"Oh, yes, yes; he was quite right. Say no more about it, Theodore. God has given you boys back to us, and I don't believe you will ever try to induce Jack to do wrong again."
"I never, never will," he declared, earnestly.
"Theodore," said Mrs. Barton, gently, "I am going to speak to you as I speak to Jack, as though you were my own son, because I love you dearly, and—"
"Do you really?" Theodore asked, his cheeks flushing, his eyes shining brightly. "Do you really love me when I've been so naughty, and made Jack naughty too?"
"Indeed, I do."
There was a struggle going on in the boy's heart at that moment between a strong desire to respond to his stepmother's affection, and the wilfulness and pride he had harboured so long.
"I—I don't deserve you should," he said, falteringly, "because I'm not good like Jack. I should like to be, but I can't."
Mrs. Barton rose impulsively from her seat, and, crossing the room, knelt down by Theodore's sofa, so that his face was on a level with hers. There were tears in her soft, brown eyes—eyes so like her little son's—and at the sight Theodore's mistrust of his stepmother died for ever, and, flinging his uninjured arm around her neck, he gave her the first kiss he had ever voluntarily bestowed upon her.
"I never really hated you," he whispered. "I only said it because I was wicked; I often am, you know. But I mean to be better, and you will help me, won't you, like you help Jack?"
"Oh, yes, yes; you are both my dear boys."