“I do not know what I shall do with the boy! It will take a stronger hand than mine to guide him.” This was the mental confession of Miss Elizabeth Winters, as she sighed and dropped her head into her hand. Her nephew, Silas Winters, the object of her solicitude, sat before the glowing grate with his eyes bent upon the burning embers. He heard his aunt sigh, and almost guessed what was passing through her mind. His look was more than half defiant, and his thoughts were shaping themselves for an outburst. In a few moments he asked, “Aunt Elizabeth, don’t you expect a boy of fifteen to have a mind of his own?” Aunt Elizabeth moved toward him, and her thin hand trembled as she laid it upon his shoulder. He made a gesture of impatience, and the hand was withdrawn and placed over her eyes, as if she would shut out some unhappy thought or lift her heart in prayer. There was a deep silence, save for the loud ticking of the clock, which seemed to Silas to say, “Don’t go, don’t go!” Meanwhile the evening was wearing on, and he was anxious to join some ill-chosen companions. Miss Winters knew this, and she had already counseled her nephew to shun those boys. Earlier in the evening she had used all her powers of persuasion to induce Silas to remain at his own fireside. She had brought out several choice books, which she had never before put into his hands, and asked him to spend the evening with her, reading them. Now she was thinking what more she could do or say to influence him, when she heard a long, low whistle under the window, and recognized the familiar signal of his companions. Silas jumped up and started to get his overcoat. His aunt laid a detaining hand upon his arm and said earnestly, “Silas, remain at home to-night.” “No, I am fifteen, and am big enough to think for myself,” he said, breaking away from her. “Yes, you are fifteen; and that is the age when a boy is likely to make or mar his character. You will receive no benefit from going out with such company, especially in opposition to my advice and entreaty.” “O, Aunt Elizabeth, don’t croak. I dislike a croaker above everything.” He hurried out into the darkness with the words upon his lips. Miss Winters settled herself in the nearest chair and said half aloud, with no one but God to hear, “It has come. The breaking away has come, that I have feared so much.” Outside there was loud, coarse laughter as Harry Searle slapped Silas on the back and said: “So you got away from the old maid. Good for you!” Silas did not join Harry and Tom Huntley, his other companions, in the laugh. The coarse words jarred on his ears, and for a moment his feelings recoiled from these rough boys. There was a short, fierce struggle between good and evil influences; he had almost turned back, when the evil spirit predominated, and he followed on after Harry and Tom. They were the leaders always, and this time he walked dumbly after them. He had not been quite able to shut out from his mental vision the sad face of his aunt, and he was wondering how he could meet her on his return, when Tom said: “Well, here we are.” They had stopped before an old tumble-down house, known as Jack Donley’s Den. Silas roused himself and asked, “What can be going on here, that we have anything to do with?” “Wait and see,” replied Tom. “I object to going into such a place,” protested Silas. The other boys laughed and said, “You shall go in, even if we have to carry you in by force.” Silas still hesitated, and Harry said, “It is only to eat some ice-cream, which we have hired Jack to steal out of old Sabbin’s woodshed. They are having a party there this evening, and they put the ice-cream outside to keep it frozen. Tom saw the can when he took home a borrowed ax, and we thought it would be a great lark to steal the cream.” “I don’t like this kind of business at all. I thought you were to see the play,” said Silas. “We were, but we changed our minds. Come on in. Don’t be silly.” Then Silas was almost dragged inside the place of bad repute he had always shunned. Jack Donley was such a suspicious character that, when the cream was missed, Mr. Sabins concluded Jack must have stolen it. Being very angry, he lost no time in starting an officer in search of the stolen goods. Jack heard footsteps and locked the door, but officer Story quickly effected an entrance, and found the stolen cream and the party around it. Officer Story, who was a distant relative of Silas, looked at him in perfect amazement. “What are you doing here with these young scamps?” he asked. “I was out with Harry and Tom, and they made me come in here.” “You had no business to be out with them. They have got you into a pretty scrape. This affair will be in the paper, and the disgrace of it will almost kill your aunt Elizabeth. Shame on you! You are old enough to know better.” “I am only fifteen!” replied Silas. Then he remembered how boastfully he had said that very evening, “I am fifteen;” and he heartily wished himself only ten, back in knickerbockers, and going to bed at dark. Officer Story escorted Silas home, and, in compliance with his earnest pleading, promised to hush up the matter as much as he could, altho he felt doubtful about it. But the whole story came out in this wise in the weekly paper: “The party at the home of J. E. Sabins was a social success. The guests spent a very enjoyable evening. The only drawback was the loss of the ice-cream, made for the occasion. This was stolen and eaten in Jack Donley’s quarters, by three young rowdies—Harry Searle, Tom Huntley, and Silas Winters. The young rascals received a severe reprimand, and were fined five dollars each. Served them right.” Miss Elizabeth Winters’ local paper did not reach her that week. Mr. Story took it out of the post-office and neglected to let her have it, thinking that he would save his cousin, if possible, from the terrible mortification. As she seldom went out, being an invalid, he hoped the story might not come to her ears. His plan would have worked well if a well-meaning but indiscreet neighbor, given to gossip, had not called at the house and said to her, “Wasn’t it awful to have all that come out in the paper?” Miss Winters opened her big blue eyes wider in her wonder. Then Mrs. Brown asked, “Haven’t you seen the paper this week? It is all in there about stealing the ice-cream. Perhaps I ought not to have said anything to you about it, but I was very angry to have Silas called a rowdy and a rascal.” Mr. Story had told his cousin the bare truth—that Silas had been urged, almost forced by the other boys, to go where the ice-cream was eaten. She had felt sorry and much ashamed, but imagined that the affair had been kept private; she had no idea that her nephew would be brought to public notice in the newspaper, and this was her first knowledge of it. Mrs. Brown heartily regretted having come on such an errand, when she saw Miss Winters’ pale lips whiten, and her head droop. She knew that the weakened woman had nearly fainted and she thought, “How Elizabeth Winters loves that boy!” “I shall have to be excused, Mrs. Brown,” said Miss Winters, rising and walking unsteadily to her room. Silas had heard all about the story, as printed in the paper, and when he came home and found his aunt ill, he rightly guessed the cause. He was a very penitent boy, and going to her he said, “Aunt Elizabeth, if you will forgive me this time, I will never again go against your wishes, whether I am fifteen or fifty.”—Sunday-school Herald.