I telephoned the garage people to go after her this
morning. They told me a while ago she was pretty badly stove up and it
will probably take a couple of weeks to get her in order." The story came
out jerkily and the narrator kept his eyes consistently floorward during
the recital.

"Is that all?"

"What more do you want?" curtly. "I said I was sorry, if that is what
you mean."

"It isn't what I mean, Ted. I assume you didn't deliberately go out to
break my car and that you are not particularly proud of the outcome of
your joy ride. I mean, exactly what I asked. Have you told me the
whole story?"

Ted was silent, mechanically rolling the corner of the, rug under his
foot. His uncle studied the good-looking, unhappy young face. His mind
worked back to that inadvertent "u--er--_me_" of the confession.

"Were you alone?" he asked.

A scarlet flush swept the lad's face, died away, leaving it a
little white.

"Yes."

The answer was low but distinct. It was like a knife thrust to the
doctor. In all the eight years in which he had fathered Ned's sons, both
before and since his brother's death, never once to his knowledge had
either one lied to him, even to save himself discomfort, censure or
punishment. With all their boyish vagaries and misdeeds, it had been the
one thing he could count on absolutely, their unflinching, invariable
honesty. Yet, surely as the June sun was shining outside, Ted had lied to
him just now. Why? Rash twenty was too young to go its way unchallenged
and unguided. He was responsible for the lad whose dead father had
committed him to his charge.

Only a few weeks before his death Ned had written with curious
prescience, "If I go out any time, Phil, I know you will look after the
children as I would myself or better. Keep your eye on Ted especially.
His heart is in the right place, but he has a reckless devil in him that
will bring him and all of us to grief if it isn't laid."

Doctor Holiday went over and laid a hand on each of the lad's hunched
shoulders.

"Look at me, Ted," he commanded gently.

The old habit of obedience strong in spite of his twenty years, Ted
raised his eyes, but dropped them again on the instant as if they were
lead weighted.

"That is the first time you ever lied to me, I think, lad," said the
doctor quietly.

A quiver passed over the boy's face, but his lips set tighter than ever
and he pulled away from his uncle's hands and turned, staring out of the
windo