“It is no time to go back,” replied the other, opening the door; “you’ve gone too far now to go back,” and he pushed Lawrence into the stable. “Have you found it? Take care of the horse. Have you done? What are you about? Make haste, I hear a noise,” said the stable boy, who watched at the door. “I am feeling for the half-crown, but I can’t find it.” “Bring all together.” He brought Jem’s broken flower pot, with all the money in it, to the door. The black cloud had now passed over the moon, and the light shone full upon them. “What do we stand here for?” said the stable boy, snatching the flower-pot out of Lawrence’s trembling hands, and pulled him away from the door. “Good God!” cried Lawrence, “you won’t take all. You said you’d only take half a crown, and pay it back on Monday. You said you’d only take half a crown!” “Hold your tongue,” replied the other, walking on, deaf to all remonstrances—“if ever I am to be hanged, it sha’n’t be for half a crown.” Lawrence’s blood ran cold in his veins, and he felt as if all his hair stood on end. Not another word passed. His accomplice carried off the money, and Lawrence crept, with all the horrors of guilt upon him, to his restless bed. All night he was starting from frightful dreams; or else, broad awake, he lay listening to every small noise, unable to stir, and scarcely daring to breathe—tormented by that most dreadful of all kinds of fear, that fear which is the constant companion of an evil conscience. He thought the morning would never come; but when it was day, when he heard the birds sing, and saw everything look cheerful as usual, he felt still more miserable. It was Sunday morning, and the bell rang for church. All the children of the village, dressed in their Sunday clothes, innocent and gay, and little Jem, the best and gayest amongst them, went flocking by his door to church. “Well, Lawrence,” said Jem, pulling his coat as he passed and saw Lawrence leaning against his father’s door, “what makes you look so black?” “I?” said Lawrence, starting; “why do you say that I look black?” “Nay, then,” said Jem, “you look white enough now, if that will please you, for you’re turned as pale as death.” “Pale?” replied Lawrence, not knowing what he said, and turned abruptly away, for he dared not stand another look of Jem’s; conscious that guilt was written in his face, he shunned every eye. He would now have given the world to have thrown off the load of guilt which lay upon his mind. He longed to follow Jem, to fall upon his knees and confess all.