Charlie took up a third, determined that it should be the last, when Bob said, "I think you had better inquire how the time goes."
"It's nothing like time for the post to close yet, is it, sir?" he asked of the librarian.
"It only wants three minutes to the time; it is not possible for you to save it, I am afraid."
Charlie dashed down the broad steps and along the streets as hard as he could run; but he was too late, the post had just gone, and he was obliged to drop the letter into the empty box. He walked slowly home, out of breath and out of temper, hoping no questions would be asked. "I don't see why I should say it was too late unless I'm asked," he argued, shrinking from confessing to his mother that she was justified in doubting him. Nothing was said about the letter that night; his father was much worse, and everything else was forgotten. Charlie was almost heartbroken to see him so ill, and miserable at the thought that he was deceiving him about the letter.
The next morning, as he was leaving the room to go out to his work, his father called him back. "Charlie," he said, "I am expecting a sister of mine to-night, and I want you to go to the train and meet her; she would get the letter you posted last night this morning, and will have time to get here by the half-past eight train to-night." He paused for a moment. Why did not Charlie undeceive him about the letter at once? He made up his mind to tell him, but put it off until his father had finished all he had to say.
"I have not seen my sister for years," said John Heedman; "she is the only relative I have living, but some misunderstanding rose up between us after my mother's death—at least, she took offence, and I do not know the reason even now. I wrote several times, but she did not answer. That letter you posted last night was to her; she will come, I know, when she hears that I am so near death. There must be something to explain away, and I am anxious for a reconciliation before I die; indeed, it is the only earthly wish I have left." He said this so earnestly, and with such an anxious, longing expression in his eyes, that Charlie was obliged to turn away; he could not bear it.
How could he tell him that she had not got the letter? If only he had confessed his neglect the same night, before he knew the contents of the letter, it would not have been half so bad.
"You had better go now, my boy," said his father, kindly, "or you'll be late at work."
Charlie went. I need not tell you that he had a miserable day.
At night his father called him into his room and gave him as careful a description of his sister as he could to guide him in knowing her. Charlie dressed and went to the station, and walked up and down the platform until the train came in, gazed at the people, and walked home again. It seemed as if he could not help it; instead of recovering himself after the first false step, he had gone on sinking deeper and deeper into sin and deception; he seemed powerless to help himself.