"Trust you, my dear boy!" exclaimed the squire; "indeed I ought, and will, for you thoroughly deserve my trust; only it grieves me to think that you should have parted with your favourite pony." "Oh, never mind that, father," replied Amos cheerily, "it will be all right. Thank you so much for your kind confidence; what I have done will do me no harm." The conversation then passed on to other subjects, but Walter was clearly a little uneasy in his mind. "Amos," he cried, when his father had left the breakfast-table for a few minutes to speak to a tenant who wanted an early word with him, "are you going into business soon?" "Business, Walter! Not that I know of. What sort of business do you mean?" "Oh, into the butter, cheese, and bacon line." "I don't understand you." "Don't you? Well, it seems to me that sundry pounds of butter which have not spread themselves lately on your bread or toast, as they ought to have done, are intended to turn up somewhere one of these days." The effect of this little speech on Amos was manifestly very disconcerting; he turned red, looked confused, then with knitted brows gazed at the window. Walter, sorry to have given him pain, was just about to make some further remark, when his eyes fell on the hands of Miss Huntingdon, which were crossed on the table. Nodding his head profoundly towards his aunt, he dashed off at once into another subject, and his brother soon recovered his equanimity. That afternoon, Walter, with his sister leaning on his arm, came and seated himself by his aunt, who had taken her needlework to the summer- house. Amos did not join them, being busily engaged in preparations for the morrow's journey. "And now, auntie," said Walter, "here are two very docile and attentive scholars come for a promised lesson on moral courage." "Oh, but I have not promised them a lesson," said Miss Huntingdon, laughing. "No, auntie, perhaps not; but your hands have,--these hands, which were crossed at breakfast, they have promised the lesson." "Well, dear boy, that is true in a measure, but I hardly know how to begin. I have nothing to rebuke or find fault with in you, unless it was just a little want of consideration in your dealing with Amos; but I am sure you meant no unkindness." "Certainly not, auntie, not a bit of it. But now I don't quite understand about Amos and his leaving off taking butter. It has something to do with that selling of his pony, I'm sure. Perhaps you can explain it, and give us a lesson of moral courage from it, illustrated by historical examples."