"We shall find out before long, no doubt," said Benjamin. "But I must hurry home, or I shall have more trouble there than anywhere else. Come, boys, let us go." They hastened to their homes, not designing to divulge the labors of the evening, if they could possibly avoid interrogation. They knew that their parents would disapprove of the deed, and that no excuse could shield them from merited censure. Not one of their consciences was at ease. Their love of sport had got the better of their love of right-doing. And yet they were both afraid and ashamed to tell of what they had done. They were at home and in bed and asleep about as early as usual. Twenty-four hours passed away, during which Benjamin's fears had increased rather than diminished. He was all the while thinking about the stones--what the owner would say and do--whether he would learn who took his stones away. His conscience was on duty. It was evening, and Mr. Franklin took his seat at the fireside. Benjamin was reading, the unattractive tallow candle furnishing him light. "Benjamin," said Mr. Franklin, after a little, "where were you last evening?" If his father had fired off a pistol he could not have been more disturbed. His heart leaped into his throat. He thought of the stones. He knew something was up about them--that trouble was ahead. "I was down to the water," Benjamin replied, with as much coolness as he could muster. "What were you doing there?" "Fixing up a place for the boat." He suspected, from his father's appearance, that he would have to tell the whole story. "Benjamin, see that you tell me the truth, and withhold nothing. I wish to know exactly what you did there." "We built a wharf." "What did you build it with?" "We built it of stones." "Where did you get your stones?" "There was a pile of them close by." "Did they belong to you?" "No, sir." "Then you stole them, did you?" "It isn't stealing to take stones." "Why, then, did you take them in the evening, after the workmen had gone home? Why did you not go after them when the workmen were all there? It looks very much as if you thought taking them was stealing them." Benjamin saw that he was fairly cornered. Such a catechetical exercise was somewhat new to him. The Westminster Assembly's Catechism never put him into so tight a place as that. Bright as he was, he could not discover the smallest hole out of which to crawl. It was a bad scrape, and he could see no way out of it except by telling the truth. We dislike very much to say it, but, judging from all the circumstances, he would have told a lie, could he have seen a place to put one in. But there was no chance for a falsehood. He was completely shut up to the truth. He saw that the wharf cost more than he estimated--that stealing stones violated a principle as really as stealing dollars. He was so completely cornered that he made no reply. His father continued: