direction, but I could not lift mine to make sure. I had
never before known what misery was.

Only Tom and I went to church that day: it was so cold. My father
preached from the text, "Be sure your sin shall find you out". I
thought with myself that he had found out my sin, and was preparing to
punish me for it, and I was filled with terror as well as dismay. I
could scarcely keep my seat, so wretched was I. But when after many
instances in which punishment had come upon evil-doers when they least
expected it, and in spite of every precaution to fortify themselves
against it, he proceeded to say that a man's sin might find him out
long before the punishment of it overtook him, and drew a picture of
the misery of the wicked man who fled when none pursued him, and
trembled at the rustling of a leaf, then I was certain that he knew
what I had done, or had seen through my face into my conscience. When
at last we went home, I kept waiting the whole of the day for the
storm to break, expecting every moment to be called to his study. I
did not enjoy a mouthful of my food, for I felt his eyes upon me, and
they tortured me. I was like a shy creature of the woods whose hole
had been stopped up: I had no place of refuge--nowhere to hide my
head; and I felt so naked!

My very soul was naked. After tea I slunk away to the nursery, and sat
staring into the fire. Mrs. Mitchell came in several times and scolded
me for sitting there, instead of with Tom and the rest in the parlour,
but I was too miserable even to answer her. At length she brought
Davie, and put him to bed; and a few minutes after, I heard my father
coming down the stair with Allister, who was chatting away to him. I
wondered how he could. My father came in with the big Bible under his
arm, as was his custom on Sunday nights, drew a chair to the table,
rang for candles, and with Allister by his side and me seated opposite
to him, began to find a place from which to read to us. To my yet
stronger conviction, he began and read through without a word of
remark the parable of the Prodigal Son. When he came to the father's
delight at having him back, the robe, and the shoes, and the ring, I
could not repress my tears. "If I could only go back," I thought, "and
set it all right! but then I've never gone away." It was a foolish
thought, instantly followed by a longing impulse to tell my father all
about it. How could it be that I had not thought of this before? I had
been wa