“Then you see, my boy, how kind God is in tying us up in one bundle that way. It is a grand and beautiful thing that the fathers should suffer for the children, and the children for the fathers. Come along. We must step out, or I fear we shall not be able to make our apology to-night. When we’ve got over this, Ranald, we must be a good deal more careful what company we keep.”
“Oh, papa,” I answered, “if Turkey would only forgive me!”
“There’s no fear. Turkey is sure to forgive you when you’ve done what you can to make amends. He’s a fine fellow, Turkey. I have a high opinion of Turkey—as you call him.”
“If he would, papa, I should not wish for any other company than his.”
“A boy wants various kinds of companions, Ranald, but I fear you have been neglecting Turkey. You owe him much.”
“Yes, indeed I do, papa,” I answered; “and I have been neglecting him. If I had kept with Turkey, I should never have got into such a dreadful scrape as this.”
“That is too light a word to use for it, my boy. Don’t call a wickedness a scrape; for a wickedness it certainly was, though I am only too willing to believe you had no adequate idea at the time how wicked it was.”
“I won’t again, papa. But I am so relieved already.”
“Perhaps poor old Mrs. Gregson is not relieved, though. You ought not to forget her.”
Thus talking, we hurried on until we arrived at the cottage. A dim light was visible through the window. My father knocked, and Elsie Duff opened the door.