gh, and the wound is healing nicely. I wonder if he
has been up to any other escapade, and is uneasy about it? It is probably
quite a trifling thing, but I feel sure something is preying on the boy's
mind."

After the doctor had gone, Mr. Anketell wandered about the moor, thinking
deeply. The doctor's words had impressed him very much, and even while he
had been speaking the memory of the sleep-walking night, and Paul's odd
behaviour of the day previous to that, came back to him. Could Paul have
deceived them all as to the events of that night? Had something happened
then which he had not liked to confess?

He went slowly back to the farm, his heart heavy, his face stern.
But before he sought his son, he went to his own room, and prayed to God
to help him in his guidance of this boy of his.

Paul was alone, lying on a couch in his own room, to which he had been
carried after he had been shot. The sun had set, and a soft twilight was
filling the room, but the light which still came in at the window fell
full on Paul. Mr. Anketell, entering softly, saw the expression on the
boy's face, the look in his eyes, and his heart ached, and all his
sternness vanished. "My boy," he said, oh, so tenderly, "tell me what it
is that is troubling you; tell me all about it, I know there is something.
Can't you bring yourself to trust me not to be hard on you?"

No one knew what transpired at that meeting. No one but Mrs. Anketell in
fact ever knew it had taken place. It was to remain for ever a confidence
between them, and it was a confidence which bound father and son more
closely together all their lives after. They had a long, long talk; much
was confessed, much help given, much strength and courage. Paul never
forgot that evening and that talk in the twilight, or his first
realisation of the greatness of his father's love for him. No shyness, no
self-consciousness was left, no fear of meeting his father's eyes, no more
secrets lay between them. To Paul, though he but dimly realised it then,
and could not have explained it, that hour was a turning-point in his
life, and in all his after-life he thanked God for that one evening's
talk. But after the confession and the forgiveness was over, and all had
been told, they sat so long talking that presently the supper-bell rang,
and then came a light, slow step upon the stair. It was Stella's, they
knew. "Will you tell her?" whispered Paul, and though his heart was sore
w