“Nellie, my own darling—Fairy—there, let me blow the candle out. I was always a coward by candle-light. There, now I can talk. Nellie,” I went on, clutching her close, her face wet with my tears as well as her own, and white as marble in the moonlight—“Nellie, I have been an awfully wicked fellow, haven’t I?”
“N-no”—sob, sob.
“Yes, I have; and father is very angry with me, isn’t he?”
“N-no.”
“Do you think that if I were to do something very bad you could forgive me, Nellie?”
“You c-couldn’t do—anything b-bad—at all.”
“Well, now listen. I haven’t done much harm, I believe, so far; neither have I done much good. And now I make you a solemn promise that from this night out I will honestly try all I can, not only to do no harm, but to do good—something for others as well as myself. Is that a fair promise, Nell?”
“Dear, darling old Roger!” she murmured, kissing me. “I knew he was good all the time. I know—you needn’t say any more. You are coming to church with me to-morrow. How pleased papa will be, and how pleased I am! Here, you shall have my own book to keep as a token of the promise. I’ll run and fetch it at once.”
She tripped up-stairs and came back breathless, putting the book in my hand.
“There, Roger; that seals our promise. I’ve just written inside, ‘Roger’s promise to Nellie,’ and the date to remind you. That’s all. And now papa will be well again. O Roger!”—she came and kissed me again, as I turned my back to the window—“you have made me so happy. Good-night.”