The launching went off most successfully, but the time had flown much quicker than the boys had any idea of. Charlie was in full enjoyment of the honour of guiding the _Fairy_ on her trial trip round the pond, when he was terribly startled at hearing the church clock strike five. In a moment he had dropped the string, caught up his satchel of books, and started off towards home. "Here, I say, wait a bit," called Tom after him; "what's the use of hurrying now? Your father would be at home long since; you may as well stay another hour now." Charlie did not even stay to listen, but tore along the dusty road, angry with himself, and still more angry with Tom. He reached home out of breath, and found that his father and mother had just begun tea. "Charlie, my boy, you're late," said his father, in his usual kind tone. His mother did not speak, and Charlie noticed that she looked sad; but she was as kind as ever, and picked out one of his favourite little well-browned cakes for him as he sat down to tea. Charlie felt unhappy and repentant as he thought how ill he deserved all their care. His father's cough was very troublesome; it was a loud, hollow, consumptive cough, most painful to hear, and still more painful to suffer; but not a word of complaint escaped John Heedman's lips. Charlie's unhappiness and repentance increased as he sat listening to it, and heard his father say, in answer to a remark made by Mrs. Heedman, "Yes, I think the cold air has seized my chest; that makes the cough worse just now." Tea was out of the question with Charlie, and the little crisp cake lay untouched. "If they would only scold me, or punish me, or do something to me," he thought, "I should feel better." "How is it you are not getting on with your tea?" said Mrs. Heedman, looking at his plate. Charlie immediately laid his head on the table, regardless of tea-things and everything else, and burst into a flood of tears. "Oh, mother," he sobbed out, "I have been such a bad, wicked fellow to-day. Why don't you and father scold me or do something to me? you are far too kind; it makes me hate myself. I wish somebody would take away my new cricket bat, or steal Jumper, I do." There was a great sobbing after this, partly, we think, at the mere thought of the terrible nature of the punishment his imagination had suggested. He went on--"I'm sure I meant to come straight home, but Tom Brown took and persuaded me to go and see his ship launched, and I only meant to stay five minutes, and I thought there was time enough, and it seemed as if the clock struck five directly. I'm so sorry--oh dear!" and down went his head on the table again.