"To bed," muttered the miserable Tom, twisting his hands. A dead silence of consternation fell on all the room. Mary gazed from one to the other, mystified at the effect of her words, frightened at her father's loud voice, and at Tom's trembling confusion. The stillness lasted for some moments, and was first broken by Flora, as if she had caught at a probability. "Some one might have used the first blotting-paper that came to hand."

"Come here, Tom," said the doctor, in a voice not loud, but trembling with anxiety; then laying his hand on his shoulder, "Look in my face."

Tom hung his head, and his father put his hand under his chin, and raised the pale terrified face. "Don't be afraid to tell us the meaning of this. If any of your friends have done it, we will keep your secret.

Look up, and speak out. How did your blotting-paper come there?"

Tom had been attempting his former system of silent sullenness, but there was anger at Mary, and fear of his father to agitate him, and in his impatient despair at thus being held and questioned, he burst out into a violent fit of crying.

"I can't have you roaring here to distress Margaret," said Dr. May.

"Come into the study with me."

But Tom, who seemed fairly out of himself, would not stir, and a screaming and kicking scene took place, before he was carried into the study by his brothers, and there left with his father. Mary, meantime, dreadfully alarmed, and perceiving that, in some way, she was the cause, had thrown herself upon Margaret, sobbing inconsolably, as she begged to know what was the matter, and why papa was angry with Tom--had she made him so?

Margaret caressed and soothed her to the best of her ability, trying to persuade her that, if Tom had done wrong, it was better for him it should be known, and assuring her that no one could think her unkind, nor a tell-tale; then dismissing her to bed, and Mary was not unwilling to go, for she could not bear to meet Tom again, only begging in a whisper to Ethel, "that, if dear Tom had not done it, she would come and tell her."

"I am afraid there is no hope of that!" sighed Ethel, as the door closed on Mary.

"After all," said Flora, "he has not said anything. If he has only done it, and not confessed, that is not so bad--it is only the usual fashion of boys."

"Has he been asked? Did he deny it?" said Ethel, looking in Norman's face, as if she hardly ventured to put the question, and she only received sorrowful signs as answers. At the same moment Dr. May called him. No one spoke. Margaret rested her head on the sofa, and looked very mournful, Richard stood by the fire without moving limb or feature, Flora worked fast, and Ethel leaned back on an arm-chair, biting the end of a paper-knife.

The doctor and Norman came back together. "I have sent him up to bed,"

said Dr. May. "I must take him to Harrison to-morrow morning. It is a terrible business!"

"Has he confessed it?" said Margaret.

"I can hardly call such a thing a confession--I wormed it out bit by bit--I could not tell whether he was telling truth or not, till I called Norman in."

"But he has not said anything more untrue--"

"Yes, he has though!" said Dr. May indignantly. "He said Ned Anderson put the paper there, and had been taking up the ink with it--'twas his doing--then when I came to cross-examine him I found that though Anderson did take up the ink, it was Tom himself who knocked it down--I never heard anything like it--I never could have believed it!"

"It must all be Ned Anderson's doing!" cried Flora. "They are enough to spoil anybody."

"I am afraid they have done him a great deal of harm," said Norman.

"And what have you been about all the time?" exclaimed the doctor, too keenly grieved to be just. "I should have thought that with you at the head of the school, the child might have been kept out of mischief; but there have you been going your own way, and leaving him to be ruined by the very worst set of boys!"

Norman's colour rose with the extreme pain this unjust accusation caused him, and his voice, though low, was not without irritation, "I have tried. I have not done as much as I ought, perhaps, but--"

"No, I think not, indeed!" interrupted his father. "Sending a boy there, brought up as he had been, without the least tendency to deceit--"

Here no one could see Norman's burning cheeks, and brow bent downwards in the effort to keep back an indignant reply, without bursting out in exculpation; and Richard looked up, while the three sisters all at once began, "Oh, no, no, papa"--and left Margaret to finish--"Poor little Tom had not always been quite sincere."

"Indeed! and why was I left to send him to school without knowing it?

The place of all others to foster deceit."

"It was my fault, papa," said Margaret.

"And mine," put in Richard; and she continued, "Ethel told us we were very wrong, and I wish we had followed her advice. It was by far the best, but we were afraid of vexing you."

"Every one seems to have been combined to hide what they ought not!"

said Dr. May, though speaking to her much more softly than to Norman, to whom he turned angrily again. "Pray, how came you not to identify this paper?"

