nd told my
father a lie? No, no, I could not bear to write all that.

'Next morning, sir, I had new troubles. I was forced to steal slyly out
of the house, that no one might see me put on my best hat, and when I
got to William Thompson's, he had got no money to give me. I dared not
go to school without my books, so I went to seek the man that had them.
He was gone to his daily work, and we could not find him, and I waited
and loitered till he came home to his dinner. I begged and prayed for my
books, and at last he gave them up to me, making me promise I would
bring him the money next day, or something that he could sell for money,
which if I did not do, he said he would come and declare the whole story
to you, sir. I got to school that day time enough for afternoon's
lessons, and was forced to tell another lie to my master, to excuse my
not coming sooner.

'I had no dinner either that day; but the pain of hunger was nothing to
the fear of being found out. Well, sir, to tell all the worst at once, I
have from time to time carried away, to pay the man whose oar we had
lost, my silver pen and pencil, my compasses, my pocket inkstand, and
that handsome bound set of Natural History you gave me on my last
birthday. Then in going to seek him, I have stayed away three more
mornings from school. And my head has been so filled with other thoughts
that I have not minded my lessons as I used to do. I have lost my place
in my class twice, have been punished once, and my master threatens to
make complaints to you, sir, of the change in my conduct. To excuse
wearing my best hat, I did also invent a wicked lie of having lost my
other at school.

'Alas! alas! how many sad things have I been guilty of since I first
played truant! If I had but confessed my fault that day, how many more I
should have avoided! I have never known a happy moment since, and if I
could describe to my brothers and sisters the pain and grief I have
felt, I am sure they would never be as naughty as I have been.

'O, sir, I cannot bear to deceive you any longer, and if you will grant
me your pardon, indeed, indeed, I will try never to offend you more.'

It is not possible to express how great Mr. Clayton's surprise and
sorrow was on perusing this paper; yet, convinced by Laurence's candid
confession of his faults that his penitence was sincere, he consented to
forgive him the past and restore him to his favour. Laurence knelt at
his father's feet, and while h