SCHOOL LIES.
"FATHER," asked Alice Saunders, on the evening of her return from school for a short vacation, "when is Ellen coming home? It seems very odd to be without her."
"I cannot tell, my dear; probably not for a long time. Your aunt writes a very favorable account of her improvement. Among other things she says, 'I can trust her word most implicitly.'"
There was the slightest shade of contempt upon Alice's placid face, as she answered, "That is high praise from Aunt Collins."
Poor Alice!—Poor in all the heart's rich treasures, though beautiful in person, and fairy like in figure. In the fashionable boarding school where she had passed six months, she had been taught many things; but a strict adherence to truth was not among her accomplishments. She had acquired a more correct pronunciation of the French language; could dance with singular grace; could enter a room filled with company with the ease and polish of a lady of thirty; could write an acceptance or regret to a party with taste and elegance, and without any special violation of the rules of rhetoric,—but, alas! In all that pertained to the true, stern discipline of mind, or that regarded her moral culture, she was, if possible, more ignorant than ever.
Thrown into the society of half a hundred young misses, whose only aim seemed to be to outshine each other in dress or fashion; with teachers whose main ambition seemed to be to give, with a smattering of many kinds of knowledge, that superior ease and grace of manners which the papers ascribed to the pupils of Mrs. Lerow; every sentiment of virtue, or the stern principles of right, seemed to be blunted, while nothing really valuable was acquired.
One thing Alice, in common with most of her companions, had learned; and that was to sneer at, or hold in contempt, those persons who had a higher standard of morals than her own. The Bible, too, although her mother's favorite book, was considered old-fashioned and rigid, containing a code of laws which were to the present generation a kind of dead letter and of no manner of importance.
The Sabbath and the sanctuary she had learned to regard as golden opportunities to display the rich, fashionably made dress with which, at the suggestion of Mrs. Lerow, her father so abundantly supplied her.
On the evening of her arrival at home, her father gazed at her with pride, and expressed his satisfaction at her evident improvement in the warmest terms; which opinion Alice took calmly, as praise to which she was justly entitled.
The next day, however, when he took advantage of her return to invite a few acquaintances to dine, he was pained and humiliated by her pertness and affectation. There was such an effort to show off before the young gentlemen of the party the knowledge she had so recently acquired,—such art, in even the tossing of her head, or the languishing expression of her eyes, that, fearing she would disgust his friends as she had disgusted him, he suddenly gave Aunt Clarissa a hint to move from the dining hall to the parlors.
But when a young man invited her to sing, he was more displeased than ever; she had been, she said, so much occupied in her studies; she had practised so little; her music was not yet unpacked; and her voice was affected by a cold.
Her manner of saying all this made it too evident that she wished to be urged; but her father, who, though talking with one of the guests, was attentive to all that was passing, abruptly interfered, saying,—
"Well, my daughter, it is of very little consequence whether you sing now; Madame—, the celebrated singer, is in town, and we shall, no doubt, all have a chance to hear some really fine music."
On returning to his house the next day for dinner, he heard Alice talking over the stairs to a servant.
"What did she say?"
"She left her card, miss, and was sorry you were not in."
The peculiar smile on the servant's countenance arrested Mr. Saunders's attention.
"What is it?" he asked his daughter, in a grave tone.
"Miss Huntington called; and as I was not dressed for company, I sent word 'not at home.'"
"Margaret," said the gentleman, turning to the servant, "the next time you obey an order which obliges you to tell a falsehood, I wish you to come to me for your wages. I will have no one in my house who will carry a message like that."
"Thank you, sir, and my mother will thank you, too," answered Margaret, blushing with pleasure.
"Alice," sternly remarked Mr. Saunders when he had followed her to a parlor upstairs. "Where have you learned to deceive, and to teach your servants to deceive?"
She blushed a little, but said, directly,—
"Oh, papa! It is the most common thing in the world—I mean in genteel society—to send word you are not at home; it is understood to mean that you are engaged."
"Then why not say so? Why put lies into your servants' mouths? Don't you see that if you teach them to lie for you, they will soon learn to lie to you?"
"You use such dreadful words, papa, you quite frighten me; I'm sure I never thought I was doing the least harm."
"I use the right words, Alice. I am cut to the heart to see that, after all the money I have paid for your education, you should be so devoid of the first principles of honor."
He sighed deeply, as he walked to the window, revolving in his mind a plan to send her also, to her Aunt Collins; but, recalled to the present by the dinner-bell, he added,—
"I wish you to understand, Alice, that I will not allow such a system of deception in my house. Margaret has already been notified that one more occasion like that I witnessed, and she leaves her place."
