choked with sobs, the memory of the past,
consciousness that much which he said was only too true, touched Kenrick
with compassion; the tears rolled down his own face fast, and he felt
that, though personal fear could not influence him, pity would perhaps
force him to relent, and wring from him in his weakness a reluctant
promise not to disclose Wilton's discovered guilt.

"What can I say to you, Wilton? you know that I have liked you, but I
never thought that you could act like this."

"Nor I, Kenrick, a short time ago; but the devil tempted me, and I have
never learned to resist."

"From my very heart I _do_ pity you; but I fear I _must_ tell; I fear
it's my duty, and I have neglected so many that I dare neglect no more;
though indeed, I'd rather have had any duty but this."

Wilton was again clasping his knees and harrowing his soul by his wild
anguish, imploring to be saved from the horror of open shame, and,
accustomed as Kenrick was to grant anything to this boy, he was reduced
to great distress. Already his whole manner had relented from the
loathing and anger he first displayed. He could stand no more at
present.

"O Wilton," he said, "you will make me ill if you go on like this. I
cannot, must not, will not make you any promise now; but I will think
what to do."

"I will go," said Wilton, deeply abashed; "but before I go, promise me
one thing, Ken, and that is, even if you tell of me, don't quite cast me
off. I shouldn't like to leave and think that I hadn't left _one_
behind me to give me a kind thought sometimes."

"O Ra, Ra, to think that it was _you_ all the while who were committing
all these thefts!"

"You _will_ cast me off then?" said Wilton, in a voice broken by
penitence; "O! what a bitter bitter thing it is to feel shame like
this."

"I have felt it too in my time, Raven. Poor, poor fellow! who am I that
I should cast you off? No, you unhappy child, I may tell of you, but I
will not cease to be fond of you. Go, Wilton; I will decide between
this and tea-time--you may come and hear about it after tea."

He was already outside the door when Kenrick called out "Wilton, stop!"

"What is it?" asked Wilton, returning alarmed, for conscience had made
him a coward.

"There!" Kenrick only pointed to the purse lying on the floor.

"Oh, don't ask me to touch it again, the money is in it," said Wilton,
hastily leaving the room. There was no acting here; it was plain that
he was peniten