"Oh, yes; I care very much," she returned. "But, you see, after all,
your stealing is a little thing that can be made all right. Your being
a thief is so small in comparison with other things which you might have
been, but which you are not, and of so little importance in comparison
with what you really ARE, that I can't feel so very bad about it."

"But--but--my drinking,--my condition when--" He could not go on.

"Why, you see," she answered, "I can't think of THAT man as being YOU at
all. THAT was something that the accident of your being a thief did to
you,--like catching cold, and being sick, after accidentally falling in
the river."

After a little silence, the man spoke, slowly: "I suppose every thief,
when he is caught, says the same thing; but I really never wanted to do
it. Circumstances--" he paused, biting his lip, and turning away.

"What was she like?" asked Auntie Sue, gently.

"She?" and his face reddened.

"Yes, I have observed that, to a man, 'circumstances' nearly always mean
a woman. To a woman, of course, it is a man."

"I cannot tell you about her, now," he said. "Some day, perhaps, when I
am further away from it. But she is not at all like you."

And this answer, for some strange reason, brought a flush of pleasure to
the face of the old schoolteacher.