“Confess your fault, Louis, and I may then speak of amendment,” said the doctor.
“I cannot, indeed—indeed I cannot. It will all come out by and bye: you will see, sir—oh! you will see, sir,” sobbed Louis, deprecating the gathering of the angry cloud on the doctor's face. “Oh! do not tell mamma, for it is not true.”
“I do not wish to hear any more, sir,” said the doctor, sternly.
“Oh! what shall I do—what shall I do!” cried Louis; and he pushed his chair quickly from the table, and, throwing himself on his knees by Dr. Wilkinson, seized the hand that was beginning to date the dreaded letter—“I assure you I did not, sir—I am speaking the truth.”
“As you always do, doubtless,” said the doctor, drawing his hand roughly away. “Get up, sir; kneel to Him you have so deeply offended, but not to me.”
Louis rose, but stood still in the same place. “Will you hear only this one thing, sir? I will not say any thing more about my innocence—just hear me, if you please, sir.”
Dr. Wilkinson turned his head coldly towards him.
Louis dried his tears, and spoke with tolerable calmness: “I have one thing to ask, sir—will you allow me still to remain in the second class, and to do my lessons always in this room? You will then see if I can do without keys, or having any help.”
“I know you can if you choose,” replied Dr. Wilkinson, coldly, “or I should not have placed you in that class.”
“But, if you please, sir, I know all,”—Louis paused, he had promised to say no more on that subject.