quiet tones, 'what is it?'

'Maclean gave me four hundred pounds to put in the bank,
sir,' began John; 'and I'm sorry to say that I've been robbed

of it!'
'Robbed of it?' cried Mr. Nicholson, with a strong rising

inflection. 'Robbed? Be careful what you say, John!'
'I can't say anything else, sir; I was just robbed of it,'

said John, in desperation, sullenly.
'And where and when did this extraordinary event take place?'

inquired the father.
'On the Calton Hill about twelve last night.'

'The Calton Hill?' repeated Mr. Nicholson. 'And what were
you doing there at such a time of the night?'

'Nothing, sir,' says John.
Mr. Nicholson drew in his breath.

'And how came the money in your hands at twelve last night?'
he asked, sharply.

'I neglected that piece of business,' said John, anticipating
comment; and then in his own dialect: 'I clean forgot all

about it.'
'Well,' said his father, 'it's a most extraordinary story.

Have you communicated with the police?'
'I have,' answered poor John, the blood leaping to his face.

'They think they know the men that did it. I dare say the
money will be recovered, if that was all,' said he, with a

desperate difference" target="_blank" title="n.冷淡；无足轻重">indifference, which his father set down to levity;
but which sprung from the consciousness of worse behind.

'Your mother's watch, too?' asked Mr. Nicholson.
'Oh, the watch is all right!' cried John. 'At least, I mean

I was coming to the watch - the fact is, I am ashamed to say,
I - I had pawned the watch before. Here is the ticket; they

didn't find that; the watch can be redeemed; they don't sell
pledges.' The lad panted out these phrases, one after

another, like minute guns; but at the last word, which rang
in that statelychamber like an oath, his heart failed him

utterly; and the dreaded silence settled on father and son.
It was broken by Mr. Nicholson picking up the pawn-ticket:

'John Froggs, 85 Pleasance,' he read; and then turning upon
John, with a brief flash of passion and disgust, 'Who is John

Froggs?' he cried.
'Nobody,' said John. 'It was just a name.'

'An ALIAS,' his father commented.
'Oh! I think scarcely quite that,' said the culprit; 'it's a

form, they all do it, the man seemed to understand, we had a
great deal of fun over the name - '

He paused at that, for he saw his father wince at the picture
like a man physically struck; and again there was silence.

'I do not think,' said Mr. Nicholson, at last, 'that I am an
ungenerous father. I have never grudged you money within

reason, for any avowable purpose; you had just to come to me
and speak. And now I find that you have forgotten all

decency and all natural feeling, and actually pawned - pawned
- your mother's watch. You must have had some temptation; I

will do you the justice to suppose it was a strong one. What
did you want with this money?'

'I would rather not tell you, sir,' said John. 'It will only
make you angry.'

'I will not be fenced with,' cried his father. 'There must
be an end of disingenuous answers. What did you want with

this money?'
'To lend it to Houston, sir,' says John.

'I thought I had forbidden you to speak to that young man?'
asked the father.

'Yes, sir,' said John; 'but I only met him.'
'Where?' came the deadly question.

And 'In a billiard-room' was the damning answer. Thus, had
John's single departure from the truth brought instant

punishment. For no other purpose but to see Alan would he
have entered a billiard-room; but he had desired to palliate

the fact of his disobedience, and now it appeared that he
frequented these disreputable haunts upon his own account.

Once more Mr. Nicholson digested the vile tidings in silence,
and when John stole a glance at his father's countenance, he

was abashed to see the marks of suffering.
'Well,' said the old gentleman, at last, 'I cannot pretend

not to be simply bowed down. I rose this morning what the
world calls a happy man - happy, at least, in a son of whom I

thought I could be reasonably proud - '
But it was beyond human nature to endure this longer, and

John interrupted almost with a scream. 'Oh, wheest!' he
cried, 'that's not all, that's not the worst of it - it's

nothing! How could I tell you were proud of me? Oh! I
wish, I wish that I had known; but you always said I was such

a disgrace! And the dreadful thing is this: we were all
taken up last night, and we have to pay Colette's fine among

the six, or we'll be had up for evidence - shebeening it is.
They made me swear to tell you; but for my part,' he cried,

bursting into tears, 'I just wish that I was dead!' And he
fell on his knees before a chair and hid his face.

Whether his father spoke, or whether he remained long in the
room or at once departed, are points lost to history. A

horrid turmoil of mind and body; bursting sobs; broken,
vanishing thoughts, now of indignation, now of remorse;

broken elementary whiffs of consciousness, of the smell of
the horse-hair on the chair bottom, of the jangling of church

bells that now began to make day horrible throughout the
confines of the city, of the hard floor that bruised his

knees, of the taste of tears that found their way into his
mouth: for a period of time, the duration of which I cannot

guess, while I refuse to dwell longer on its agony, these
were the whole of God's world for John Nicholson.

When at last, as by the touching of a spring, he returned
again to clearness of consciousness and even a measure of

composure, the bells had but just done ringing, and the
Sabbath silence was still marred by the patter of belated

feet. By the clock above the fire, as well as by these more
speaking signs, the service had not long begun; and the

unhappy sinner, if his father had really gone to church,
might count on near two hours of only comparative

unhappiness. With his father, the superlative degree
returned infallibly. He knew it by every shrinking fibre in

his body, he knew it by the sudden dizzy whirling of his
brain, at the mere thought of that calamity. An hour and a

half, perhaps an hour and three-quarters, if the doctor was
long-winded, and then would begin again that active agony

from which, even in the dull ache of the present, he shrunk
as from the bite of fire. He saw, in a vision, the family

pew, the somnolent cushions, the Bibles, the psalm-books,
Maria with her smelling-salts, his father sitting spectacled

and critical; and at once he was struck with indignation, not
unjustly. It was inhuman to go off to church, and leave a

sinner in suspense, unpunished, unforgiven. And at the very
touch of criticism, the paternalsanctity was lessened; yet

the paternalterror only grew; and the two strands of feeling
pushed him in the same direction.

And suddenly there came upon him a mad fear lest his father
should have locked him in. The notion had no ground in

sense; it was probably no more than a reminiscence of similar
calamities in childhood, for his father's room had always