Then, after a moment's silence, he clasped his hands together and said with great earnestness:
"O Lord Jesus, forgive me this once, and I'll never do it again—never."
After that he thought he could go to sleep but the heavy weight rested still on his heart. He was not so much afraid of those solemn eyes as he was sorry. An only half understood feeling of having hurt that one friend of his came over him.
"What be I going to do?" he said aloud and pitifully. "I am sorry—I'm sorry I did it, and I'll never do it again."
Still the heavy weight did not lift. Presently he flounced out of bed, and lighted his candle in haste.
"I'll burn the mean old rag up, I will, so," he said with energy. "See if I'm going to lie awake all night and bother about it. I ain't going to use it, either. I don't believe I've got any right to, 'cause it ain't mine."
By this time the ten dollar bill was very near the candle flame. Then it was suddenly drawn back, while a look of great perplexity appeared on Tode's face.
"If it ain't mine what right have I got to burn it up, I'd like to know? I never did see such a fix in my life. I can't use it, and I can't burn it, and the land knows I don't want to keep it. Whatever be I going to do? I wish he had it back again; that's where it ought to be. What if I should—well, now, there's no use talking; but s'pose I ought to, what then?"
And there stood the poor befogged boy, holding the doomed bill between his thumb and finger, and staring gloomily at the flickering candle. At last the look of indecision vanished, and he began rapid preparations for a walk.
