Chapter III: Frank's Friends

"WHAT nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Monks, when her husband repeated to her what had passed. "Why, I should as soon suspect Mrs. Jocelyn herself, or Squire Rawson. But I wonder a little that Frank does not explain why he was there."

The gentleman smiled. "I know Frank well enough to guess why he does not. He is a proud fellow, and such a suspicion would cut him like a knife."

Under the window they could hear the boy whistling, and, on looking down, Mrs. Monks saw him sitting on the door-step listlessly breaking a dry stick into pieces.

"Frankey," she called out, "don't you want Ida? she's been calling Ank, Ank, this half hour."

He sprang to his feet, and answered:

"Yes, ma'am, I do," in an eager voice.

"I'll put on her sack, and bring her down to you. She can go to walk if you have a mind."

Mr. Monks smiled archly, as he watched the handsome boy leading little flaxen-haired Ida along the gravelled walk. His merry laugh and bright face proved that, for the time, he had thrown all care to the winds, while the pretty child, clinging so confidingly to his finger was prattling in the sweetest tones.

"That was a happy thought of yours," said her husband, gazing archly in her face; "women always do seem to understand how to manage these matters better than men."

"Unless Frank confessed to me with his own lips, I wouldn't believe such a story of him," she exclaimed, seating herself again at her work.

"Of course not! But there are some who have not your charity."

May Jocelyn, who also attended Mr. Monk's school, repeated to her mother the account of her teacher's loss, and innocently wondered who Lionel Trask meant.

"The scholars all love our teacher so dearly," she went on, "that they would carry him the chain at once. I can't think of a boy so likely to conceal it as Lionel himself."

"Charity thinketh no evil," repeated a manly voice from behind.

"Thank you for reminding me," she said, laughing. "But I do not really suspect him. I happened to catch his eye while you were telling the school of your loss, and could not help observing that he was startled and confused."

"I don't think he looked more so than Frank; and yet we both are sure he is innocent. Indeed, I have known many boys of quick conscience and keen sense of honor, blush painfully with the mere dread of being suspected. I am sorry to lose my chain and seals; but I am glad to say I suspect no one in school or out. I find the ring of my watch is broken, and no doubt, it slipped off during some of my walks."

May was thoughtful for a few moments. "Mr. Monks," she said at last, "do you think anybody can, really and truly, obey the rule about charity?"

"Let me answer your question by asking another. Do you think our Father in Heaven would have commanded us to do anything which he knew we could not do?"

"No, sir; on, no, indeed! I didn't mean that; but it is very hard sometimes to have charity for everybody."

"It certainly is; but that is no reason why we should not strive to 'bear all things, believe all things, endure all things' rather than fail of charity toward our fellow-men."

May looked archly into her teacher's face. "I think, Mr. Monks," she said, "that you do keep the law of charity. With you, I believe, 'charity never faileth.'"

She was astonished at the spasm of pain which passed over his face.

"My dear child," he said, with great emotion, "in that respect I have failed more than in all else. If I do try to bear all things, believe all things, to suffer long and be kind, it is because I have had a fearful lesson to teach me how unjust and cruel one may become who does not aim to obey this inspired rule. Let us be thankful that there is One,—even our divine Saviour, whose charity is not easily provoked, who suffereth long and is kind."

His voice was so serious that her eyes filled with tears.

"I seldom speak of this, my child. It is too painful; but if it might be a warning to you, I should not regret it."