“Yes, yes,” she said; “I understand thee, and I shall always. How strong thou art, _mon fils!_ I was proud of thee, even in that sty of pigs in red coats. And he behaved like a gentleman, and hath wondrous self-command. I would see him again; who is he?” I told her his name. “_Que c’est drole_. That is curious. Thy cousin! No doubt we shall see him to-day, and thy father. I shall tell him all--all. He must know.” “Yes, he must know,” I said; “but I will tell him myself.” “He will be angry, but that is part of thy punishment.” Then I told her, too, I had lost an hundred pounds, as I believed, and she said: “That is, after all, the least. There are pearls of my sister’s I never wear. Thy aunt must take them and pay this debt. Go now to thy business as if nothing had happened, and I will send thee the pearls by Tom. No, no; it is to be as I say; I must have my way.” What could I do? I kissed her, and we parted. I made no promises, and she asked for none. I like to think of how, after all, I left with her this sense of quiet trust. I have said that the daily march of events never so influenced my life as did critical occasions. This was surely one of them. I do not now regret the knowledge of a baser world which I thus acquired. It has been of use to me, and to some with whose lives I have had to deal. Of the wrath of my father, when I humbly confessed my sins, it is not needful to speak at length. For business calamities he was ready enough, and lacked not decision; but in this matter he was, as I could see, puzzled. He strode up and down, a great bulk of a man, opening and shutting his hands, a trick he had in his rare moments of doubt or of intense self-repression. “I know not what to do with thee,” he said over and over; “and thou didst strike the man, thy cousin? Well, well! and hurt him, I am told? And he did not return the blow!” I had not said so. Thus I knew that other busy tongues had been at work. For my life, I could not see whether he looked upon the blow as my worst iniquity, or deep in his heart was hardly grieved at it. “Thou didst strike him? I must consider of thee; I must take counsel. Go! thou wilt bring my gray hairs in sorrow to the grave.” And so I left him, still striding to and fro, with ever the same odd movement of his hands. He took counsel, indeed, and for me and for him the most unwise that ever a troubled man could have taken. It was some days before this unpleasant scene took place, and meanwhile I had seen my aunt.