“Lewis Daniels,” continued the teacher, mildly, after a slight pause, “can you look me calmly in the eye, and say that? No, I knew you could not. You cannot act out such a black falsehood. Your manner betrays you. Now will you acknowledge the whole truth?” “I blotted the book myself” said Lewis, bursting into tears. “How did it happen?” inquired Mrs. Benham. “I did it on purpose, because I didn’t want to take the prize,” sobbed the boy. “That is a very singular reason—I hope you will not tell me any more untruths about the matter,” replied the teacher, mildly, a shade of anxiety flitting across her face. “It is nothing but the truth, as true as I’m alive,” continued Lewis; “I didn’t want to get the prize away from Ronald—that’s why I did it.” “That was very generous in you, if you are telling the truth,” replied the teacher; “but was it just to yourself? If you fairly earned the prize, why should you give it up to another?” “I didn’t earn it fairly,” replied Lewis, amid fresh tears and sobs. “I thought he would get the prize, and so I blotted his book one morning, before he got to school. You punished him for it—don’t you remember?” Mrs. Benham did remember, and it would be hard to say whether she or her conscience-stricken pupil suffered most at the recollection of the trying scenes thus recalled, the mystery of which was now unfolded to her. It was not strange that her own tears mingled with those of the sobbing boy, for she felt that she too had erred, though she hoped innocently. “My poor boy, you have been most severely punished for your fault,” at length resumed Mrs. Benham. “Conscience is a stern judge. ‘A wounded spirit who can bear?’” “Yes, ma’am, when you punished Ronald, and when he got up before the school and asked your pardon”—but the penitent boy’s emotions were too deep to allow him to finish the sentence. “And I suppose you have been suffering more or less from this concealed sin, every day since, now about six weeks,” said Mrs. Benham. “Yes, ma’am,” replied Lewis. “I felt so mean that I used to keep out of Ronald’s way as much as I could. I hated to see him. Then I tried to treat him as well as I could, but that didn’t help me much. So I made up my mind at last that I would serve my writing-book the same way that I served his.” “And did you expect to gain peace of mind in this way—by committing another fault, and covering it over with a falsehood?” inquired the teacher. “Your last error was almost as bad as the first. I hope this will be a lesson to you, as long as you live. By delaying this confession so many weeks, you have caused yourself a great deal of suffering, and got further into trouble than you were at first. But as I promised, I cheerfully forgive all, so far as it concerns me. Do you think there is any one else whose forgiveness you ought to seek?” “I suppose I ought to tell Ronald about it, and ask him to forgive me,” replied Lewis.