november 14th.—i'm in for it again. it isn't much this time—only a trick we played off on mother brown. the mean old hunks! to say she never gave credit, when she's cleaned us all out with her nasty bulls'-eyes. i'll never eat another, that i won't. the governor has heard of this lark, and my share in it, i suppose, for i'm ordered to go to his study at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. well, i don't care what the punishment is, so long as mother brown don't hear of it; but she would glory in that, i know, for i've led her a nice life lately.

november 17th.—i wish i could hang mother brown, and choke her with her own precious bulls'-eyes. a nice imposition i've had through her! this fresh hindrance would have taken away my last chance of the prize; but now—well, i did not go looking for the prize questions, but when they were there right before my eyes, and nobody else in the room, how could i help seeing them? i don't see that it's much of a cheat either, for of course i shall answer them all by myself, and if it helps me to know where to read up—well, i've had a good many hindrances, so that it's about fair after all.

november 20th.—i'm getting along famously with my grind, i think, although i almost wish i could forget those questions sometimes. but i can't, and without meaning it i turn over the leaves of the book that will answer some of them. yesterday chandos came and looked over my shoulder, and when he saw where i was reading he said, "halloa, stewart, i thought you said you shouldn't look at that?"

"did i?" i stammered, and i shut the book.

"don't shut it up; i don't want to hinder you. i'm glad you're going in for it so thoroughly," he said.

"oh, don't bother!" i said, crossly; for somehow i can't think of these questions and chandos at the same time, and i shall tell him not to interfere if he comes poking round again.

november 21st.—we have just heard that our examination is to take place the second of next month—about ten days hence. i wish it was over, or that i had never made up my mind to go in for it. i hate the very name of prizes, and if i get it i'll shy the watch down the first well i see. what a fuss chandos is making too! he says i am so cross and touchy he cannot understand me. i suppose not, for i cannot understand myself just now. i know one thing, though; i hate mother brown and her bulls'-eyes, for if it hadn't been for her i couldn't have seen these questions, but now i have seen them i can't forget them. i've tried—i've turned to another part of the book, and tried to read and learn all about that, but although i began to feel some interest in that before, i couldn't now, and i was soon turning the leaves again. i wish i had given it up when tom went away. i'd do it now if it wasn't for chandos, but i should not like him to know anything about this, and so i suppose i must go on. i can do one thing, though; i can answer the questions so badly that i shall lose the prize, and that is how i must manage, though it's rather hard after doing such lots of grind for it.

november 25th.—i've just had a letter from mamma. i wish it had not come yet, for it makes me wish to get this prize more than ever. i feel as though i must get it, must have it now, and yet i have not touched a book the last two days. chandos is puzzled and concerned, i can see, and i hardly know how to avoid him, and yet i try to do so all i can. oh, why did the governor leave those questions about? it was dreadfully careless of him. if he had only locked them up in his desk when he went to breakfast, as he ought to have done, i couldn't have seen them, and i shouldn't be in this trouble now. i wonder whether tom's prize essay worried him as much! if i could only get out of it without letting anybody know of that sneaking trick of peeping i'd do it; but how could i tell them i was every bit as mean as tom, when i raved so about him last year? everybody would remember that, and throw it up in my teeth, and they would say i had learned it of chandos too, and i couldn't bear that. it's precious hard, but i shall have to go on. i must and i will get this prize, if i can, though i shall hate the sight of it, and hate myself too.

december 3rd.—it's over. i could answer every question, of course; but—but, oh! how i wish i had been ill, or something had happened to prevent my going in for it at the last minute. i don't want this prize now, and if i don't get it i shall be almost as thankful as i was when frank chandos began to get well. i wish i could feel that god was my friend, and would help me out of this scrape, but i can't ask him. i've felt afraid somehow to kneel down since i turned sneak yes, i am a sneak, a mean, miserable sneak, and i hate myself more than i hated tom, and i said hard things enough about him; but i never thought then i should ever come to do the same myself.

december 4th.—i had dropped my pen and was actually crying yesterday, when chandos came in and caught me.

