“You look half-starved,” said Mr. Leyton, “draw nearer to the fire, you can sit down on that stool whilst I question you; and mind you answer me the truth.  I am not a magistrate, but of course can easily hand you over to justice if you will not allow me to benefit you in my own way.”

George still stood twisting his ragged cap in his trembling fingers, and with so much emotion depicted on his face, that the good clergyman resumed, in still more soothing accents:  “I have no wish to do you anything but good, my poor boy; look up at me, and see if you cannot trust me; you need not be thus frightened.  I only desire to hear the tale of misery your appearance indicates, to relieve it if I can.”

Here the young culprit’s heart smote him.  Was this the man whose house he had tried to burn?  On whom he had wished to bring ruin and perhaps death?  Was it a snare spread for him to lead to confession?  But when he looked on that grave compassionate countenance, he felt that it was not.

“Come, my lad, tell me all.”

George had for years heard little but oaths, and curses, and ribald jests, or the thief’s jargon of his father’s associates, and had been constantly cuffed and punished; but the better part of his nature was not extinguished; and at those words from the mouth of his enemy, he dropped on his knees, and clasping his hands, tried to speak:  but could only sob.  He had not wept before during that day of anguish; and now his tears gushed forth so freely, his grief was so passionate as he half knelt, half rested on the floor, that the good questioner saw that sorrow must have its course ere calm could be restored.

The young penitent still wept, when a knock was heard at the door, and a lady entered.  It was the clergyman’s wife; he kissed her as she asked how he had succeeded with the wicked man in the jail.

“He told me,” replied Mr. Leyton, “that he had a son whose fate tormented him more than his punishment.  Indeed his mind was so distracted respecting the youth, that he was scarcely able to understand my exhortations.  He entreated me with agonizing energy to save his son from such a life as he had led, and gave me the address of a woman in whose house he lodged.  I was, however, unable to find the boy in spite of many earnest inquiries.”

“Did you hear his name?” asked the wife.

“George West,” was the reply.

At the mention of his name, the boy ceased to sob.  Breathlessly he heard the account of his father’s last request, of the benevolent clergyman’s wish to fulfill it.  He started up, ran toward the door, and endeavored to open it; Mr. Leyton calmly restrained him.  “You must not escape,” he said.

“I cannot stop here.  I cannot bear to look at you.  Let me go!” The lad said this wildly, and shook himself away.

“Why, I intend you nothing but kindness.”

A new flood of tears gushed forth; and George West said between his sobs,