“I cannot promise to believe whatever you say; but almost I could. And if you tell me the truth, I like you too much already to be in great danger of doubting you, for you know the truth has a force of its own.” “I thought so till to-night,” he answered. “But if my father would not believe me, how can I expect you to do so, sir?” “Your father may have been too much troubled by your story to be able to do it justice. It is not a bit like your father to be unfair.” “No, sir. And so much the less chance of your believing me.” Somehow his talk prepossessed me still more in his favour. There was a certain refinement in it, a quality of dialogue which indicated thought, as I judged; and I became more and more certain that, whatever I might have to think of it when told, he would yet tell me the truth. “Come, try me,” I said. “I will, sir. But I must begin at the beginning.” “Begin where you like. I have nothing more to do to-night, and you may take what time you please. But I will ring for tea first; for I dare say you have not made any promise about that.” A faint smile flickered on his face. He was evidently beginning to feel a little more comfortable. “When did you arrive from London?” I asked. “About two hours ago, I suppose.” “Bring tea, Mrs Pearson, and that cold chicken and ham, and plenty of toast. We are both hungry.” Mrs Pearson gave a questioning look at the lad, and departed to do her duty. When she returned with the tray, I saw by the unconsciously eager way in which he looked at the eatables, that he had had nothing for some time; and so, even after we were left alone, I would not let him say a word till he had made a good meal. It was delightful to see how he ate. Few troubles will destroy a growing lad’s hunger; and indeed it has always been to me a marvel how the feelings and the appetites affect each other. I have known grief actually make people, and not sensual people at all, quite hungry. At last I thought I had better not offer him any more. After the tea-things had been taken away, I put the candles out; and the moon, which had risen, nearly full, while we were at tea, shone into the room. I had thought that he might possibly find it easier to tell his story in the moonlight, which, if there were any shame in the recital, would not, by too much revelation, reduce him to the despair of Macbeth, when, feeling that he could contemplate his deed, but not his deed and himself together, he exclaimed, “To know my deed, ’twere best not know myself.”