CHAPTER VI.

SEARCH FOR THE LIAR.

"I AM more pained than I can express," she said, glancing at the desk where the face of Ernest was hidden on his arms; "but there is still opportunity to confess."

Every breath was hushed, but the sobbing boy did not speak.

"Ernest Monroe," said Miss Fosdick, growing very pale, "rise in your seat."

Ernest obeyed, though his sobs shook his whole frame.

"I have never known you tell a lie. I will trust you now. Did you take my knife from my desk and return it here with a broken blade?"

For one moment Ernest uncovered his face.

"No, ma'am, I never touched your knife; I didn't know it was broken till you showed it to us."

"I believe you," she said, earnestly. "A boy who always has told the truth, deserves to be believed. You may all return to your lessons. Henry Drake, you may remain after school."

It was noticed by all that Henry's face was as red as Ernest's had been.

One of the scholars presently held up his hand for permission to speak to the teacher about his lesson. She went directly to his desk, and, as she passed Henry's seat, she heard him say, in a hurried whisper,—

"If you tell anything about me, Ernest, I'll cut your hand worse than it was before."

Half an hour before school was dismissed, Ernest asked leave to go home, as his head ached badly.

"Yes," was the reply; "and I advise you to lie down till I call, which will be soon after school."

Henry Drake stood before his teacher when school was dismissed, and tried to look careless and indifferent; but she could plainly see marks of guilt.

"Did you take my knife, Henry?" asked the teacher.

"No, ma'am!"

"Don't gaze at the floor now; look me full in the eye. You know there is One who sees into your heart. Can you say, before Him, that you have never touched my knife; that you know nothing how it came broken?"

"I don't see why you want to ask me so many questions," grumbled the boy, beginning to cry. "I told you I didn't know anything about it; but you wont believe me. You wont believe anybody but Ernest."

"I need not tell you, why I can't believe your word, Henry; your own conscience will tell you that. I do believe Ernest, because I know that he loves his Saviour, and would not grieve him by committing so great a sin as to tell a falsehood. If you have done nothing wrong, why did you threaten your cousin, in such a cruel manner, if he told anything about you?"

Henry started, but presently muttered,—

"He's always telling something to get me into trouble."

"No," answered the teacher, "that is not true. Ernest did not tell your father that you stole the keys of his tool chest. He has told me nothing about my knife, though I think that he knows something about it. He was willing to bear all the suspicions of the scholars rather than charge another with the crime. It would be much better for you to confess, Henry. I would forgive you, even now. If, after all your denial, I find you have been the thief and liar, too, I shall make a serious affair of it."

For a moment the boy hesitated. Conscience said, "Confess."

"I got out of the other scrape by sticking to my lie," he said to himself. So he repeated the words,—

"I never touched your knife."

"You may go," said the teacher, sternly. "I don't know whether you have told the truth; but God does. He is a God of truth; and he says all liars shall be punished."

Do you suppose Henry was happy as he walked home? Do you think he whistled, and smiled with pleasant thoughts; that he longed to see his mother and tell her all that had passed? No, he did nothing of all this. He walked slowly, with his head down, wondering, after his threat to Ernest, whether he would dare tell his mother what he knew about the knife.

At last, as he was going into the gate to his own home, he saw Miss Fosdick was just behind him. Without stopping to think what she would imagine, he darted away, and, running into the barn, hid himself among the hay.