ing my sons up to that kind of wickedness, is to lay on me
more than my share, a good deal.--Come here, Ranald."

I obeyed with bowed head and shame-stricken heart, for I saw what
wrong I had done my father, and that although few would be so unjust
to him as this old woman, many would yet blame the best man in the
world for the wrongs of his children. When I stood by my father's
side, the old woman just lifted her head once to cast on me a scowling
look, and then went on again rocking herself.

"Now, my boy," said my father, "tell Mrs. Gregson why you have come
here to-night."

I had to use a dreadful effort to make myself speak. It was like
resisting a dumb spirit and forcing the words from my lips. But I did
not hesitate a moment. In fact, I dared not hesitate, for I felt that
hesitation would be defeat.

"I came, papa----" I began.

"No no, my man," said my father; "you must speak to Mrs. Gregson, not
to me."

Thereupon I had to make a fresh effort. When at this day I see a child
who will not say the words required of him, I feel again just as I
felt then, and think how difficult it is for him to do what he is
told; but oh, how I wish he would do it, that he might be a conqueror
I for I know that if he will not make the effort, it will grow more
and more difficult for him to make any effort. I cannot be too
thankful that I was able to overcome now.

"I came, Mrs. Gregson," I faltered, "to tell you that I am very sorry
I behaved so ill to you."

"Yes, indeed," she returned. "How would you like anyone to come and
serve you so in your grand house? But a poor lone widow woman like me
is nothing to be thought of. Oh no! not at all."

"I am ashamed of myself," I said, almost forcing my confession upon
her.

"So you ought to be all the days of your life. You deserve to be
drummed out of the town for a minister's son that you are! Hoo!"

"I'll never do it again, Mrs. Gregson."

"You'd better not, or you shall hear of it, if there's a sheriff in
the county. To insult honest people after that fashion!"

I drew back, more than ever conscious of the wrong I had done in
rousing such unforgiving fierceness in the heart of a woman. My father
spoke now.

"Shall I tell you, Mrs. Gregson, what made the boy sorry, and made him
willing to come and tell you all about it?"

"Oh, I've got friends after all. The young prodigal!"

"You are coming pretty near it, Mrs. Gregson," said my father; "but
you haven't touched it