There was little surprise in his look, but an expression of mortified pride and anger, as he addressed me in a low tone.
"I thought I should meet you here!"
"Well, Thomas," said I, "I don't know as you will believe me, but, I assure you, I heartily regret that you are brought to this pass, and if the ends of justice could be answered, I should be the first to let you go free."
"Perhaps you would," replied he, moodily. "It's easy enough to say so."
"But," I remarked, "I want you to take a reasonable view of the matter. You cannot think me so destitute of common humanity as to wish to place any one in such an unpleasant position, much less a young man like yourself, so capable of better things."
He appeared to be somewhat impressed by the earnestness with which I spoke, and answered in a softened tone.
"I suppose I ought to believe you, but it seems hard to be entrapped in the way I have been."
"It may be the best thing that could have happened to you under the circumstances," said I, "and I sincerely hope that it will prove so."
I was desirous of making him see that I was actuated in the course I had taken by no motive other than a wish to discharge my duty faithfully, and therefore left him for the time to consider what I had said, confident that a little reflection would calm his ruffled temper, and lead him to a correct view of the case. In this I was not mistaken, and when I urged him to make a confession on the ground of justice to others, and his own interest, he "made a clean breast" of it, and gave in substance the account of his downward course, with which the reader is already familiar. He expressed much regret and penitence, and a mournful satisfaction that his mother was not alive to know of his disgrace.