My father made no reply; John gathered courage.

"It was, as I say, all my fault. It might have been wrong--I think
now that it was--but the temptation was hard. My life here is dull;
I long sometimes for a little amusement--a little change."

"Thee shall have it."

That voice, slow and quiet as it was, struck us both dumb.

"And how long hast thee planned this, John Halifax?"

"Not a day--not an hour! it was a sudden freak of mine." (My father
shook his head with contemptuous incredulity.) "Sir!--Abel Fletcher-
-did I ever tell you a lie? If you will not believe me, believe your
own son. Ask Phineas--No, no, ask him nothing!" And he came in
great distress to the sofa where I had fallen. "Oh, Phineas! how
cruel I have been to you!"

I tried to smile at him, being past speaking--but my father put John
aside.

"Young man, _I_ can take care of my son. Thee shalt not lead him
into harm's way any more. Go--I have been mistaken in thee!"

If my father had gone into a passion, had accused us, reproached us,
and stormed at us with all the ill-language that men of the world
use! but that quiet, cold, irrevocable, "I have been mistaken in
thee!" was ten times worse.