ROBERT'S CONFESSION.
WITHOUT another word on the painful subject, Mr. Woodward began to talk
about some news he had read in his paper. By selecting the choicest
tit-bits, he coaxed his wife's failing appetite, to eat enough to
sustain her strength through the anxieties of the afternoon.
"Let me manage him," she pleaded as they arose from the table. "I shall
not feel that I have discharged my duty to the poor child unless I talk
with him."
"But, Josephine, he imposes on you. He is a shameless liar."
"I had rather try to make him confess," she still urged. "I know where
to go for wisdom."
"Have it your own way, Josephine," said her husband with some
irritation in his voice and manner, "and see where you and he will come
out."
He put on his hat to go, then came back, and added tenderly. "It is for
your own sake I said that. I know you are better fitted to move the boy
than any one; that is, if he has any conscience left, which I doubt.
But Josephine, don't give the boy a particle of encouragement that he
can stay here. I wont have you so worried for a dozen like him."
She put her hand in his to show that she understood and appreciated his
tenderness. Then turning, she walked slowly and deliberately toward the
library.
Robert had thrown himself into the most comfortable chair, and was
sobbing aloud, but stopped short when his aunt entered. It was an
immense relief that his uncle had not come.
"I'm awful hungry," he said springing to his feet. "Can't I have some
dinner?"
"Sit down, Robert, I have something to say to you. I want you to
remember that God, who hates liars, is here. He can look into your
heart; and he hears every word you speak. Now tell me truly, have you
nothing to confess in regard to your conduct this morning?"
"I don't know what you mean, aunty. I thought you'd say I was right
smart to get my lessons."
"We will talk about the lessons by and by. There is some thing of far
more importance to settle first. Have you nothing to confess?"
After a long, searching glance in her face, Robert answered.
"No, I don't know what you mean."
"Oh Robert, Robert!" she burst out in a passion of grief. "Are you so
hardened as this? I hoped and prayed that you would confess your sin. I
know that you spent your time not in study, but in drawing caricatures
on your slate. I know that you jumped from your window upon the shed,
and then to the ground. I know that you have been to-day and at other
times to my closet and stolen cake and raisins."
Robert was startled now. He screamed, and then hid his face.
"What have you to say for yourself?" she asked, still sobbing.
He grew almost as pale as she had been, but for some time did not
attempt to reply. The tears began to stream down his face, and he
presently said in a faint voice and hesitating manner:
"I'm right sorry, aunty, 'deed I am. I got awful tired studying; and
then I heard the music way off, and I opened the window, and I saw how
easy I could get out, and I forgot what you told me. And I went, but
only for a minute."
"Don't make it worse by more lies," said his aunt with more severity
than he had ever heard in her voice before. "Your uncle saw you down in
town pelting a poor drunken soldier. What do you suppose your mother
will say when you are sent home to her in disgrace?"
His voice changed now to real distress.
"Oh, aunt Josephine?" he shrieked, "you wont send me home just for this
once. I'll study all day. I never will be naughty again. Do, do try me
once more. I can't go home. I can't! I can't!"
"Hush, Robert, I can say nothing while you cry so. Hush at once and
tell me why you don't wish to go home. Tell me every thing. If I find
you have lied about it, or have not told all the truth, I shall send
you away at once."
"Must I?" faltered Robert as if speaking to himself.
Then he wiped his eyes and glanced in his aunt's face. There was an
expression on it which told him she meant what she said, so he resolved
to confess:
"I was real naughty, before I came here, aunty. I learned it of the
soldiers, 'deed I did. I played cards with them, and I made some money
too, and—and once I went to a store, and there was nobody in it. The
man was down cellar and—and I—I took a few nuts, and a handful of figs."
"Robert, Oh Robert!" groaned the lady, putting her handkerchief to her
face.
"The man was awful mean. He came up softly when I didn't see him. I
was just going to look in his money drawer. I didn't mean to take any,
'deed I didn't, he put his great hand right on mine, and held me fast.
Then he shook me 'till I couldn't see. He hurt my stomach awfully. He
didn't let me go till he'd felt in my pockets, and taken every thing
out. He said he'd lock me up in jail, but he didn't. He got a constable
and sent him home with me."
"Why was not this told me before?" asked the lady indignantly.
"Mother forbid me to say any thing about it. She said she'd whip me
worse than she ever did if I told. Grandpa paid the man five dollars
for his trouble, and he promised to keep still. Mother kept scolding
and scolding, till I got real sick of hearing about it. Then you came
and brought me back with you."
"Do you know, Robert, what has led you into all this sin?"
"No, aunty."
"It is idleness. If you had gone regularly to school, and entered into
your studies with diligence as you ought, I should never have heard
this disgraceful story. Do you know how many times idleness and sloth
are condemned in the Bible?"
"I didn't know the Bible said any thing about it."
She opened the sacred book and read,—
"'Work with your own hands . . . that ye may walk honestly toward
them that are without, and that ye may have lack of nothing . . . We
commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.'"
"And here is another verse.
"'If any man obey not in word' (that is to work and earn his own bread)
'note that man, and have no company with him, that he may be ashamed.'"
"I know a hymn about being idle," said Robert softly. "Grandma made me
learn it:
"'For Satan finds some mischief still,
For idle hands to do.'"
"You see he has found a great deal of mischief for you," remarked the
lady sorrowfully.