iting all this time for my sin to find me out; why should I not
frustrate my sin, and find my father first?

As soon as he had done reading, and before he had opened his mouth to
make any remark, I crept round the table to his side, and whispered in
his ear,--

"Papa, I want to speak to you."

"Very well, Ranald," he said, more solemnly, I thought, than usual;
"come up to the study."

[Illustration]

He rose and led the way, and I followed. A whimper of disappointment
came from Davie's bed. My father went and kissed him, and said he
would soon be back, whereupon Davie nestled down satisfied.

When we reached the study, he closed the door, sat down by the fire,
and drew me towards him.

I burst out crying, and could not speak for sobs. He encouraged me
most kindly. He said--

"Have you been doing anything wrong, my boy?"

"Yes, papa, very wrong," I sobbed. "I'm disgusted with myself."

"I am glad to hear it, my dear," he returned. "There is some hope of
you, then."

"Oh! I don't know that," I rejoined. "Even Turkey despises me."

"That's very serious," said my father. "He's a fine fellow, Turkey. I
should not like him to despise me. But tell me all about it."

It was with great difficulty I could begin, but with the help of
questioning me, my father at length understood the whole matter. He
paused for a while plunged in thought; then rose, saying,--

"It's a serious affair, my dear boy; but now you have told me, I shall
be able to help you."

"But you knew about it before, didn't you, papa? Surely you did!"

"Not a word of it, Ranald. You fancied so because your sin had found
you out. I must go and see how the poor woman is. I don't want to
reproach you at all, now you are sorry, but I should like you just to
think that you have been helping to make that poor old woman wicked.
She is naturally of a sour disposition, and you have made it sourer
still, and no doubt made her hate everybody more than she was already
inclined to do. You have been working against God in this parish."

I burst into fresh tears. It was too dreadful.

"What _am_ I to do?" I cried.

"Of course you must beg Mrs. Gregson's pardon, and tell her that you
are both sorry and ashamed."

"Yes, yes, papa. Do let me go with you."

"It's too late to find her up, I'm afraid; but we can just go and
see. We've done a wrong, a very grievous wrong, my boy, and I cannot
rest till I at least know the consequences of it."

He put on his