with evil
things. Then, perhaps too late, the son finds that `a good name is more
to be desired than great riches, and loving favour rather than silver
and gold.' But he has thrown away the good name and the loving favour
too, for he has drifted away from his old friends and companions. He
can _never_ get back to where he started from."

The solemn monotonous voice--for the rector had dropped unconsciously
into his sermon tones--and the emphasis on the last words completed
Frank's misery of spirit.

Clasping his hands, he fell on his knees and said imploringly:

"Let me go home, sir. Let me go back. I'd be proper glad to see 'em
all again."

"Whom would you like to see again?" asked the rector kindly.

"There's mother first," said Frank, "and father on Sundays, and then
Schoolmaster, and Jack Gunn, and little Phoebe Redrup."

"My little lad," said the rector, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder,
"you see there's no place like home. Home, where people know us and
love us in spite of our faults. I think you won't want to run away
again?"

"Niver no more," sobbed Frank.

"And now," said the rector rising, and reassuming the air of severity
which he had quite laid aside during the last part of the interview. "I
am going to write to the vicar of Danecross, who is a friend of mine.
If I find that what you have told me is true we will say no more about
the inkstand, and I will believe that you had no knowledge of the theft.
Until then you must be treated as under suspicion, though we will not
send you to prison."

He summoned Andrew, and delivered Frank over to his charge. Disgusted
to find that he was not to be "run in" as an example to tramps, from
whom his master's orchard and garden had suffered so frequently, Andrew
was determined that his captive should have no chance of escape, and as
rigorous a confinement as possible. Frank was therefore locked up in a
small harness-room, as the place of greatest security and discomfort;
and here he passed the lonely day in much distress of mind, troubled
with many fears concerning his late friend and companion Barney.

The rector himself was hardly more at his ease, however, for he would
willingly have dispensed with the zeal of his parishioners, who had been
scouring the country since daybreak in search of the thief, and kept him
in a constant tremor. The good people of Crowhurst seldom had the
chance of such an excitement as this unexpected robbery, and tho