“I know nothing about it,” added Lewis.
“Lewis Daniels,” continued the teacher, mildly, after a slight pause, “can you look me calmly in the eye, and say that? No, I knew you could not. You cannot act out such a black falsehood. Your manner betrays you. Now will you acknowledge the whole truth?”
“I blotted the book myself” said Lewis, bursting into tears.
“How did it happen?” inquired Mrs. Benham.
“I did it on purpose, because I didn’t want to take the prize,” sobbed the boy.
“That is a very singular reason—I hope you will not tell me any more untruths about the matter,” replied the teacher, mildly, a shade of anxiety flitting across her face.
“It is nothing but the truth, as true as I’m alive,” continued Lewis; “I didn’t want to get the prize away from Ronald—that’s why I did it.”
“That was very generous in you, if you are telling the truth,” replied the teacher; “but was it just to yourself? If you fairly earned the prize, why should you give it up to another?”
“I didn’t earn it fairly,” replied Lewis, amid fresh tears and sobs. “I thought he would get the prize, and so I blotted his book one morning, before he got to school. You punished him for it—don’t you remember?”
Mrs. Benham did remember, and it would be hard to say whether she or her conscience-stricken pupil suffered most at the recollection of the trying scenes thus recalled, the mystery of which was now unfolded to her. It was not strange that her own tears mingled with those of the sobbing boy, for she felt that she too had erred, though she hoped innocently.