This was plain talk in plain words; and Alice put up her lip with an ugly pout. She did not appear at dinner until her father and aunt were nearly through the first course, and then rendered herself so disagreeable that Joseph called out,—
"Pa, I wish you'd have company every day; Alice acts better when gentlemen are here to see her do so." And he rolled his eyes so exactly in imitation of her action the previous day, that Aunt Clarissa and even her father laughed aloud.
During the weeks which followed, there was scarcely a day passed without proving to Mr. Saunders the entire recklessness of his daughter in regard to the truth. One day he came home and entered the back parlor while she was entertaining a friend in the front one with reminiscences of school life. They were so much engaged they did not notice his entrance, but amid shouts of mirth went on with their conversation.
"But did not Mrs. Lerow require you to study very hard?" asked the visitor.
"Oh, no, indeed!" was the laughing reply. "We had our exercises, of course; but we generally contrived to copy them from one another. Why, half the last term I had my answers written on a paper I held inside my handkerchief; at last the class-teacher mistrusted something from my always being so correct, and asked me up and down whether I had committed the lesson. I told her, of course, I had. It was only a white lie, you know, and everybody tells white lies."
"You remind me of an old lady who visited us last week," rejoined the young girl. "She heard me telling a story at the table, and then repeating it to some callers in the evening. I suppose I did not remember to use exactly the same words, and—do you think she had the impertinence to tell me I had been guilty of falsehood! I excused myself, saying, as you did, 'Everybody tells little lies, or white lies, in these days.'
"'No, my dear,' she said, 'not everybody; I could name several, and among them, some you would call the most polished ladies in the city, who would not, for their right hand, tell a lie, white or black. Truth—simple, unvarnished truth—is their motto, and a beautiful motto it is, such as I wish every young and every old lady would abide by.'
"'But you must own,' I said, 'that almost all fashionable people tell what is called white lies?'
"'I acknowledge that it is far too common,' she went on. 'We are becoming corrupt and unprincipled as a nation; but I will give you one instance where a white lie, and a very innocent one, as the young lady called it, was the means of breaking off a match between two persons who before that had been sincerely attached to each other.'
"The story is an affecting one; and if you like, I'll repeat it to you."
"Do," returned Alice; "I have a curiosity to hear it."
"'You remember,' she went on, 'that pale, intellectual lady you saw riding with me last week?'
"I had noticed her particularly, for she was very beautiful, though so sickly; and I told her so.
"'She was a gay belle ten years ago; no party was thought perfect without her presence. She was amiable, too, and very accomplished; that is, she sang well, danced divinely, as her admirers used to tell her, talked French as fluently as her native tongue; but she had a habit of telling white lies, which threw a blight over her fair prospects, and in the end destroyed her peace.
"'Mr. Stanton, the gentleman who had won her from a score of admirers, really believed her to be an angel. The possibility of her violating or falsifying her word had probably never occurred to him; for he had that high sense of honor which would have led him to forfeit his life rather than be guilty of an act of deception.
"'A French singer of rather questionable reputation just about that time came to the city, and attracted great crowds to her concerts. Miss Hill had a great desire to hear her; but, after listening to her friend's arguments against encouraging a person of such character, she declared nothing would tempt her to go. This was her first lie, for she meant to join a party the next evening; but how to deceive her lover was the question.
"'The next morning, with the help of a friend, the plan was made. She was to go early before the hour when he usually made his appearance, call for her chaperone in a carriage, leaving word with the servant that she had gone to pass the evening with a sick friend, and would not be at home till late. In order to make this excuse more plausible, Miss Hill wrote her lover an affectionate letter, regretting the necessity that deprived her of the pleasure of his company for the evening, adding, "I know that you would say duty is paramount in this case."
"'The carriage was at the door at the moment, and, giving extra charges to the girl to say nothing that could betray her, she hastened away to the brilliant scene.
"'Soon after, Mr. Stanton made his appearance with a carriage to take her to the E—House, where some valued friends had just arrived. He was exceedingly disappointed, as he had promised them, he would call with her. He read her note, and asked the girl in what street the sick friend lived.
"'"I don't know, exactly," she stammered at this unexpected question; "but it was somewhere out of town, for now I remember she took night clothes, and said if the lady was not better, she should be away a day or two."
"'"It is very unfortunate for me," he said, speaking to himself; "I would go anywhere for her, if you could learn where she is."
"'"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the girl. "Her father has gone, too, and nobody else in the house knows anything about it."
