Here old Nanny pressed her hands to her temples, and for some time was silent.  At last she continued, “Why did I love you, Jack?—­Because you were honest.  Why did I lend you money—­I, an old miserly wretch, who have been made to dote on money; I, who have never spent a shilling for my own comfort for these ten years?—­But because you were honest.  Why have I longed the whole day to see you, and have cared only for you?—­Because I thought you honest, Jack.  I don’t care how soon I die now.  I thought the world too bad to live in; you made me think better of it.  Oh!  Jack, Jack, how has this come to pass?  How long have you known these bad people?”

“Why, mother,” replied I, much affected, “only last night.”

“Only last night?  Tell me all about it; tell the truth, dear boy, do.”

I could hold out no longer, and I told her everything that had passed.

“Jack,” said she, “I’m not fit to talk to you; I’m a bad old woman, and you may say I don’t practice what I preach; but, Jack, if you love me, go to Peter Anderson and tell him everything.  Don’t be afraid; only be afraid of doing what is wrong.  Now, Jack, you must go.”

“I will, I will,” replied I, bursting into tears.

“Do, do, dear Jack!  God bless your heart, I wish I could cry that way.”

I walked away quite humiliated; at last I ran, I was so eager to go to Anderson and confess everything.  I found him in his cabin—­I attempted to speak, but I could not—­I pulled out the money, put it on the table, and then I knelt down and sobbed on his knee.

“What is all this, Jack?” said Anderson, calmly; but I did not reply.  “I think I know, Jack,” said he, after a pause.  “You have been doing wrong.”

“Yes, yes,” replied I, sobbing.

“Well, my dear boy, wait till you can speak, and then tell me all about it.”

As soon as I could I did.  Anderson heard me without interruption.

“Jack,” said he, when I had done speaking, “the temptation” (pointing to the money) “has been very great; you did not resist at the moment, but you have, fortunately, seen your error in good time, for the money is still here.  I have little to say to you, for your own feelings convince me that it is needless.  Do you think that you can read a little?  Then read this.”  Anderson turned to the parable of the Prodigal Son, which I read to him.  “And now,” said he, turning over the leaves, “here is one verse more.”  I read it:  “There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine that need no repentance.”  “Be careful, therefore, my dear boy, let this be a warning to you; think well of it, for you have escaped a great danger.  The money shall be returned.  Go now, my child, to your employment; and if you do receive only halfpence, you will have the satisfaction of feeling that they are honestly obtained.”

I can assure the reader that this was a lesson which I never forgot; it was, however, succeeded by another variety of temptation, which might have proved more dangerous to a young and ardent spirit, had it not ended as it did, in changing the course of my destiny and throwing me into a new path of action.  To this I shall now refer.