It was a bright frosty morning in the edge of winter when at last they
let Mark go to see the minister, and Billy took care that no hint of
the Shafton car should reach his knowledge. Slowly, gravely he escorted
Mark down the street and up the parsonage steps.

The minister was lying on a couch in the living room and there was a
low chair drawn up near by with a book open at the place, and a bit of
fluffy sewing on the low table beside it. Mark looked hungrily about
for the owner of the gold thimble, but there was no sign of either Mrs.
Severn or Marilyn about.

There was a bandage over the minister's eyes. They hadn't told Mark
about that yet.

The minister held out a groping hand with his old sweet smile and
hearty welcoming voice: "Well, son, you've come at last! Beat me to it, didn't you? I'm glad.
That was fair. Young blood you know."

Mark knelt down by the couch with his old friend's hand held fast:
Billy had faded into the landscape out on the front steps somewhere,
and was even now settling down for an extended wait. If this interview
went well he might hope to get a little rest and catch up on sports
sometime soon. It all depended on this.

Mark put up his other hand and touched the bandage: "Father!" he said, "Father!" and broke down "Father, I have sinned--"
he said brokenly.