killing little calves for veal, and all such things that make the
fond heart ache."

The Cap'n was "leaving" the grimy pages of a log-book. He paused over
certain entries, and his face darkened. There was no more
vindictiveness in his expression. It was regret and a sort of vague
worry.

"What is it, Aaron?" asked his wife, with wistful apprehensiveness.

"Northin'," he growled.

"But I know it's something," she insisted, "and I'm always ready to
share your burdens."

Cap'n Sproul looked around on the peace of his home, and some deep
feeling seemed to surge in his soul.

"Louada Murilla," he said, sadly, "this isn't anything to be written
in the book, and I didn't ever mean to speak of it to you. But there
are times when a man jest has to talk about things, and he can't help
it. There was one thing that I've been sorry for. I've said so to
myself, and I'm goin' to say as much to you. Confession is good for
the soul, so they say, and it may help me out some to tell you."

The horrified look on her face pricked him to speak further. 'Tis
a titillating sensation, sometimes, to awe or shock those whom we
love, when we know that forgiveness waits ready at hand.

"There was once--there was one man--I hit him dretful hard. He was