s
silent. At last she continued, "Why did I love you, Jack?--Because you
were honest. Why did I lend you money--I, an old miserly wretch, who
have been made to dote on money; I, who have never spent a shilling for
my own comfort for these ten years?--But because you were honest. Why
have I longed the whole day to see you, and have cared only for you?--
Because I thought you honest; Jack. I don't care how soon I die now. I
thought the world too bad to live in; you made me think better of it.
Oh! Jack, Jack, how has this come to pass? How long have you known
these bad people?"

"Why, mother," replied I, much affected, "only last night."

"Only last night? Tell me all about it; tell the truth, dear boy, do."

I could hold out no longer, and I told her everything that had passed.

"Jack," said she, "I'm not fit to talk to you; I'm a bad old woman, and
you may say I don't practise what I preach; but, Jack, if you love me,
go to Peter Anderson and tell him everything. Don't be afraid; only be
afraid of doing what is wrong. Now, Jack, you must go."

"I will, I will," replied I, bursting into tears.

"Do, do, dear Jack! God bless your heart, I wish I could cry that way."

I walked away quite humiliated; at last I ran, I was so eager to go to
Anderson and confess everything. I found him in his cabin--I attempted
to speak, but I could not--I pulled out the money, put it on the table,
and then I knelt down and sobbed on his knee.

"What is all this, Jack?" said Anderson, calmly; but I did not reply.
"I think I know, Jack," said he, after a pause. "You have been doing
wrong."

"Yes, yes," replied I, sobbing.

"Well, my dear boy, wait till you can speak, and then tell me all about
it."

As soon as I could, I did. Anderson heard me without interruption.

"Jack," said he, when I had done speaking, "the temptation" (pointing to
the money) "has been very great; you did not resist at the moment, but
you have, fortunately, seen your error in good time for the money is
still here. I have little to say to you, for your own feelings convince
me that it is needless. Do you think that you can read a little? Then
read this." Anderson turned to the parable of the Prodigal Son, which I
read to him. "And now," said he, turning ever the leaves, "here is one
verse more."

I read it: "There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth, than over
ninety and nine that need no repentance."

"Be careful, therefore, my de