The Crucible of Character
He sat up in bed. He would go straight to his mother and tell her everything.
No, that would not do. He was not really afraid of his mother,—it was the unknown and awful cook. But, then, that would make it even. He would go right to the cook and tell her. He wondered what she would do. The thought of facing her filled him with a sick fear, and he lay back weakly on his bed. No, he dare not tell her.
But the Thief! Thief! Thief! started to ring again in his ears, and his soul writhed at the sound. He must do it. He closed his eyes and counted ten. Then, with one tearful gulp, he slipped out of bed. He went to the door and listened. It was terribly still and dark. Holding up his nightgown, he stole down the long hall, desperately facing the darkness. Shadows and little night sounds, that at other times would have shaken his childish frame with thrills of terror, he slipped past without even seeing or hearing.
At last he came to the cook's door. Once, twice, three times he knocked timidly on it. There was no answer. Then he pushed
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