Henry Drake stood before his teacher when school was dismissed, and tried to look careless and indifferent; but she could plainly see marks of guilt.
"Did you take my knife, Henry?" asked the teacher.
"No, ma'am!"
"Don't gaze at the floor now; look me full in the eye. You know there is One who sees into your heart. Can you say, before Him, that you have never touched my knife; that you know nothing how it came broken?"
"I don't see why you want to ask me so many questions," grumbled the boy, beginning to cry. "I told you I didn't know anything about it; but you wont believe me. You wont believe anybody but Ernest."
"I need not tell you, why I can't believe your word, Henry; your own conscience will tell you that. I do believe Ernest, because I know that he loves his Saviour, and would not grieve him by committing so great a sin as to tell a falsehood. If you have done nothing wrong, why did you threaten your cousin, in such a cruel manner, if he told anything about you?"
Henry started, but presently muttered,—
"He's always telling something to get me into trouble."
"No," answered the teacher, "that is not true. Ernest did not tell your father that you stole the keys of his tool chest. He has told me nothing about my knife, though I think that he knows something about it. He was willing to bear all the suspicions of the scholars rather than charge another with the crime. It would be much better for you to confess, Henry. I would forgive you, even now. If, after all your denial, I find you have been the thief and liar, too, I shall make a serious affair of it."
For a moment the boy hesitated. Conscience said, "Confess."