Henry leant against the baluster and sobbed, not knowing what else to do. “You can’t be more grieved than I am to have such a last day together,” said his father, laying his hand on the yellow head; “but I can’t help it, you see. If you will do such things, it is my duty to make you repent of them.” Hal threw himself almost double over the rail, and something was heard about “sorry,” and “never.” “Poor little lad!” said his father aloud to himself; “he is cut up enough now; but how am I to know if his sorrow is good for anything?” “O Papa! I’ll never do such a thing again!” “I wish I knew that, Hal,” said the Captain, sitting down on the stairs, and taking him between his knees. “There, let us talk it over together. I don’t suppose you expected to steal and deceive when you got up in the morning.” “Oh no, no!” “Go back to the beginning. See how you came to this.” As he waited for an answer, Hal mumbled out after some time, “You said we need not go to church on a week-day.” “Well, what of that?” “I didn’t go in case the telegraph should come.” “There are different ways of thinking,” said his father. “Church was the only place where I _could_ have gone that St. Barnabas’ Day.” “I would have gone,” said the self-contradictory Henry, “only the Grevilles are always at one for being like a girl.” “Ha! now we see daylight!” said the Captain. “‘The Grevilles are at one,’—that’s more like getting to the bottom of it.” “Yes, Papa,” said Hal, glad to make himself out a victim to circumstance; “you can’t think what a pair of fellows those are for not letting one alone; Purday says they haven’t as much conscience between them as a pigeon’s egg has meat; and going down to Mr. Carey’s with them every day, they let one have no peace.” “You will find people everywhere who will let you have no peace, unless you do not care for them; though you will not be left to the Grevilles any longer.” “Yes, Papa; when I am away from them, you will see—” “No, Hal, I shall not see, I shall hear.” “Shall not I sail with you, then, Papa?” “You will not sail at all: I thought you knew that.” “I thought the Admiral must have given you two appointments,” said Hal timidly. “He gave me _one_, for one of my sons. The first choice is Sam’s right, even if he had not deserved it by his brave patient obedience.” Hal hung his head; then said, “But, Papa, if Sam broke down in his examination, please mightn’t I—” “No, Henry. Not only does your uncle say that though Sam’s success is very doubtful, your inaccuracy would make your failure certain; but if your knowledge were ever so well up to the mark, I could not put you into the navy. Left to yourself here, you have been insubordinate, vain, weak, shuffling: can I let you go into greater temptation, where disgrace would be public and without remedy?” “Oh, but, Papa! Papa! Away from the Grevilles, and not under only a governess—”