he old gentleman, and he never tired of telling the story as long as he
lived.

The Boy never saw the grandfather again. He had gone to the kirk-yard,
to stay, before the next visit to St. Andrews was made; and now that
kirk-yard holds everyone of The Boy's name and blood who is left in the
town.

The Boy was taught, from the earliest awakening of his reasoning powers,
that truth was to be told and to be respected, and that nothing was more
wicked or more ungentlemanly than a broken promise. He learned very
early to do as he was told, and not to do, under any consideration, what
he had said he would not do. Upon this last point he was almost morbidly
conscientious, although once, literally, he "beat about the bush." His
aunt Margaret, always devoted to plants and to flowers, had, on the back
stoop of his grandfather's house, a little grove of orange and lemon
trees, in pots. Some of these were usually in fruit or in flower, and
the fruit to The Boy was a great temptation. He was very fond of
oranges, and it seemed to him that a "home-made" orange, which he had
never tasted, must be much better than a grocer's orange; as home-made
cake was certainly preferable, even to the wonderful cakes made by the
professional Mrs. Milderberger. He watched those little green oranges
from day to day, as they gradually grew big and yellow in the sun. He
promised faithfully that he would not pick any of them, but he had a
notion that some of them might drop off. He never shook the trees,
because he said he would not. But he shook the stoop! And he hung about
the bush, which he was too honest to beat. One unusually tempting
orange, which he had known from its bud-hood, finally overcame him. He
did not pick it off, he did not shake it off; he compromised with his
conscience by lying flat on his back and biting off a piece of it. It
was not a very good action, nor was it a very good orange, and for that
reason, perhaps, he went home immediately and told on himself. He told
his mother. He did not tell his aunt Margaret. His mother did not seem
to be as much shocked at his conduct as he was. But, in her own quiet
way, she gave him to understand that promises were not made to be
cracked any more than they were made to be broken--that he had been
false to himself in heart, if not in deed, and that he must go back and
make it "all right" with his aunt Margaret. She did not seem to be very
much shocked, either; he could not tell why. But they pu