uldn't have anybody
know about it; and after all there's them eyes that are in every place,
looking right at me. 'Tain't right, that is sure and certain. I didn't
steal it, but I've got it, and it ain't mine, and I oughtn't to have it.
I could have handed it back easy enough if I'd wanted to. So I don't see
but it looks about as mean as stealing, and feels about as mean, and
maybe after all it's pretty much the same thing. Now what be I going to
do?"

And now he tumbled and tossed harder than ever. That same miserable fear
of those pure eyes began to creep over him again, accompanied by a
dreary sense of having lost something, some loving presence and
companionship on which he had leaned in the darkness.

"I'll never do it again," he said at last, with solemn earnestness. "I
_never will_, not if I starve and freeze and choke to death. I'll let
old rags that blow to me alone after this, I will."

Then, after a moment's silence, he clasped his hands together and said
with great earnestness:

"O Lord Jesus, forgive me this once, and I'll never do it
again--never."

After that he thought he could go to sleep but the heavy weight rested
still on his heart. He was not so much afraid of those solemn eyes as he
was sorry. An only half understood feeling of having hurt that one
friend of his came over him.

"What be I going to do?" he said aloud and pitifully. "I _am_ sorry--I'm
sorry I did it, and I'll never do it again."

Still the heavy weight did not lift. Presently he flounced out of bed,
and lighted his candle in haste.

"I'll burn the mean old rag up, I will, so," he said with energy. "See
if I'm going to lie awake all night and bother about it. I ain't going
to use it, either. I don't believe I've got any right to, 'cause it
ain't mine."

By this time the ten dollar bill was very near the candle flame. Then it
was suddenly drawn back, while a look of great perplexity appeared on
Tode's face.

"If it ain't mine what right have I got to burn it up, I'd like to know?
I never did see such a fix in my life. I can't use it, and I can't burn
it, and the land knows I don't want to keep it. Whatever be I going to
do? I wish he had it back again; that's where it ought to be. What if I
should--well, now, there's no use talking; but s'pose I ought to, what
then?"

And there stood the poor befogged boy, holding the doomed bill between
his thumb and finger, and staring gloomily at the flickering candle. At
last the loo