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This was a dreadful thing to say, and of course the rest of us were all very shocked. But Oswald could not help looking at Albert’s uncle to see how he would take it.

He said, very gravely, “My dear kiddie, you ought to be sorry, and I wish you to be sorry for what you’ve done. And you will be punished for it.” (We were; our pocket-money was stopped and we were forbidden to go near the river, besides impositions miles long.) “But,” he went on, “you mustn’t give up trying to be good. You are extremely naughty and tiresome, as you know very well.”

Alice, Dicky, and Noel began to cry at about this time.

“But you are not the wickedest children in the world by any means.”

Then he stood up and straightened his collar, and put his hands in his pockets.

“You’re very unhappy now,” he said, “and you deserve to be. But I will say one thing to you.”

Then he said a thing which Oswald at least will never forget (though but little he deserved it, with the obstruction in his pocket, unowned up to all the time).

He said, “I have known you all for four years–and you know as well as I do how many scrapes I’ve seen you in and out of–but I’ve never known one of you tell a lie, and I’ve never known one of you do a mean or dishonorable action. And when you have done wrong you are always sorry. Now this is something to stand firm on. You’ll learn to be good in the other ways some day.”

He took his hands out of his pockets, and his face looked different, so that three of the four guilty creatures knew he was no longer adamant, and they threw themselves into his arms. Dora, Denny, Daisy, and H. O., of course, were not in it, and I think they thanked their stars.

Oswald did not embrace Albert’s uncle. He stood there and made up his mind he would go for a soldier. He gave the wet ball one last squeeze, and took his hand out of his pocket, and said a few words before going to enlist. He said:

“The others may deserve what you say. I hope they do, I’m sure. But I don’t, because it was my rotten cricket-ball that stopped up the pipe and caused the midnight flood in our bedroom. And I knew it quite early this morning. And I didn’t own up.”

Oswald stood there covered with shame, and he could feel the hateful cricket-ball heavy and cold against the top of his leg, through the pocket.

Albert’s uncle said–and his voice made Oswald hot all over, but not with shame–he said–

I shall not tell you what he said. It is no one’s business but Oswald’s; only I will own it made Oswald not quite so anxious to run away for a soldier as he had been before.

That owning up was the hardest thing I ever did. They did put that in the Book of Golden Deeds, though it was not a kind or generous act, and did no good to any one or anything except Oswald’s own inside feelings. I must say I think they might have let it alone. Oswald would rather forget it. Especially as Dicky wrote it in and put this:

“Oswald acted a lie, which, he knows, is as bad as telling one. But he owned up when he needn’t have, and this condones his sin. We think he was a thorough brick to do it.”

Alice scratched this out afterwards and wrote the record of the incident in more flattering terms. But Dicky had used father’s ink, and she used Mrs. Pettigrew’s, so any one can read his underneath the scratching outs.

The others were awfully friendly to Oswald, to show they agreed with Albert’s uncle in thinking I deserved as much share as any one in any praise there might be going.

It was Dora who said it all came from my quarrelling with Noel about that rotten cricket-ball; but Alice, gently yet firmly, made her shut up.

I let Noel have the ball. It had been thoroughly soaked, but it dried all right. But it could never be the same to me after what it had done and what I had done.

I hope you will try to agree with Albert’s uncle and not think foul scorn of Oswald because of this story. Perhaps you have done things nearly as bad yourself sometimes. If you have, you will know how “owning up” soothes the savage breast and alleviates the gnawings of remorse.

If you have never done naughty acts, I expect it is only because you never had the sense to think of anything.