November 14th.—I'm in for it again. It isn't much this time—only a trick we played off on Mother Brown. The mean old hunks! to say she never gave credit, when she's cleaned us all out with her nasty bulls'-eyes. I'll never eat another, that I won't. The governor has heard of this lark, and my share in it, I suppose, for I'm ordered to go to his study at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Well, I don't care what the punishment is, so long as Mother Brown don't hear of it; but she would glory in that, I know, for I've led her a nice life lately.
November 17th.—I wish I could hang Mother Brown, and choke her with her own precious bulls'-eyes. A nice imposition I've had through her! This fresh hindrance would have taken away my last chance of the prize; but now—well, I did not go looking for the prize questions, but when they were there right before my eyes, and nobody else in the room, how could I help seeing them? I don't see that it's much of a cheat either, for of course I shall answer them all by myself, and if it helps me to know where to read up—well, I've had a good many hindrances, so that it's about fair after all.
November 20th.—I'm getting along famously with my grind, I think, although I almost wish I could forget those questions sometimes. But I can't, and without meaning it I turn over the leaves of the book that will answer some of them. Yesterday Chandos came and looked over my shoulder, and when he saw where I was reading he said, "Halloa, Stewart, I thought you said you shouldn't look at that?"
"Did I?" I stammered, and I shut the book.
"Don't shut it up; I don't want to hinder you. I'm glad you're going in for it so thoroughly," he said.
"Oh, don't bother!" I said, crossly; for somehow I can't think of these questions and Chandos at the same time, and I shall tell him not to interfere if he comes poking round again.
November 21st.—We have just heard that our examination is to take place the second of next month—about ten days hence. I wish it was over, or that I had never made up my mind to go in for it. I hate the very name of prizes, and if I get it I'll shy the watch down the first well I see. What a fuss Chandos is making too! He says I am so cross and touchy he cannot understand me. I suppose not, for I cannot understand myself just now. I know one thing, though; I hate Mother Brown and her bulls'-eyes, for if it hadn't been for her I couldn't have seen these questions, but now I have seen them I can't forget them. I've tried—I've turned to another part of the book, and tried to read and learn all about that, but although I began to feel some interest in that before, I couldn't now, and I was soon turning the leaves again. I wish I had given it up when Tom went away. I'd do it now if it wasn't for Chandos, but I should not like him to know anything about this, and so I suppose I must go on. I can do one thing, though; I can answer the questions so badly that I shall lose the prize, and that is how I must manage, though it's rather hard after doing such lots of grind for it.
November 25th.—I've just had a letter from mamma. I wish it had not come yet, for it makes me wish to get this prize more than ever. I feel as though I must get it, must have it now, and yet I have not touched a book the last two days. Chandos is puzzled and concerned, I can see, and I hardly know how to avoid him, and yet I try to do so all I can. Oh, why did the governor leave those questions about? It was dreadfully careless of him. If he had only locked them up in his desk when he went to breakfast, as he ought to have done, I couldn't have seen them, and I shouldn't be in this trouble now. I wonder whether Tom's prize essay worried him as much! If I could only get out of it without letting anybody know of that sneaking trick of peeping I'd do it; but how could I tell them I was every bit as mean as Tom, when I raved so about him last year? Everybody would remember that, and throw it up in my teeth, and they would say I had learned it of Chandos too, and I couldn't bear that. It's precious hard, but I shall have to go on. I must and I will get this prize, if I can, though I shall hate the sight of it, and hate myself too.
December 3rd.—It's over. I could answer every question, of course; but—but, oh! how I wish I had been ill, or something had happened to prevent my going in for it at the last minute. I don't want this prize now, and if I don't get it I shall be almost as thankful as I was when Frank Chandos began to get well. I wish I could feel that God was my friend, and would help me out of this scrape, but I can't ask Him. I've felt afraid somehow to kneel down since I turned sneak yes, I am a sneak, a mean, miserable sneak, and I hate myself more than I hated Tom, and I said hard things enough about him; but I never thought then I should ever come to do the same myself.
December 4th.—I had dropped my pen and was actually crying yesterday, when Chandos came in and caught me.
"What is the matter, Stewart? Are you ill, old fellow?" he asked, and he put his arm round me, so that there was no getting away from him.
"Don't, Chandos," I said, "I can't bear it! I'm a miserable, mean sneak, and if you were to kick me out of the room I should feel better, for that's what I deserve. Mind, I never meant to be a sneak, and I didn't think I ever should do such a mean trick, but now you do know it you'd better turn me up as I did Tom."
"Well, I don't know what you've done yet, we'll talk about that afterwards; but just tell me this, would you do the same thing again if you had the chance?"
"Do it again? I tell you I hate myself for it; but the worst of it is, it won't undo it now it's done. I never thought I could be so mean, Chandos."
"I suppose not; but bad as it is, you need not give up all hope. God knew how mean you could be, and yet He will be your friend if you would let Him. Is it about the prize, Stewart?"
"Oh yes; I do hope I shan't get it," I groaned.
"Well, you shall tell me all about it by-and-by if you like, but now just let me say a word. You never felt before that you were a sinner—that you could do anything bad?"
"I've been trying to keep straight and do everything on the square, but I may as well give up now, for I see I can't do it."
"No, no, you won't give up, Charley. I'm going to call you Charley now, because I hope we shall be better friends than ever after this. I was just as miserable once as you are now. I had told a lie, and I felt I could never be forgiven; but my mother talked to me, and I'll tell you as well as I can remember what she said:
"'You've been very proud, my boy, and thought you could get on very well without any help but your own determination to do right.'"
"Well, what more do we want?" I said.
"Has it been enough, Stewart? Hasn't this been a miserable failure? and are you not complaining now that you are more wicked than you thought possible?"
"Well, yes, that's true enough," I confessed.
"Now let me tell you, Stewart, what mother told me. God knew you would fail. He knew when He put Adam into the garden of Eden that he wouldn't keep straight long; but He gave him a fair chance, and He loved him so much that He provided a remedy at once for the sins he and all men would commit. The Lord Jesus Christ agreed then to bear the sins of the whole world—yours and mine among them, Stewart—and this is what is meant by forgiveness of sins. You never felt yo............