I had approached so near that, seated on its rock, it seemed to shoot its towers into the zenith, when, rounding a corner, I came to a part where the height sank from the foundation of the house to the level by a grassy slope, and at the foot of the slope espied an elderly gentleman, in a white hat, who stood with his hands in his breeches-pockets, looking about him. He was tall and stout, and carried himself in what seemed to me a stately manner. As I drew near him I felt somewhat encouraged by a glimpse of his face, which was rubicund and, I thought, good-natured; but, approaching him rather from behind, I could not see it well. When I addressed him he started, ‘Please, sir,’ I said, ‘is this your house?’ ‘Yes, my man; it is my house,’ he answered, looking down on me with bent neck, his hands still in his pockets. ‘Please, sir,’ I said, but here my voice began to tremble, and he grew dim and large through the veil of my gathering tears. I hesitated. ‘Well, what do you want?’ he asked, in a tone half jocular, half kind. I made a great effort and recovered my self-possession. ‘Please, sir,’ I repeated, ‘I want you to box my ears.’ ‘Well, you are a funny fellow! What should I box your ears for, pray?’ ‘Because I’ve been very wicked,’ I answered; and, putting my hand into my pocket, I extracted the bitten apple, and held it up to him. ‘Ho! ho!’ he said, beginning to guess what I must mean, but hardly the less bewildered for that; ‘is that one of my apples?’ ‘Yes, sir. It fell down from a branch that hung over the wall. I took it up, and--and--I took a bite of it, and--and--I’m so sorry!’ Here I burst into a fit of crying which I choked as much as I could. I remember quite well how, as I stood holding out the apple, my arm would shake with the violence of my sobs. ‘I’m not fond of bitten apples,’ he said. ‘You had better eat it up now.’ This brought me to myself. If he had shown me sympathy, I should have gone on crying. ‘I would rather not. Please box my ears.’ ‘I don’t want to box your ears. You’re welcome to the apple. Only don’t take what’s not your own another time.’ ‘But, please, sir, I’m so miserable!’ ‘Home with you! and eat your apple as you go,’ was his unconsoling response. ‘I can’t eat it; I’m so ashamed of myself.’ ‘When people do wrong, I suppose they must be ashamed of themselves. That’s all right, isn’t it?’ ‘Why won’t you box my ears, then?’ I persisted. [Illustration: “HERE IS A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, MRS. WILSON, WHO SEEMS TO HAVE LOST HIS WAY.”] It was my sole but unavailing prayer. He turned away towards the house. My trouble rose to agony. I made some wild motion of despair, and threw myself on the grass. He turned, looked at me for a moment in silence, and then said in a changed tone-- ‘My boy, I am sorry for you. I beg you will not trouble yourself any more. The affair is not worth it. Such a trifle! What can I do for you?’ I got up. A new thought of possible relief had crossed my mind.