"what is the matter, stewart? are you ill, old fellow?" he asked, and he put his arm round me, so that there was no getting away from him.

"don't, chandos," i said, "i can't bear it! i'm a miserable, mean sneak, and if you were to kick me out of the room i should feel better, for that's what i deserve. mind, i never meant to be a sneak, and i didn't think i ever should do such a mean trick, but now you do know it you'd better turn me up as i did tom."

"well, i don't know what you've done yet, we'll talk about that afterwards; but just tell me this, would you do the same thing again if you had the chance?"

"do it again? i tell you i hate myself for it; but the worst of it is, it won't undo it now it's done. i never thought i could be so mean, chandos."

"i suppose not; but bad as it is, you need not give up all hope. god knew how mean you could be, and yet he will be your friend if you would let him. is it about the prize, stewart?"

"oh yes; i do hope i shan't get it," i groaned.

"well, you shall tell me all about it by-and-by if you like, but now just let me say a word. you never felt before that you were a sinner—that you could do anything bad?"

"i've been trying to keep straight and do everything on the square, but i may as well give up now, for i see i can't do it."

"no, no, you won't give up, charley. i'm going to call you charley now, because i hope we shall be better friends than ever after this. i was just as miserable once as you are now. i had told a lie, and i felt i could never be forgiven; but my mother talked to me, and i'll tell you as well as i can remember what she said:

"'you've been very proud, my boy, and thought you could get on very well without any help but your own determination to do right.'"

"well, what more do we want?" i said.

"has it been enough, stewart? hasn't this been a miserable failure? and are you not complaining now that you are more wicked than you thought possible?"

"well, yes, that's true enough," i confessed.

"now let me tell you, stewart, what mother told me. god knew you would fail. he knew when he put adam into the garden of eden that he wouldn't keep straight long; but he gave him a fair chance, and he loved him so much that he provided a remedy at once for the sins he and all men would commit. the lord jesus christ agreed then to bear the sins of the whole world—yours and mine among them, stewart—and this is what is meant by forgiveness of sins. you never felt you needed forgiveness before for you never felt the burden of sin."

"but look here, chandos, i don't see how god is going to forgive me, because, you see, i knew better."

"of course you did. but have you never read in your bible, 'the blood of jesus christ cleanseth us from all sin.' 'if we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us'? but god is showing you the truth now—that you need pardon and forgiveness, and he is willing to give you these; pardon for the sins already committed, to wash them all away in the blood of his dear son, who gave his life for you; and not only pardon, but grace and strength for the future to enable you to resist the temptation to do wrong at any future time."

"look here, if god would help me like that, i shall feel so glad," i said; "it's no good for me to say i'll always keep on the square any more after this mean trick, for i may do another, as tom did. he didn't stop at the first, and i'm afraid i shan't if god don't help me. oh, chandos, i do want him to help me out of this scrape, and keep me from doing anything like this again."

"well, charley, suppose we kneel down now and ask god for this, and then you shall tell me all about it if you like."

"i think i had better tell you first," i said, "and then you can tell god for me. i'll try and do it myself by-and-by, but i can't just at once. i'm not good enough to kneel down at all."

then i told chandos about the questions, and we kneeled down together, and he asked god to forgive me and help me to do what was right.

"if god will only let me lose this prize now i shan't care," i said, when we got up.

"but—but i don't think we ought to wait for that," said chandos.

"what can i do?" i said.

"suppose you get it—and you may, you know," said chandos; "you would be obliged to do something then."

"oh, i can't bear to think of that. won't god help me by giving it to another fellow?

"god will never help us to be cowards; he will help you to do the brave and right thing, which is to go to dr. mellor at once, tell him all about it, and ask him to destroy your papers."

"tell the governor i'm a mean sneak! i couldn't do it, chandos."

