but I will not cease to be fond of you. Go, Wilton; I will decide between this and tea-time—you may come and hear about it after tea.”

He was already outside the door when Kenrick called out “Wilton, stop!”

“What is it?” asked Wilton, returning alarmed, for conscience had made him a coward.

“There!” Kenrick only pointed to the purse lying on the floor.

“Oh, don’t ask me to touch it again, the money is in it,” said Wilton, hastily leaving the room. There was no acting here; it was plain that he was penitent—plain that he would have given worlds not to have been guilty of the sin.

Very sadly, and with pain and doubt, Kenrick thought the matter over, and thus much at least was clear to him: first, that the house must be informed, though not necessarily the masters or the other boys; secondly, that Wilton must make full and immediate restitution to all from whom he had stolen; thirdly, there could be no doubt about it, that Wilton must get himself removed at once. On these conditions he thought it possible that the matter might be hushed up; but his conscience was uneasy on this point. That unlucky threat or hint of Wilton’s, that he could and would tell some of his wrong-doings, was his great stumbling-block; whenever extreme pity influenced him to screen the poor boy from full exposure, he began to ask himself whether this was a mere cowardly alternative suggested by his own fears. But for this, he would have determined at once on the more lenient and merciful course; but he had to face this question of self-interest very earnestly, nor could he come to any conclusion about it until he had determined to take a step in all respects worthy of the highest side of his character, by going, in any case, spontaneously to Dr Lane and laying before him a frank confession of past delinquencies, leaving him to act as he thought fit.

Having thus disentangled the question from all its personal bearings he was able to review it on its merits, and went to ask the counsel of Whalley, to whom he related, in confidence, the whole scene exactly as it had occurred. Whalley, too, on hearing the alternative conditions which Kenrick had planned, was fully inclined to spare Wilton as much as possible, but, as neither of them felt satisfied to do this on their own authority, they sought Power’s advice and, as he too felt very doubtful on the matter, he suggested that they should put it to Dr Lane, without mentioning any names, as a hypothetical case, and be finally guided by his directions.

Accordingly Kenrick sought Dr Lane’s study, and laid the entire difficulty before him. He listened attentively, and said, “If the boy is so young, and has been, as you say, misled, and accepts the very sensible conditions which you have proposed, I am inclined to think that the course you have suggested will be the wisest and the kindest one. You have my full authority, Kenrick, to arrange it so, and I am happy to tell you that you have behaved throughout this matter in an honourable and straightforward way.”

“I fear, sir, I very little deserve your approval,” said Kenrick, with downcast eyes. “In coming to ask your advice in this case, I wanted also to say that I have gone so far wrong that I think you ought to be told how badly I have behaved. It may be that after what I say, you may not think right to allow me to stay here, sir; but at any rate I shall have disburdened my own conscience by telling you, and shall perhaps feel less wretched.”

“My dear Kenrick,” said Dr Lane, “it was a right and a brave thing of you to come here for this purpose. Confession is often the first, as it is one of the most trying parts of repentance; and I hail this as a new proof of your strong and steady desire to amend. But tell me nothing, my dear boy. It may be that I know more than you suppose; at any rate, I accept the will for the deed, and wish to hear no more, unless, indeed, you desire to consult me as a clergyman, and as your spiritual adviser, rather than as your master. I do not seek this confidence; only if there is anything on your conscience of which my advice may help to relieve you, I do not forbid you to proceed, and I will give you what help I can.”

“I think it would relieve me, sir,” said Kenrick; “I have no father; I have, I am sorry to say, no friend in the school to whom I could speak.”

“Then sit down, Kenrick, and be assured beforehand of my real sympathy.”

He sat down, and, twitching nervously at the ribbon of his straw hat, told Dr Lane much of the history of the last two years, confessing, above all, how badly he had behaved as head of the house, and how much harm he feared his example had done.

Dr Lane did not attempt to extenuate the heinousness of his offence, but he pointed out to him what were the fruits and the means of repentance. He exhorted him to let the sense of his past errors stimulate him to double future exertions. He told him of many ways in which, by kindness, by moral courage, by Christian principle, he might be a help and a blessing to other boys. He earnestly warned him to look to God for strength, and to watch and pray lest he should enter into temptation. And then promising him a full and free oblivion of the past, he knelt down with him and offered up from an overflowing heart a few words of earnest prayer.

“There is nothing like prayer to relieve the heart, Kenrick,” said Dr Lane; “and now, good-night, and God bless you!”

