"Listen, my son; let me talk a moment without interruption. You are not
_now_ responsible for consequences. _You owe this debt and it must be
paid_. It is just as much a part of the debt you owe--yes, just as much
as the money that you returned. You cannot repudiate it and retain your
self-respect. No man can respect himself any more than he can respect
another who is able and yet refuses to pay a just debt. Now, you have
paid your debt to the bank, and they have forgiven you. You have
confessed your fault to me, and I gladly pardon you, and this confession
and repentance enhances my love for you. Now, think you that your father
and mother will do less? You are both unjust and unkind to him whom I
have known and loved from my earliest manhood; and I must, also, add,
that if you still refuse to pay this part of your debt, my confidence in
your repentance will be lessened."

"Bishop," said the youth, slowly, as if weighing well his words, "I see
it all now. But how can I do this? Can you not, will you not, write to
my father?"

"No, Carl," was the reply, "you must, in response to your honest heart,
do this yourself, nor must it be done through a letter."

Carl was thoughtful for a few moments. Then he arose. "Bishop," said he,
"I will follow your advice. I will leave at once for England."

"This, my boy," said the bishop, also rising, "is what you must do. I
was sure you would see it in this light. It is the only course."

At midnight Carl caught the New York boat, landing in that city in time
for early breakfast.