"'"This is strange!" he said, stepping into the carriage and giving orders to be driven back to the hotel. "I wonder she did not mention the name of the sick lady. Probably it is some near relative, as her father has accompanied her."
"'The evening was passed with his friends, and at a late hour, he was about to take his leave when a mutual friend entered.
"'He laughed heartily as he shook hands with Mr. Stanton, saying,—
"'"I have been playing the agreeable all the evening to Miss Hill, and merit your warmest thanks."
"'"Where, where did you see her?" was the eager inquiry.
"'"At Madame R—'s concert, of course. All the world was there to-night. To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised to see Miss Hill, knowing, as I did, your opinion of her concerts; but she appeared to have no scruples."
"'Mr. Stanton turned very pale at this reply, but in a moment controlled himself, and said, "Are you sure Miss Emily Hill was at Madame R—'s concert?"
"'"As sure as I am that I stand here," seriously replied the gentleman, perceiving this was no time for a joke. "I was in the same slip with her and Mrs. Jones who was her chaperone, and after the concert, waited upon her to their carriage. She excused your absence by saying you had a previous engagement which prevented your accompanying her."
"'"Enough," faltered Mr. Stanton; and rising soon after, he took a hasty leave of his friends.'"
THE LIAR ABANDONED.
"'THE night which followed was spent by Mr. Stanton in pacing the floor of his chamber; and the first dawn of the morning found him resolved upon an immediate termination of his connection with Miss Hill. He could not take to his heart one in whom he had no longer the least confidence. But the rupturing of this bond, which he had heretofore considered almost as sacred as marriage, made his noble heart sink within him.
"'At an early hour he called at Mr. Hill's. The servant was all smiles, and informed him that her mistress found her friend better, and returned late the previous evening. Stifling a groan at this new proof of duplicity, he asked her to inform Miss Hill that he wished to see her. She presently made her appearance, and, though rather startled at his pallor, exclaimed, gayly,—
"'"Wasn't I fortunate in being relieved so soon? I was able to return last evening."
"'"Emily," he said, in a tone which cut her to the heart, "I know all. It is unnecessary for you to burden your conscience with another falsehood. I know the story of a sick friend, of duty to her, is all a falsification. You passed the evening at Mrs. R—'s concert."
"'She sank back in a chair, blushing violently, while he, with great effort controlling himself, went on,—
"'"I loved you, Emily; but that love was based on a false estimate of your character. I believed you as pure in morals as you are beautiful in person. Yesterday, only yesterday, I would have taken your word against all the world; but now the illusion has passed away. We must part, Emily. You have ruined my happiness. If it were not for the recollection of my mother, you would have ruined my faith in your sex."
"'Miss Hill gasped for breath.
"'"I must be dreaming!" she exclaimed. "Surely, this cannot be true! You do not, cannot, mean to give me up just for one little white lie?"
"'"One white lie," he repeated, "has been enough to ruin my hopes of happiness forever: but you have done far more than that. You have proved yourself to be wholly lost to that rectitude which must be a ruling principle with my wife; you have not only told me, who trusted you so implicitly, many deliberate falsehoods, but you have taught your servant, also, to deceive me; even now you met me with a lie—call it white or black, as you please—on your lips."
"'He paused, overwhelmed with emotion.
"'"Try me! Try me!" she repeated, in agony. "I will never be guilty of even the smallest variation from the truth."
"'"It is too late—too late, now!" he murmured, hoarsely, pressing her cold hand. "But oh, Emily, remember hereafter how I have loved you; and when your lips would utter that which is false, call to mind a lonely wanderer, whom your crime has exiled from his country and home!"
"'They parted, and have never met since. Remember,' added the lady, 'all his suffering, all her years of sorrow, since that eventful morning, came from what she then considered an innocent deception.'"
"And what is she now?" I asked, when I had wiped away my tears.
"'She is a penitent Christian woman,' she answered. 'From that time, I do not believe she has ever deviated from the truth; but oh, what a fearful lesson is hers! I have seen her shudder when gay, thoughtless young ladies utter words which are totally false. I have told you this story, hoping you may profit by her experience.'"
The young girls were both startled when Mr. Saunders advanced slowly from the back parlor.
"I have heard your story," he said to the visitor. "I knew both Mr. Stanton and Miss Hill. The breaking off of their engagement occasioned much talk at the time. I never understood the cause till now, when I think him perfectly justified in the course he pursued. I hope, Alice, Miss Hill's experience will prove a most useful lesson to you. Lies show a mind and heart so degraded and mean that no beauty of person or polish of manner can, for any length of time, hide the deformity."