"then god cannot help you in any other way, nor i either. i tell you he helps people to be brave and do the right; but don't expect he is going to screen you from the consequences of sin, because he cannot and will not; and to expect it would be like sawing your finger with a sharp knife and not expecting to cut it. i will not attempt to persuade you, charley; but if you are sincere in asking god's pardon now, and his help for the future, you will not hesitate about this long."

"but it is so hard to do this, chandos."

"yes, and god knows exactly how hard it is better than i do; but as soon as he sees you are willing to bear this, and do the right, he will give you the strength and courage necessary."

when i lifted my head from my arms i found that chandos was gone. i sat for nearly an hour thinking over what he had been saying—dear old chandos! who is so good himself, and yet not half so proud as i was about poor tom. i wonder whether god will help me as he says. i don't deserve it one bit, any more than i deserve that the lord jesus should forgive me.

december 5th.—i am sure god has begun to help me. i went and made a clean breast of it to the governor this morning, and he has promised to burn my papers, and keep the whole thing a secret from the rest. it was pretty hard to begin telling him, but when once i had begun i did not feel a bit afraid, and i must say he behaved splendidly. he didn't blow me up or order me an imposition for prying round his table, but he said, quite kindly,

"i am very sorry for you, stewart. i wish you had come to me before, or told me you had seen these questions, and i might have saved you a great deal of unhappiness—for i am sure you have been unhappy—and not deprived you of all chance of getting the prize. try and remember this for the future—i am your friend as well as your schoolmaster, and if there is any difficulty in which i can help you i hope you will trust me as a friend. i am glad to see you and chandos get on so well together;" and then he actually shook hands with me as i was going out of the door.

i told chandos all about it afterwards and he said, "you know now how god helps those who trust in him; i hope you will never forget it again."

i don't think i ever shall. i don't feel afraid to kneel down and ask his help now, and i know i need it, for who can tell what i might do next after this mean trick?

december 7th.—i have written and told mamma how i have lost the prize. i thought i had better do this, for she had made so sure i should get it if i really tried that i did not like to go home without telling her first. poor mamma! i am sorry, for she is dreadfully disappointed, i know, and i am afraid she will not let me go to sea either. i wonder whether i shall be able to give up this wish entirely, as chandos did his? i am afraid not, for often in my dreams i seem to be on the sea, and how can i ever forget it? but i must try to settle down, i suppose. god will help me in this, i know, as he did to go to the governor, only it makes me feel dreadfully old to think of it.

december 9th.—everybody is busy packing and getting ready to go home, but my packing must wait until i write up my log once more. i mean to tie it up and put it away until i go to sea, for i am really going after all. the news came yesterday; my mother wrote to say that, as i had had the moral courage to confess having done wrong, half her fear about my going to sea was taken away, for she felt sure i was less likely to do wrong now i had felt so much unhappiness about it than i was before. dear mamma! she is mistaken here, but i wonder whether i shall ever be able to tell her that god alone can keep me from the evil she fears?

i could not think much about this yesterday. it was enough for me that i was going to sea, and when i had read that much of the letter, so as to understand it, i tore round the playground, holding up the letter and shouting, "hurrah! i'm going to sea—i'm going to sea!" some of the fellows pretended to think i was mad when i rushed at chandos and hugged him, and shouted, "it's all your doing, old fellow. i'm going to sea! i'm going to sea!"

"let him alone; let him blow off steam," laughed chandos when some of the fellows tried to stop me, and i went round the playground again like a steam-engine. everybody in the house knew it five minutes after the letter came. luckily lessons were over for the day, or there would have been an imposition for me, but as it was nobody interfered.

to-day i can think more about it, and finish my log, for i shan't come here after christmas, and if i write another i shall get a new book. but i mean to keep this, for i shall like to read it by-and-by; and if ever i am likely to forget how god has been my friend, and how i learned to know it, or if ever i get into a scrape and am unhappy again, i shall read what chandos said to me a day or two ago, that i may never forget: "the blood of jesus christ cleanseth us from all sin." we only meant to laugh over it, tom and i, but now i think i shall remember some wise and good words when i read up "charley's log."