The monk took the switch in his hand and hesitated. He loved the bright,
handsome lad. The task was harder than he thought.
He knelt beside the cot and put his hand on the dark little head:
"I hate to strike you, my son--"
"Don't then, Father," was the eager answer.
"I've always had a very tender spot in my heart for you. Tell me what
you know and it'll be all right."
"I can't--"
"No matter how little, and I'll let you off."
"Will you?"
"I promise."
"I know one thing," the Boy said with a smile.
"Yes?"
"I know who blew out the light."
"Good!"
"If I tell you that much, you'll let me off?"
"Yes, my son."
The little head wagged doubtfully:
"Honest, now, Father?"
"I give you my solemn word."
"I blew it out!"
The fine old face twitched with suppressed laughter as he loosed the
straps, sat down on the cot and drew the youngster in his lap.
"You're a bright chap, my son. You'll go far in this world some day. A
great diplomat perhaps, but the road you've started on to-night can only
lead you at last into a blind alley. You know now that I love you, don't
you?"
"Yes, Father."
"Come now, my Boy, there's too much strength and character in those fine
eyes and that splendid square chin and jaw for you to let roistering
fools lead you by the nose.
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