As I have before said, Mr. Saunders was most liberal in gratifying the wants of his children. He liked to see his house handsomely furnished, his table set with abundance and elegance, and his children dressed tastefully, even richly. When Alice came from school, he gave Aunt Clarissa a handsome sum of money, and requested her to replenish his daughter's wardrobe.
Wishing to outshine her companions in dress, the young miss begged for one or two articles which even Aunt Clarissa considered extravagant. Alice, however, was vain, and having been told how becoming they were to her particular style of beauty, determined in some way to obtain them. One was a richly embroidered velvet mantilla, not at all suitable for a girl in her teens, the other a love of a Paris bonnet, as she termed it, made of blue velvet and lace, with an exquisite white feather tipped with blue. The bonnet the milliner pronounced low at fifteen dollars, while the price of the mantilla was forty.
"I will have them charged," she said to herself, "and then save all my pocket-money until they're paid for."
The next Sabbath, the young girl, arrayed in a new lustrous silk, together with her bonnet and mantilla, appeared before her father to accompany him to church.
"Why, Alice! I scarcely recognized you," he said, starting back, actually dazzled by the beauty of her appearance. "Well," he added, after a moment, during which he surveyed her from head to foot with a most comical expression, "you certainly are decked out. I never saw your mother dressed so extravagantly in my life. Where did you get this, and this?" Touching with his finger the bonnet and mantilla.
"At Miles's, papa. They look rich; but they were very cheap."
"Well, I hope they are paid for. You know I don't allow a bill anywhere."
He spoke decidedly, aroused by a sudden suspicion.
"Oh, yes, sir. They are all paid for. Aunt Clarissa had the money, you know."
She looked full in his face as she made this reply; and he, quite satisfied, said he was ready, and it was time to go to church.
Alice heaved a sigh of relief. She had got over the interview much better than she expected; and so wholly was her conscience seared by a long course of deceit that she felt scarcely a pang when she thought of the ready falsehood by which she had obtained the coveted articles.
But the end was not yet. Day after day of the vacation glided away. The evening before she was to leave for school, her father returned home rather earlier than was his wont, and sending a servant to his daughter's room, desired her to join him in the parlor. He did this in order that he might be alone with her; for on several occasions his aunt had been present when he reproved his child, and had always taken her part, or suggested such ready excuses for her conduct, that his advice was entirely counteracted.
Alice came running down the stairs, humming a refrain from a favorite song. Her cheeks were tinged with the softest rose color, and the silken tresses lay lovingly upon them, while a pretty smile dimpled her small mouth.
As she entered the room, fully expecting to see a caller, her father stood and gazed at her; but no pleasure kindled his eye or heightened the color on his cheek. He was thinking how much to be preferred were the plainest features accompanied by true nobleness of heart! How mean, how degraded she appeared to him then, as he recalled his business with her!
"Papa," she said, softly, "did you send for me?"
"Yes, I did," was the brief reply.
They stood for a moment gazing at each other, and then, with a burst of feeling, he exclaimed,—
"Oh, my child! Will you never learn to trust your father?"
"I don't know what you mean," she answered, her cheek crimsoning.
He unfolded his pocket-book and took out a bill, which he held before her.
She started, and turned pale. "I did not mean you should ever see it," she said, quickly. "Indeed, papa, I meant to save all my spending money until I had paid it myself."
"Did your aunt know of this deception?" he asked, looking keenly in her face. "If you have not lost the power of speaking the truth, tell me, did Aunt Clarissa encourage this deceit? Remember, I am not in a mood to be trifled with!"
"No, sir!" was the faltering reply.
"How, then, did she suppose you obtained these expensive articles, entirely unsuited to your years?"
She was silent.
"Speak and speak the truth!" he said, in a loud, excited tone.
"I told her you gave them to me."
The words were almost inarticulate; but they reached his ears.
"Lie upon lie," he repeated, bitterly. "Oh, Alice, that I should ever live to bless the day your mother died! But this conduct would have killed her!"
He covered his face with his hands, while a few tears trickled down her cheeks. They were, however, tears of regret that her falsehood had been detected, and not tears of penitence for her sin.
"Bring the bonnet and mantilla to me," he said, presently. "Pack them in the boxes in which they came."
Astonished at such a command from her usually indulgent parent, Alice reluctantly obeyed.
"To-morrow morning these will be returned," he said, in a firm tone, after having satisfied himself that they were in no way injured.
"But they have been worn, papa," she began, the tears now flowing copiously.
He made no answer, and presently waved his hand for her to leave the room, but suddenly called her back to say, "You can unpack your trunks. I am satisfied Mrs. Lerow's influence over you has not been what I wished. I shall look out for a school of an entirely different character, where such finery would be out of place."
