The meeting with Aunt Augusta, if a matter of no great concern to Peg, was fraught to Paul with a certain amount of anxiety. It was an accepted if tacit understanding that on these excursions Peg was under his charge and for her he must assume responsibility, by no means an insignificant burden, as he had discovered on more occasions than one. He had no notion of seeking to escape trouble. There was no escaping Aunt Augusta’s penetration, and to do him justice it never occurred to Paul to attempt to do so. He was fully prepared to accept the full consequences of the escapade. A greater burden, however, weighed down his spirits, the burden of his moral delinquency. For the ordinary sins of his daily life, the way to forgiveness and to consequent restoration of his peace and of his self-respect was quite plain. The removal of this sin, however, by the simple method of repentance and forgiveness was complicated by new and perplexing elements. It was a grave complication, for instance, that repentance was an antecedent condition to forgiveness. He was at present conscious of no regret for his language. Back in the shadows of his mind he knew there lurked a secret and distinctly pleasurable satisfaction in recalling the phrase in which he had described the boy who had undoubtedly acted in a thoroughly beastly fashion. The phrase he had used continued, even while violating his sense of rectitude, to give him a thrill of unholy joy. How could he repent of that phrase which he felt to be at once true and wholly adequate? Then, too, the pathway to pardon was hedged by the condition of his forgiving Asa. In his mood that was hopelessly impossible. Before he had reached a solution of these moral and theological problems, they had arrived at Peg’s home. At the door they were welcomed by Peg’s mother. “Why, Peggy!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean by wearing Paul’s coat a hot day like this?” “Oh, Mamma,” cried Peg, her voice vibrant with excitement, “Paul put it on me to keep me from taking cold.” “Taking cold, child? Why should you take cold? Here, let me see you.” She pulled the coat off the little girl and discovered her soaked condition. “Why, good heavens! What has happened to you? Where have you been? What does this mean, Paul?” she added severely, turning to Paul. “She fell into the creek, Aunt Augusta. We were jumping our horses across, and Tubby slipped and fell in.” “Oh, Mamma—” began Peg in high excitement. “It was our fault, Aunt Augusta,” cut in Paul, meantime scowling heavily at Peg, hoping to check the exuberance of her recital. “Asa and I were jumping our horses across the stream, and Peggy tried and Tubby fell in.” “Well, you ought to have known better, Paul. I trust Peggy to you, and you ought to take better care of her.” “I know, Aunt Augusta, and—and—and I’m awfully sorry.”