December 4th.—I had dropped my pen and was actually crying yesterday, when Chandos came in and caught me.
"What is the matter, Stewart? Are you ill, old fellow?" he asked, and he put his arm round me, so that there was no getting away from him.
"Don't, Chandos," I said, "I can't bear it! I'm a miserable, mean sneak, and if you were to kick me out of the room I should feel better, for that's what I deserve. Mind, I never meant to be a sneak, and I didn't think I ever should do such a mean trick, but now you do know it you'd better turn me up as I did Tom."
"Well, I don't know what you've done yet, we'll talk about that afterwards; but just tell me this, would you do the same thing again if you had the chance?"
"Do it again? I tell you I hate myself for it; but the worst of it is, it won't undo it now it's done. I never thought I could be so mean, Chandos."
"I suppose not; but bad as it is, you need not give up all hope. God knew how mean you could be, and yet He will be your friend if you would let Him. Is it about the prize, Stewart?"
"Oh yes; I do hope I shan't get it," I groaned.
"Well, you shall tell me all about it by-and-by if you like, but now just let me say a word. You never felt before that you were a sinner—that you could do anything bad?"
"I've been trying to keep straight and do everything on the square, but I may as well give up now, for I see I can't do it."
"No, no, you won't give up, Charley. I'm going to call you Charley now, because I hope we shall be better friends than ever after this. I was just as miserable once as you are now. I had told a lie, and I felt I could never be forgiven; but my mother talked to me, and I'll tell you as well as I can remember what she said: