" said his aunt kindly.

"Why then, you see, I made a foolish offer, and might have backed out of
it; and if I had done so I should have pleased my father and saved my
money, and not have encouraged one of the biggest scamps going, and have
been spared a lot of chaffing and ridicule. But you see I had given my
word, though it was only half a word after all, for I never dreamed that
Gregson would have taken me up as he did. But rather than break my
word, I stood by what I had promised, and got all sorts of bother and
trouble by doing so. Now, wasn't that something like moral courage?
Don't I deserve my laurels?"

"It was something _like_ it," replied his aunt gravely.

"Is that all, auntie? Wasn't it the thing itself? You know there has
been no dash or mere impulse here. I've had a deal of patience and
forbearance to exercise, and these are quite out of my line."

"Yes, I see that; but then, Walter--"

"But then, Aunt Kate, it wasn't moral courage after all."

"Do you yourself think it was, dear boy?"

"Well, I don't know; I should like to think it was, but I am almost
afraid. What should you call it, dear aunt, if it wasn't truly moral
courage?"

"I fear, dear Walter, you will think me very hard and unfeeling if I say
what I really think."

"Oh, no, no! speak out, auntie--let me hear the truth; you are never
really unkind."

"Then, Walter, I should call it obstinacy, and not moral courage. You
made a promise, and you would stick to it through thick and thin, let
the consequences to yourself and others be what they might, just because
you had said it. Was it not so?"

Walter turned red, and looked very uncomfortable, and for a little time
made no reply. Then he said hastily, "And what _ought_ I to have done?"

"Well, my boy, in my judgment," replied his aunt, "you ought to have
listened to your father, and to have withdrawn your offer, and to have
borne patiently the shame and the annoyance this would have brought upon
you from your friends Gregson, Saunders, and others."

"Ah, I see; and then I should have shown real moral courage. What's the
difference, then?"

"I think, Walter, the difference is just this: in the course you took,
your firmness and patience were for an _unworthy_ object; had you taken
the other course, they would have been for a _worthy_ object. It seems
to me that this makes all the difference. I could not myself call that
moral courage which made a man carry through, spi