THE FATHER OF LIES.
BUT where all this time was Joseph, with whose story we commenced this book. In accordance with his aunt's advice, he had been sent to a day-school, and was, therefore, for six hours of every day under wholesome restraint. Miss Sanborn, an excellent young teacher, well-calculated to win not only the love but the respect of her pupils, soon discovered his habit of lying, and took every pains to correct it. But, young as he was, his lips had so thoroughly learned deceit that she could make no impression upon him.
Every day, at the close of the school, the children were required to give in their report as to their own conduct, or the teacher would ask them like this:—
"Joseph, have you whispered?"
"No, ma'am," was his invariable reply.
"In how many lessons have you been perfect?"
"In every one."
Even though he had repeatedly been sent to his seat to commit his lesson more thoroughly, he would not confess he had failed.
In vain she told him of his sin, and explained to him that he gained nothing by his lies; for a liar is not believed even when he speaks the truth. In vain she illustrated her meaning by stories from the Bible, and from her own observation; the habit had been formed almost before he could speak.
Aunt Clarissa lied to him when she told him the medicine was not bitter, and laughed, after he had swallowed it, at her success in deceiving him. Margaret lied when she promised to sit by him all the evening, and then slipped away when he had fallen asleep. Even his father lied when he threatened to punish disobedience to his commands, and then failed to execute the threat.
One day, when Joseph had been more than usually unruly and then insisted that he had broken no rules, the teacher detained him after the scholars were dismissed and tried to point out the wickedness of his conduct.
"Do you know, Joseph, who is the father of lies?" she asked, seriously.
"No, ma'am."
"It is the devil; who, the Bible says, goes about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour."
"I never saw him, so I guess he don't come to this town," the boy answered timidly.
"Yes, he has been in this room this afternoon. He was close by your elbow and whispered in your ear when you pinched Tommy and when you made such times at little Ellen, who complained that you had torn her book. And he was there again when you told me you had been a good boy. Didn't you hear the good spirit whispering, 'Oh, Joseph, don't tell a lie! God wont like it?' You have been very naughty indeed. It makes my heart ache when I remember that God, who never lies, who never in any way deceives us, has said, 'All liars shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone.'"
Joseph's attention was arrested. He was a bright boy, not wanting in quickness and apprehension, and after a moment's reflection, he said,—
"My Sister Ellen used to tell lies; but now she never does; Aunt Collins wrote about it. When I'm as large as Ellen, I shall leave off."
"But, my poor boy," cried the lady, tears filling her eyes, "you may not live to be as old; you may die this very night. Will you promise me you will try to be a truthful boy?"
He nodded his head.
A few days after this, Joseph ran and jumped on his father's knee.
"Papa, I want six cents," he exclaimed earnestly.
"What for, my dear?"
"To buy a new top. Eddie Lawson has one, and I want one like it."
The indulgent father gave him the money with a smile.
Joseph, however, had no idea of buying a top. He had been with his companion that morning into a store and had seen some cocoanuts of which he was very fond. He was sure if he asked for money to buy a cocoanut, he would be refused, because they always made him sick. He thought a cocoanut very cheaply obtained when he had only to tell one lie for it.
In the night, Mr. Saunders was aroused by a stealthy step coming into his chamber, and presently by Aunt Clarissa's voice saying,—
"Joseph seems very sick. I think you had better call the doctor."
The physician came just after the child had thrown from his stomach a quantity of indigestible matter.
"He has been in dreadful pain all night," remarked his aunt, who was holding his head.
"Well, he'll die one of these days, if you are not more careful what he eats," said the doctor, dryly. "He's had cocoanut again, which is rank poison to him."
"Joseph, have you eaten any cocoanut?" asked his father. "Tell me the truth, my boy, and I'll forgive you this time."
He shook his head.
"Pshaw, it's no use to try and deceive me," added the doctor, sternly. "Here it is in the basin."
With a groan of pain, the child commenced vomiting again.
"I should really like to know how much he ate," said the physician, pointing to pieces of the indigested food.
"I gave him money yesterday, to buy a top," gravely remarked Mr. Saunders. "He must have spent it for this."
"I didn't!" cried Joseph. "I didn't eat any!"
After administering a simple quietive, Dr. Long turned away, and, motioning the father from the room, said, abruptly,—
"Your boy will end his days on the gallows, if you don't correct his habit of lying."
As soon as Joseph was well, his father, having ascertained from the grocer that he had bought a cocoanut at his store, gave him a more severe punishing than he had ever received in his life, to make up for which Aunt Clarissa ordered the cook to bake him a nice little loaf of frosted cake, richly filled with raisins and citron.
