He felt vaguely uneasy as he saw that the boy’s hands were shaking.
“I wondered if perhaps it might—might cure one of a fault, sir.”
“Cure you of a fault!” echoed the astonished master. “What fault?”
“Any fault,” said Cecil, turning scarlet, and then white. “In the reading to-day, it said about our secret sins, and how they might go on all the time, and only—only God knows about them. And you said that He knew the strength of the temptations, and—and didn’t despise one.”
“I should think not!” ejaculated the clergyman parenthetically.
He thought that he was beginning to understand.
“How old are you, Aviolet?”
“Fifteen, sir.”
“Perhaps,” said the clergyman very kindly, and avoiding looking at the boy, “perhaps you’ve come to an age when what I may call the problems of the flesh are particularly vexatious. If that’s what’s worrying you, don’t mind saying so, quite frankly. By far the best and soundest way to tackle these things is to have them out, and you’ve done very wisely in coming to me. Don’t think of me as a master, for the time being, but just as a fellow older than yourself who’s probably been through very much what you’re going through now. Out with it, Aviolet.”
There was no response. Twice Cecil opened his mouth and then shut it again.