"Papa," I said, when I had put it down, "I'm sorry for what I said this morning. I don't mind Aleck's riding the gray; and please I should like to ride my own pony. I saw Rickson before dinner, and told him I had changed my mind, and that very likely the pony would be wanted."
My father answered, in a quiet, grave voice: "You might have spared yourself the trouble, Willie, of speaking to Rickson, for, though I'm sorry to leave you behind, I cannot allow you the pleasure of the ride to Stavemoor this afternoon."
"But, papa," I pleaded, "you always forgive me when I say I am sorry."
"And I do not say now that I will not forgive the wrong things you said this morning," he answered; "but I cannot let your conduct pass without punishment. You must remember, my child," he added, drawing me towards him, "that forgiving and not punishing are very different things. Do you remember when God forgave David his sin, yet He punished him by the death of his son. And it would be contrary to His commands if Christian parents were to allow their children's faults to be unpunished, although it is a Christian duty to exercise a forgiving spirit."
The practical result of this statement was what I thought of most; it was clear to my mind that the ride to Stavemoor had to be given up, and my brow grew cloudy.
"Then, papa," I said, poutingly, "I mayn't go with you this afternoon?"
"Certainly not, Willie," very decidedly; "you will spend one hour, from the time we start, in your own room; and I trust that you will remember during that time—if you are really sorry—that mine is not the only forgiveness you have to seek."
"Aleck's, papa?"
"No, not Aleck's; I hope he will never have an idea of all the wrong feelings you have entertained towards him."
"You mean God's forgiveness," I said, more seriously; for that was a name never to be pronounced without deep reverence.