The room where Joseph attended school was situated on one of the principal streets, just opposite a druggist's store. The front windows with their immense panes of cut glass, behind which were large jars filled with colored liquid presented a most attractive appearance, and Joseph, in common with his other companions, often paused in front of them.
The only objection Miss Sanborn had to her schoolroom was, that there was no yard adjoining, where the pupils could exercise at recess; and thus they were obliged to play in the street. Throwing ball was strictly forbidden, and rolling hoop was inconvenient to passengers, so that it required considerable invention to devise plays which would not be objectionable.
Among his companions there was not one Joseph liked so well as Dexter Russel, a boy near his own age, who resided in the same block. This child, the son of watchful Christian parents, was a lad of ardent temperament and quick passions, but of generous, noble impulses, and perfectly truthful. If, as often happened, he had been guilty of breaking his teacher's rules, when questioned concerning it:
"Dexter, did you whisper? Did you take a book without permission?"
His cheek would flush, and his eye be cast down, but he would reply frankly,—
"Yes, I did."
Joseph and Dexter had each of them a hard India-rubber ball, with which they sometimes amused themselves out of school-hours.
One afternoon, Miss Sanborn, having an engagement, hurried to her boarding-place, the moment her little ones were dismissed, leaving some of the boys in the street near the schoolroom.
"Don't go home yet," exclaimed Dexter. "Let's play awhile."
Joseph readily agreed, and each taking out his ball, they commenced throwing them upon the pavement, eager to see who could catch it, when it bounded, and keep it from falling longer than the other.
"Go away from here!" called out the druggist, coming to the door. "That's a dangerous game so near the windows."
The boys ran farther along, but presently, in the excitement of the play, ran back again laughing in great glee as they followed their balls.
But suddenly their mirth ceased. In order not to lose his throw, when a lady was passing him, Joseph unconsciously drew nearer the window, and, with a loud crash, the ball went through the large pane of glass into the druggist's shop.
The man rushed angrily to the door just in time to see Joseph running for home as fast as he could go, while Dexter, pale with fright, was gazing at the broken glass.
"Did you do that?" asked the merchant in a stern, excited voice.
"No, sir, it was not my ball; here is mine," said the lad, looking the man full in the face; "but it's my fault, though."
This reply so astonished the incensed druggist that he asked, in a less angry tone, "What do you mean?"
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"No, sir, it was not my ball."
"I asked him to play, sir. I'm real sorry! He was going home, but I asked him to play."
"Well, but who's to pay for my glass?"
"I'll give you all my spending money, sir!" cried Dexter, his cheeks flushing. "Will it cost a great deal, sir?"
"Yes, more than you'd have in a good many years. You know I told you to go away," he added, softening, as he saw the distressed, eager face looking into his so wistfully; "and I can't afford to buy glass for boys to break."
Dexter choked, but did not speak for a moment; at length he said,—
"My father promised to buy me a magic-lantern; would the money that would cost pay for it?"
Instead of answering, the man inquired,—
"Who was that boy with you?"
"Joseph Saunders."
"And he threw the ball?"
"Yes, sir; but he didn't mean to."
"Why didn't he come and say so, as you did?"
"I suppose he was afraid, sir," replied the boy, hesitating.
"Well, you may go now; and remember, I forgive your part of the blame because you so courageously confessed the truth."
The same evening, Joseph was sitting near his father, talking and laughing, when a ring of the door-bell summoned Mr. Saunders from the room. He came back presently, however, followed by the druggist's clerk, who said at once,—
"That's the boy, sir."
The father frowned, looked again at the bill, "For damages, one pane of cut glass, twenty dollars," and then turning to his son, said,—
"Why can't you learn to confide in your father? Why didn't you tell me what, you had done, Joseph?"
There was no reply.
"Haven't I forbidden you to throw a ball in the street? And now here is a bill of twenty dollars because you didn't obey me!"
"Who says I threw a ball?" Joseph's voice trembled.
"My master says so, and the boy playing with you saw you too."
"Tell the truth, Joseph; did you do it?" Mr. Saunders's voice was so stern the boy began to cry.
"No, sir, I didn't; it was Dexter. He asked me to play with him, and then his ball went right into the window."
With a sickening dread lest his only son was again deceiving him, the gentleman said,—
"Tell your master I will see to this in the morning. If my boy broke it, I shall, of course, pay for it; but I wish first to be sure of the fact."
As soon as the clerk was gone, Mr. Saunders took Joseph and went to Mr. Russel's. Dexter was just going to bed; but, at the gentleman's request, was called back to the parlor.
