h, but to confront us with it, that my
father--reaching the parlour, and opening the shutters that the hard
daylight should shame us more and more--asked the stern question--

"Phineas, where hast thee been?"

John answered for me. "At the theatre at Coltham. It was my fault. He
went because I wished to go."

"And wherefore didst thee wish to go?"

"Wherefore?" the answer seemed hard to find. "Oh! Mr Fletcher, were
you never young like me?"

My father made no reply; John gathered courage.

"It was, as I say, all my fault. It might have been wrong--I think now
that it was--but the temptation was hard. My life here is dull; I long
sometimes for a little amusement--a little change."

"Thee shall have it."

That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb.

"And how long hast thee planned this, John Halifax?"

"Not a day--not an hour! it was a sudden freak of mine." (My father
shook his head with contemptuous incredulity.) "Sir!--Abel
Fletcher--did I ever tell you a lie? If you will not believe me,
believe your own son. Ask Phineas--No, no, ask him nothing!" And he
came in great distress to the sofa where I had fallen. "Oh, Phineas!
how cruel I have been to you!"

I tried to smile at him, being past speaking--but my father put John
aside.

"Young man, _I_ can take care of my son. Thee shalt not lead him into
harm's way any more. Go--I have been mistaken in thee!"

If my father had gone into a passion, had accused us, reproached us,
and stormed at us with all the ill-language that men of the world use!
but that quiet, cold, irrevocable, "I have been mistaken in thee!" was
ten times worse.

John lifted to him a mute look, from which all pride had ebbed away.

"I repeat, I have been mistaken in thee! Thee seemed a lad to my mind;
I trusted thee. This day, by my son's wish, I meant to have bound thee
'prentice to me, and in good time to have taken thee into the business.
Now--"

There was silence. At last John muttered, in a low broken-hearted
voice, "I deserve it all. I can go away. I might perhaps earn my
living elsewhere; shall I?"

Abel Fletcher hesitated, looked at the poor lad before him (oh, David!
how unlike to thee), then said, "No--I do not wish that. At least, not
at present."

I cried out in the joy and relief of my heart. John came over to me,
and we clasped hands.

"John, you will not go?"

"No, I will stay to redeem my character with your father. Be content