With his heart in such a state, the father naturally had next to nothing to say to the boy, and they walked on in silence. But that did not affect Mark—he was satisfied to be with his father whether or not he spoke to him. From God he had learned not to dislike silence. Without knowing it, he was growing tired as they walked. When weariness at last became conscious, it came upon him all at once and poor Mark found he could scarcely put one leg in front of the other.

The sun had been shining when they started—a beautiful but not very warm spring sun. But now it had grown cloudy and rain threatened. They were in the middle of a bare, lonely moor, easily reached from the house but of considerable size in all directions, and the wind had begun to blow cold. Sunk in his miserable thoughts, all the more miserable now that he had relapsed into unforgiving unforgiveness, the father saw nothing of his child’s failing strength, and kept trudging on. All at once he became aware that the boy was not by his side. He looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. Alarmed, he stopped, turned, and called his name. The wind was blowing the other way and at first he heard no reply. He called again and this time thought he heard a feeble response. He retraced his steps rapidly.

Some four or five hundred yards back, he came to a hollow where Mark sat on a tuft of brown heather, looking as white as the moon in daylight.

His anxiety relieved, the father felt annoyed, and berated the little fellow for stopping.

“I wasn’t able to keep up, papa,” replied Mark. “So I thought I would rest a while, and meet you as you came back.”

“You ought to have told me. I wouldn’t have brought you if I had known you would behave so. Come, get up, we must go home.”

“I’m very sorry, papa, but I don’t think I can.”

“Nonsense!”

“There’s something wrong with my knee.”

“Try,” said his father, growing frightened again.

He obeyed and rose, but with a little cry dropped on the ground. He had somehow injured his knee and could not walk a step.

His father stooped to lift him.

“I’ll carry you, Markie,” he said.

“Oh, no, you must not papa! It will tire you!”

His father was already walking homeward with him.

The next moment Mark saw the waving of a dress.

“Oh!” he cried, “there’s Hessie! She will carry me!”

“You little goose!” said his father tenderly. “Can she carry you better than I?”

“She is not stronger than you, papa, because you are a big man. But I think Hessie has more carry in her. She has such strong arms!”

Hester was running, and quite out of breath when she came near.

She had feared how it would be when she found her father had taken Mark for a walk. Her first feeling was of anger, for she had inherited not a little of her father’s spirit. Indirectly the black sheep had roused evils in the flock unknown before. However, when she saw the boy’s arms around his father’s neck and his cheek laid against his, her anger left her and she was sorry and ashamed, even though from his face she could tell that Mark was suffering greatly.