The father, who was closely watching his boy, saw that when his companion entered, smiling frankly, he looked very much confused.
"I want you to tell me all about Mr. K—'s glass. How did it happen to be broken?" said Mr. Saunders, after having cordially shaken the child's hand.
Dexter, without a moment's hesitation, and with his eye fixed on the gentleman's face, repeated minutely the events of the afternoon. Every word of which carried positive conviction of its truthfulness to the father's heart.
He looked at Joseph, when the story was finished, with such an expression of anger and contempt that the boy began to cry. At last he sobbed out,—
"I shouldn't have thought of playing if he hadn't asked me!"
The doctor's warning flashed across Mr. Saunders's mind but, making an effort to control himself, he patted Dexter's head fondly, saying, "You are a noble boy," and then, followed by Joseph, took his leave.
THE LIAR'S DEATH.
THE next morning, the money was paid; but for days, the poor mistaken father looked as if he had lost all his friends.
He talked long and earnestly with Aunt Clarissa, pointing out to her the result of all her foolish indulgence; but she was far from viewing it in as serious a light as he did. She urged that he was very young; that such habits would soon correct themselves when he was older; that she was sure the poor child meant no harm.
With a sigh he turned from her, feeling that it was hopeless to try and convince her of her error, and passed half the night in writing Mrs. Collins, and urging her to be a mother to his motherless boy.
After some weeks of struggle between inclination and what she feared was duty, she wrote that she would take Joseph into her family for a few months, but could not yet promise to do so for a much longer period. Before the arrangements could be made for his removal, however, a painful event occurred which prevented him from going to P—.
On his way to and from school, Joseph usually passed an old-fashioned wooden house, enclosed by a high board fence, which ran for a distance of twenty rods along the street. Within this enclosure was a dog-kennel inhabited by a large animal of the Newfoundland breed. Looking through a knot-hole in the fence, Joseph and Dexter often shouted to the dog to come out from his house; and once, when the butcher had left the gate ajar, they ventured in to examine more minutely the accommodations of Nero. A hoarse growl warned them to be cautions; but ever after, when they had an opportunity, they ran in for a minute to prove to him that they were his friends.
One day they were standing near the dog-kennel, when a gentleman in the house opened the window, and said,—
"Run away, little boys; Nero is cross and may bite you."
"He knows us," answered Dexter, frankly; "we often come to see him."
"Shut the gate fast, and don't come in again!" added the man, assuming a stern voice.
They turned away, with a lingering gaze at the dog and then reluctantly left, shouting "Good-by, Nero! Good-by!"
When the gentleman descended to the kitchen and said to the cook,—
"I wish you to see that the gate is kept fastened for a few days. Some little boys have been in the habit of coming in to see Nero, and may do so again."
She looked in the face of her usually kind master and was going to remonstrate, when, seeing his expression of decision, she refrained, and in a moment, he was gone.
When Joseph returned from school at noon, after a glance at the windows, he gently tried the gate, but found it bolted; but at night, a man happened to be carrying in something, and it was ajar.
"I mean to go right in," he said to Dexter; "I don't see that cross old man about anywhere."
"I don't want to," was Dexter's response; "'cause he told us we mustn't."
Joseph ran forward, muttering, "I don't care," but presently, with a loud scream of pain, fell to the ground. Nero had caught his leg and bitten it severely.
Dexter sprang forward to help his companion, when a strong arm caught him and placed him outside the enclosure. One glance showed him that the act was performed by the gentleman they had seen at the window, and that his face was deathly pale.
Joseph was not so much hurt but that in a few minutes, when the wound had been dressed, he was able to walk home accompanied by the gentleman, who seemed strangely agitated at the event.
As Mr. Saunders had not yet come in from his office, the stranger left, but returned in a few minutes with a distinguished surgeon, who, after a rapid examination of the wound, gave orders for fresh bandages, and directed that the door should be locked.
Aunt Clarissa was indignant, and began to remonstrate, when he cut her short by saying, curtly, "It is his only chance of life." For a few minutes the most piercing screams issued from the closed room, and in the midst of them, the father entered.
"Mr. Saunders," said the surgeon, when he was admitted to the side of his boy, "I am sorry to say your son has had a bite in the leg from a dog. It would be slight, however, were it not for the fears of the owner that the dog—is—mad."
The poor father staggered back, pale and trembling, when the stranger added,—
"I brought him home, and, knowing his only chance of life was that the wound be cauterized without delay, I summoned Dr.—, who has just completed the operation."
