"Where's the money, Crip?" and Mr. Allen turned his big, searching blue
eyes on Crip, and held forth his hand.

"Why, father," said Crip, "he hadn't any, and he wanted to go home.
It's three miles, you know, and snowing."

"Crip Allen! Do you know what you've done? You've _stolen_ a pair of
shoes."

"Oh, I haven't, father," cried Crip, "and 't was only the old,
half-worn shoes that you mended for George Hine, that he couldn't
wear."

"Christopher!" thundered forth Mr. Allen, in a voice that made the lad
shake in his boots, "go into the house and right upstairs to bed. You
have stolen a pair of shoes from your own father. You _knew_ they were
not yours to give away."

Poor Crip! Now he couldn't get a sight of the "Sweet Home" to-night,
even through the darkness and the snow.

His upper lip began to tremble and give way, but he went into the big
red house, up the front staircase to his own room, and, in the cold,
crept under the blankets into a big feather bed, and thought of Jo
plodding his way home.

About eight of the clock, when Crip was fast asleep, the door opened,
somebody walked in, and a hand touched the boy, and left a bit of cake
on his pillow; then the hand and the somebody went away, and Crip was