Aunt Deborah, as the stone pursued its reckless course, placed her hands over her head, and shrank back into her chair, a frightened and unwilling witness to the destruction of her property. It was quite distressing. Besides the nervous shock, there was the broken window; there was the cabinet showing a great white dent that could not easily be removed; and there, too, was the vase she had kept so many long years, lying shattered and ruined before her eyes. Aunt Deborah was one of the best and most kind-hearted of women; but--she was human, and the sudden havoc wrought by the missile exasperated as well as frightened her. She rushed to the window and opened it in time to see three or four boys scampering down the street as fast as their legs could carry them. "Oh, you young scapegraces!" she cried. "If I could once lay hold on you, wouldn't I teach you a lesson!" But the boys never stopped until they had disappeared around a friendly corner. Aunt Deborah was so overcome by the accident, and so intent upon watching the retreating boys to whom she desired to teach a lesson, that she did not at first notice a barefooted lad standing under the window on the pavement below, holding a battered old hat in his hand, and looking up at her with a scared face and tearful eyes. "Please, Miss," said the boy tremulously. "Oh! Who are you? Who threw that stone at my window?" called out Aunt Deborah, as she spied him. "Please, Miss," pleaded the boy, fumbling nervously his torn hat, "I threw it, but I didn't mean to do it." "Didn't mean to do it, eh?" replied Aunt Deborah, fiercely. "I suppose the stone picked itself up and pitched itself through my glass!" "I was going to throw it down the street, but Bill Philper touched my arm, and it turned and hit your window," he explained. There was an air of frankness and truth about the boy, and the fact that he had not run away like the others (whom, somehow, Aunt Deborah held chiefly responsible for the outrage), caused her to relent a little toward him. "Come in here," she said, after eying him closely for a moment. The lad hesitated; but summoning all his courage, he went up the steps, and soon stood in her presence. "Do you see that" she said, pointing at the window--"and that"--(at the cabinet)--"and that?"--(at the broken vase)--"and that?"--(at the stone.) "Now, isn't that a fine performance?" "I am very sorry," said the boy, the tears welling into his eyes again. He looked ruefully about at the damaged articles, and glanced at the stone, wishing heartily that he had never seen it. "Now, what's to be done about it?" asked she. "I don't know, ma'am," said he, very ill at ease. "I will try to pay you for it." "What can you pay, I should like to know?" she said, glancing at his patched coat and trousers and his torn hat. "I sell papers," said he; "and I can pay you a little on it every week." "What's your name?" she asked. "Sam Wadley," answered the boy. "Have you a father?"