"I did not know it," said Norman, speaking with difficulty. "He ought never to have been sent to school," said the doctor--"that tendency was the very worst beginning."

"It was a great pity; I was very wrong," said Margaret, in great concern.

"I did not mean to blame you, my dear," said her father affectionately.

"I know you only meant to act for the best, but--" and he put his hand over his face, and then came the sighing groan, which pained Margaret ten thousand times more than reproaches, and which, in an instant, dispersed all the indignation burning within Norman, though the pain remained at his father's thinking him guilty of neglect, but he did not like, at that moment, to speak in self-justification.

After a short space, Dr. May desired to hear what were the deceptions to which Margaret had alluded, and made Norman tell what he knew of the affair of the blotted book. Ethel spoke hopefully when she had heard it.

"Well, do you know, I think he will do better now. You see, Edward made him conceal it, and he has been going on with it on his mind, and in that boy's power ever since; but now it is cleared up and confessed, he will begin afresh and do better. Don't you think so, Norman? don't you, papa?"

"I should have more hope if I had seen anything like confession or repentance," said Dr. May; "but that provoked me more than all--I could only perceive that he was sorry to be found out, and afraid of punishment."

"Perhaps, when he has recovered the first fright, he will come to his better self," said Margaret; for she guessed, what indeed was the case, that the doctor's anger on this first shock of the discovery of the fault he most abhorred had been so great, that a fearful cowering spirit would be completely overwhelmed; and, as there had been no sorrow shown for the fault, there had been none of that softening and relenting that won so much love and confidence.

Every one felt that talking only made them more unhappy, they tried to return to their occupations, and so passed the time till night. Then, as Richard was carrying Margaret upstairs, Norman lingered to say, "Papa, I am very sorry you should think I neglected Tom. I dare say I might have done better for him, but, indeed, I have tried."

"I am sure you have, Norman. I spoke hastily, my boy--you will not think more of it. When a thing like this comes on a man, he hardly knows what he says."

"If Harry were here," said Norman, anxious to turn from the real loss and grief, as well as to talk away that feeling of being apologised to, "it would all do better. He would make a link with Tom, but I have so little, naturally, to do with the second form, that it is not easy to keep him in sight."

"Yes, yes, I know that very well. It is no one's fault but my own; I should not have sent him there without knowing him better. But you see how it is, Norman--I have trusted to her, till I have grown neglectful, and it is well if it is not the ruin of him!"

"Perhaps he will take a turn, as Ethel says," answered Norman cheerfully. "Good-night, papa."

"I have a blessing to be thankful for in you, at least," murmured the doctor to himself. "What other young fellow of that age and spirit would have borne so patiently with my injustice? Not I, I am sure! a fine father I show myself to these poor children--neglect, helplessness, temper--Oh, Maggie!"

Margaret had so bad a headache the next day that she could not come downstairs. The punishment was, they heard, a flogging at the time, and an imposition so long, that it was likely to occupy a large portion of the play-hours till the end of the half-year. His father said, and Norman silently agreed, "a very good thing, it will keep him out of mischief;" but Margaret only wished she could learn it for him, and took upon herself all the blame from beginning to end. She said little to her father, for it distressed him to see her grieved; he desired her not to dwell on the subject, caressed her, called her his comfort and support, and did all he could to console her, but it was beyond his power; her sisters, by listening to her, only made her worse. "Dear, dear papa,"

she exclaimed, "how kind he is! But he can never depend upon me again--I have been the ruin of my poor little Tom."

"Well," said Richard quietly, "I can't see why you should put yourself into such a state about it."

This took Margaret by surprise. "Have not I done very wrong, and perhaps hurt Tom for life?"

"I hope not," said Richard. "You and I made a mistake, but it does not follow that Tom would have kept out of this scrape, if we had told my father our notion."

"It would not have been on my conscience," said Margaret--"he would not have sent him to school."

"I don't know that," said Richard. "At any rate we meant to do right, and only made a mistake. It was unfortunate, but I can't tell why you go and make yourself ill, by fancying it worse than it is. The boy has done very wrong, but people get cured of such things in time, and it is nonsense to fret as if he were not a mere child of eight years old. You did not teach him deceit."

"No, but I concealed it--papa is disappointed, when he thought he could trust me."

"Well! I suppose no one could expect never to make mistakes," said Richard, in his sober tone.

"Self-sufficiency!" exclaimed Margaret, "that has been the root of all!

Do you know, Ritchie, I believe I was expecting that I could always judge rightly."