"He is so unhappy," she told him; "ever since the night of the accident he has not been like the same boy. I think he is grieving very much. He has been to inquire for Dora every day, and yesterday he saw Mrs. Mickle, and they had quite a long chat together. I don't know what they talked about, but when he came home he said to me, 'Angel, I've been a worse boy than you know, and when I've told father everything he'll never love or trust me again.' And, oh, he looked so white and wretched," the little girl concluded, almost in tears herself.
"Nothing Gerald has done could alter my affection for him," Mr. Willis replied gravely, "but trusting him is another matter. I can see he is miserable; I am sure that is not to be wondered at. There is no excuse for his behaviour."
"I know that, father, and I think he knows it himself."
Presently Mr. Bailey and Gerald joined the others in the garden. Gerald glanced at his father doubtfully; he dreaded to be left alone with him, and at the same time longed to get over the confession he had fully made up his mind to make. Mr. Willis sat down on a garden seat, and when Angel and Mr. Bailey strolled away in the direction of the kitchen garden, Gerald timidly approached his father, and ventured to place himself by his side.
"Father," he said huskily, "I have something to say to you."
He paused, as though unable to proceed further. Mr. Willis turned to him, and, as he remained silent, said gently—
"I suppose you want to ask my forgiveness, Gerald?"
"No," the boy replied, "no, not yet—not until you know all. Oh, how shall I tell you? Oh, what will you think of me?"
"Try not to excite yourself," his father said soothingly, pitying his distress. "If you have anything to confess to me, I am ready to hear it. Confide in me, my son, but let me have the whole truth."
"Yes," Gerald cried. "I am sick of lies. Oh, father, I have been so wicked—so awfully, awfully wicked!"