“Have you been doing anything wrong, my boy?”
“Yes, papa, very wrong,” I sobbed. “I’m disgusted with myself.”
“I am glad to hear it, my dear,” he returned. “There is some hope of you, then.”
“Oh! I don’t know that,” I rejoined. “Even Turkey despises me.”
“That’s very serious,” said my father. “He’s a fine fellow, Turkey. I should not like him to despise me. But tell me all about it.”
It was with great difficulty I could begin, but with the help of questioning me, my father at length understood the whole matter. He paused for a while plunged in thought; then rose, saying,—
“It’s a serious affair, my dear boy; but now you have told me, I shall be able to help you.”
“But you knew about it before, didn’t you, papa? Surely you did!”
“Not a word of it, Ranald. You fancied so because your sin had found you out. I must go and see how the poor woman is. I don’t want to reproach you at all, now you are sorry, but I should like you just to think that you have been helping to make that poor old woman wicked. She is naturally of a sour disposition, and you have made it sourer still, and no doubt made her hate everybody more than she was already inclined to do. You have been working against God in this parish.”
I burst into fresh tears. It was too dreadful.