"I want to go home," cries Stumps. "I don't like peaches, Mr. John Logan. I don't--I don't--so help me," and the boy jerks at his pants wildly. John Logan turns to him kindly. "Why, you never had a peach in your little hand in your life." Then turning to Carrie: "Yes, Carrie, there has grown this year, high up in the sun on that tree, side by side, two--and only two--red, ripe peaches. Why, children, don't run away! Wait one moment, and I will go a little way with you. As I was about to say, these two peaches are at last ripe. I own I was the least bit afraid, even after I saw them there on that bough one Summer morning, that even then my mother might die before they became fully ripe. But now they are ripe, and this evening I shall pull them. And to-morrow, after my day's work is done, my sick mother shall eat one, and you two shall eat the other." Carrie puts up her hand and backs away. "Don't--don't--don't call me Carrie; call me Carats--Carats--Carats--like the others do!" "Why, Carrie! What in the world is the matter with you?" "If a body steals, Mr. John Logan--if a body steals--what had a body better do?" "Why, the Preacher says a body should confess--confess it, feel sorry, and be forgiven." "I can't--I can't confess, and I can't be forgiven!" John Logan starts! "You--you, Carrie; is it you? Then you have already confessed, and He will forgive you!" "But such stealing as this nobody--nothing--can forgive," falling on her knees. "I--I made my little brother steal your peaches!" "You!--you made him steal my two peaches that I wanted for my sick mother? You--_you_, Carrie?" Stumps rushed forward. "No--No! I done it myself! I done it all myself--I did, so help me!" "But I made him do it!" cries Carrie. "I am the biggest, and I knew better--I knew better. But we couldn't eat 'em. Here they are--oh I am so glad we couldn't eat 'em!" And they fall on their knees at his feet together; four little hands reach out the peaches to him eagerly, earnestly, as if in prayer to Heaven. The man takes their little hands, and, choking with tears, says, in a voice full of pathos and pity, and uncovering his head, with lifted face, as he remembers something of the story the good Priest so often read to his mother: "and there was more joy in Heaven over the one that was found, than over the ninety-and-nine that went not astray." CHAPTER II. TWENTY CARATS FINE. _A land that man has newly trod, A land that only God has known, Through all the soundless cycles flown. Yet perfect blossoms bless the sod, And perfect birds illume the trees, And perfect unheard harmonies Pour out eternally to God._ _A thousand miles of mighty wood Where thunder-storms stride fire-shod; A thousand flowers every rod, A stately tree on every rood; Ten thousand leaves on every tree, And each a miracle to me; And yet there be men who question God!_