My very soul was naked. After tea I slunk away to the nursery, and sat staring into the fire. Mrs. Mitchell came in several times and scolded me for sitting there, instead of with Tom and the rest in the parlour, but I was too miserable even to answer her. At length she brought Davie, and put him to bed; and a few minutes after, I heard my father coming down the stair with Allister, who was chatting away to him. I wondered how he could. My father came in with the big Bible under his arm, as was his custom on Sunday nights, drew a chair to the table, rang for candles, and with Allister by his side and me seated opposite to him, began to find a place from which to read to us. To my yet stronger conviction, he began and read through without a word of remark the parable of the Prodigal Son. When he came to the father’s delight at having him back, the robe, and the shoes, and the ring, I could not repress my tears. “If I could only go back,” I thought, “and set it all right! but then I’ve never gone away.” It was a foolish thought, instantly followed by a longing impulse to tell my father all about it. How could it be that I had not thought of this before? I had been waiting all this time for my sin to find me out; why should I not frustrate my sin, and find my father first? As soon as he had done reading, and before he had opened his mouth to make any remark, I crept round the table to his side, and whispered in his ear,-- “Papa, I want to speak to you.” “Very well, Ranald,” he said, more solemnly, I thought, than usual; “come up to the study.” [Illustration] He rose and led the way, and I followed. A whimper of disappointment came from Davie’s bed. My father went and kissed him, and said he would soon be back, whereupon Davie nestled down satisfied. When we reached the study, he closed the door, sat down by the fire, and drew me towards him. I burst out crying, and could not speak for sobs. He encouraged me most kindly. He said-- “Have you been doing anything wrong, my boy?” “Yes, papa, very wrong,” I sobbed. “I’m disgusted with myself.” “I am glad to hear it, my dear,” he returned. “There is some hope of you, then.” “Oh! I don’t know that,” I rejoined. “Even Turkey despises me.” “That’s very serious,” said my father. “He’s a fine fellow, Turkey. I should not like him to despise me. But tell me all about it.” It was with great difficulty I could begin, but with the help of questioning me, my father at length understood the whole matter. He paused for a while plunged in thought; then rose, saying,-- “It’s a serious affair, my dear boy; but now you have told me, I shall be able to help you.” “But you knew about it before, didn’t you, papa? Surely you did!”