She did not look at me.
"O, heavenly Father," she cried, "forgive him, he knows not what he
does." The gardener, just then passing the door, and seeing my mother
pale and almost unable to support herself, came in.
"Take this boy up stairs and lock him in his room," said she, and turned
from me. She gave me a look of agony, mingled with most intense love,
from a true and tender heart that was broken.
In a moment I found myself a prisoner in my own room. I thought for a
moment I would fling myself from the open window, but I felt that I was
afraid to die. I was not penitent. At times my heart was subdued, but my
stubbornness rose in an instant, and bade me not yield yet.
[Illustration: "_It was my sister_."]
The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on my bed and fell
asleep. Just at twilight I heard a footstep approach my door. It was my
sister.
"What shall I tell mother for you?" she said.
"Nothing," I replied.
"O, Alfred, for my sake and for all our sakes, say that you are sorry.
She longs to forgive you."
I would not answer. I heard her footsteps slowly retreating, and flung
myself on the bed to pass a wretched night.
Another footstep, slower and more feeble than my sister's, disturbed me.
"Alfred, my son, shall I come in?" she asked.
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