relentless mentor, whose heart, however, was sorrowing over him with
the tenderness of a mother for her child.

Tom was silent; he did know, had really known from the first, though
now his fault stood before him in its unsightliness; all the pretexts
by which he had attempted to palliate it fell from it like a veil, and
showed the hateful thing it was. He could not bring himself to
acknowledge it, however. Sullenly he set down the apples and peanuts,
murmuring, "I never did it before, anyhow!"

"No, nor never will again, I'm sure, avick! This'll be a lifelong
lesson to ye," returned the old woman, with agitation, as she put the
dimes back into his hand. "Go right home with them now, an' tell yer
father all about it."

"My father!" faltered Tom, doubtful of the consequences of such a
confession.

"Well, yer mother, then. She'll be gentle with ye, never fear, if ye
are really sorry."

"Indeed I am, Missis Barry," declared Tom, quite breaking down at last.

"I'm certain ye are, asthore!" continued the good creature, heartily.
"An', whisper, when ye get home go to yer own little room, an' there on
yer bended knees ask God to forgive ye. Make up yer mind to shun bad
company for the future; an' never, from this hour, will we speak
another word about this--either ye to me or I to ye,--save an' except
ye may come an' say: 'I've done as ye bid me, Missis Barry. It's all
hunkey dory!'"