With a far lighter heart, with far brighter hopes, Kenrick left him, feeling as if a great burden had been rolled away, and inwardly blessing the doctor for his comforting kindness. He found Wilton anxiously awaiting his arrival in his study; and thinking that their cases in some respects resembled each other, he strove not to be like the unforgiving debtor of the parable, and spoke to Wilton with great gentleness.

“Come here, my poor child; first of all, let me tell you that you shall not be reported.” Wilton repaid him by a look of grateful joy.

“But you must restore all the stolen money, Wilton; the house must be told privately; and you must leave at once.”

“Well, Kenrick, I ask only one favour,” said Wilton, after a short pause.

“What is that?”

“That the house may not be told who stole the money until it is nearly time for me to go.”

“No; it shall be kept close till then, otherwise the next fortnight would be too hard for you to bear.”

“But must I leave?” asked Wilton, appealingly.

“It must be so, Wilton; I shall be sorry for you, but it must be settled so. Can you manage it?”

“O yes,” said Wilton, crying quietly; “I’ll write home and tell my poor mother all about it, and then of course she’ll send me some money and take me away at once, to save me from being expelled. My poor mother, how wretched it will make her!”

“Sin makes us all wretched, Raven boy. I’m sure it makes me wretched enough. And that you mayn’t think that fear has had anything to do with our letting you off, I must tell you, Wilton, that I’ve been to Dr Lane himself and told him all the many sins I’ve been guilty of.”

“Have you? Oh! I’m so sorry; it was all through me.”

“Yes; but I’m not sorry; I’m all the happier for it, Raven. There’s nothing so miserable as undiscovered sin—is there?”

“Oh, indeed, there isn’t. I’m sure I feel happier now in spite of all. No one knows, Ken, how I’ve suffered this last fortnight. I’ve been in a perpetual fright; I’ve had fearful dreams; I’ve felt ready to sink for shame; and I’ve always been fancying that fellows suspected me. Do you know, I am almost glad you caught me, Ken. I’m very glad it was you and no one else, though it was a horrid, horrid moment when you laid your hand on my shoulder. Yet even this isn’t so bad as to have gone on nursing the guilt secretly, and not to have been detected.”

Kenrick was musing; the boy who could talk like that was clearly one who might have been, very unlike what Wilton then was.

“Wilton,” he said, “come here and draw your chair by mine while I read you a little story.”

“O Ken, I’m so grateful that you don’t hate and despise me though I am a—”; he murmured the word “thief” with a shudder, and under his breath, as he drew up his chair, and Kenrick read to him in a low voice the story of Achan, till he came to the verses—

“And Achan, the son of Carmi, the son of Zabdi, the son of Zerah, of the tribe of Judah, was taken.

“And Joshua said, My son, give, I pray thee, glory to the Lord God of Israel, and make confession unto him; and tell me now what thou hast done, hide it not from me.

“And Achan answered Joshua and said, Indeed I have sinned against the Lord God of Israel, and thus and thus have I done.”

And there Kenrick stopped, while Wilton said, “My son! You see Joshua still called him ‘my son’ in spite of all his sin and mischief.”

“Yes, Raven boy, but that wasn’t why I read you the story which has often struck me. What I wanted you to see was this: The man was detected—the thing had been coming, creeping horribly near to him; first his tribe marked by the fatal lot, then his family, then his house, then himself; and while he’s standing there, guilty and detected, in the very midst of that crowd who had been defeated because of his baseness, and when all their eyes were scowling on him, and when he knows that he, and his sons, and his daughters, are going to be burned and stoned—at this very moment Joshua says to him, ‘My son, give, I pray thee, glory to the God of Israel.’ You see he’s to thank God for detecting him—thank God even at that frightful moment, and with that frightful death before him as a consequence. One would have thought that it wasn’t a matter for much gratitude or jubilation; but you see it was, and so both Joshua and Achan seem to have admitted.”

“Ah, Kenrick!” said Wilton, sadly, “if you’d always talked to me like that, I shouldn’t be like Achan now.”

Kenrick said nothing, but as he had received infinite comfort from Dr Lane’s treatment of himself, he took Wilton by the hand, and, without saying a word, knelt down. Wilton knelt down beside him, and he prayed for forgiveness for them both. A few broken, confused, uncertain words only, but they were earnest, and they came fresh and burning from the heart. They were words of true prayer, and the poor, erring, hardened little boy rose from his knees too overcome to speak.