The news drove personal considerations from his mind, and, full of vague fears and dread, Jack resolved to call at 99, Madeira Street to find out for himself how matters really were. He was shown into the little shabbily-furnished drawing room, where presently Mrs. Grainger came to him.
She at once let Jack know she was acquainted with the events of the previous Saturday, and she told him plainly that he had done very wrong in persuading Robert to learn to skate, when he knew it was against his parents' wishes that he should do so. But she said nothing harsh or upbraiding, and when Jack heard how ill his friend was, and what trouble had been caused to the family, he begged her, with tears in his eyes, to forgive him, promising he would never lead Robert into mischief again.
And when Mrs. Grainger, remembering he was motherless, put her hand gently on his shoulder, and almost as lovingly as she would have done to one of her own children, pointed out his sin, and implored him to give up his old bad ways, and take to those that were noble and good, Jack completely broke down and cried and sobbed "like a great big baby," as he told Robert afterwards.
He went away comforted with the assurance that as soon as Robert was able to see visitors, he should be admitted to his room, and he walked home feeling that perhaps if he had had a mother such as Robert's, he would have been a different boy. He would never speak mockingly of her again—no, never; and his cheeks burned as he thought of all the sneering, taunting remarks he had made of her.
Mrs. Grainger kept her word. Jack called twice every day to inquire for his schoolfellow, and at the beginning of the second week was taken to his room. From that time he became a frequent visitor to the house, and the good influence which was born of what he saw and heard there had a long and lasting effect.
It was five weeks from the day of the accident before Robert was allowed to go to school again. Though wearisome, the time was not without its pleasures. Thu love that was shown him by his mother and brothers and sisters touched him greatly, for he could but feel how unworthy he was of it. More than that, it was a period of thoughtfulness and reflection. He had leisure to review the past, he saw how sinful, selfish, and weak he had been, and he earnestly asked for God's grace to strengthen him and help him live a new life. That he was sorry for the past nobody doubted. He gave proof, too, that his repentance was sincere.
"Mother," he said one morning, during the early days of his convalescence, when the younger children were at lessons, and nobody but Mrs. Grainger and himself and Phil were in the sitting room, "when are you going to write to father again?"
"The mail goes to-morrow, dear. I shall begin my letter to-night, when you are all in bed."
"Does he know I have been ill?"
"Yes, but I spoke as lightly of it as possible. I did not wish to trouble him unnecessarily, and from the first Dr. Fowler never really doubted your recovery."