Mr. Saunders, pressing his hand to his forehead, rushed to the sofa where Joseph lay pallid and exhausted with suffering.
Before he left, the stranger stated that for a day or two, Nero, who was a great favorite in the family on account of having saved the life of a young brother, had acted so strangely that his suspicions were excited that all was not right; still, no symptom of madness had appeared. In the morning, he had seen two children in the yard, and had ordered them out, forbidding them to enter again, and he had also ordered the gate to be kept locked. With a countenance almost as agitated as that of the stricken father, he then took his leave.
Two days later, a note came from him which was as follows:—
"I regret most keenly being under the necessity of informing you that Nero, who, since the accident to your son, has been in confinement, has shown unmistakable signs of madness, and just been shot."
For more than a fortnight, however, no symptoms of hydrophobia appeared in the boy, and great hopes were entertained that the means taken by the surgeon had proved effectual.
But at the end of that period, he had a violent fit, which was followed by many others, until, at the close of the sixth week from the time he was bitten, he died, leaving his father a prey to the keenest grief and remorse, while Aunt Clarissa, half frantic with sorrow, wandered from room to room, wringing her hands and calling to Joseph to:
"Come back! Come back!"
Alice, who had been placed under the care of a lady who superintended the education of a dozen young misses, was recalled for the funeral. Her father was somewhat comforted in his affliction by seeing that her brother's death seemed to make a great impression upon her usually volatile mind. During the few days she remained with him after the funeral, he had many grave conversations with her regarding her future, representing to her that, now Joseph had been taken away, all his comfort for this life depended on her and her sister.
"I look forward," said he, warming with the subject, "with pleasant anticipations to a calm old age, brightened by the attentive care of my virtuous daughters. If I may be permitted to live," he added, with more seriousness, "to see them, like their mother, adorning the station to which God shall call them, I shall be happy indeed. But remember, Alice," taking her hand affectionately, "your mother was a Christian lady. Since Joseph died, I have reflected much, and with bitter regret, that I have not more faithfully performed the duties of a father." He paused, much agitated, but presently added, "Oh, Alice! I hope you may never give me occasion to mourn over my fond, foolish indulgence to you as I have mourned for your brother!"
Alice was affected at her father's words, and made a resolve to be more dutiful and regardful of his wishes. But she made it in her own strength; we shall see whether she kept it.
For a time, the sight of Dexter, so intimately associated with Joseph, was exceedingly painful to Mr. Saunders and to Aunt Clarissa; but after Alice had returned to school, they found their house so lonely that they begged Mrs. Russel to allow him to run in and out as he used to do. After this, the old lady tried her best to spoil the boy.
LYING CURED.
TO return to Ellen. As soon as Joseph was taken ill, Mr. Saunders wrote his sister-in-law, relating minutely the circumstances, and leaving it with her to decide whether his daughter should return.
Dr. Collins peremptorily said, "No; let the child stay where she is. Aunt Clarissa would do her more harm in a fortnight than the good she would be likely to gain by being present at such a scene."
Ellen wrote her father very affectionate, sympathizing letters, begging him to send her word when there was the least change for the worse. Every morning she walked hastily to the office, her young heart heaving with anxiety, lest she should learn that her dear little brother was dead. She had begun to pray now, and with her whole soul, she begged for a blessing on her brother,—that his sins might be forgiven, and he prepared for heaven before his last change should come.
"Oh, how I wish Aunt Collins could have had the care of him!" she exclaimed one morning, with a burst of tears, returning from the office with the intelligence that the poor boy's life was fast drawing to a close. "How can I endure to have him die so?"
"You must pray, and pray earnestly, dear cousin," replied Mary. "God is both able and willing to bless the poor boy. His Spirit can work on the heart of the dear sufferer even when, to those around him, he may appear unconscious."
"I can't help thinking that I might have been taken. If I had died before I came here, while I was so wicked, oh, it makes me shudder to think what might have become of me!"
Mary put her arm tenderly about her cousin, and murmured, softly,—
"We ought to be thankful, dear, if anything leads us to review God's dealings with us; and to call to mind his many mercies."
"Do you think, Mary, I shall ever be a Christian?" sighed Ellen, hiding her face in her cousin's shoulder.
"Yes, darling; I think you have already begun to walk the strait and narrow road. You love to pray; and I feel sure you have chosen Jesus as your Saviour."
"But you know, Mary, how many things I do that are wrong every day. I thought when I had become a Christian, that it would be so easy to do right. I have such a quick temper, too, that I speak before I think."
Mary smiled encouragingly. "I think," she said, "you have governed yourself bravely of late."
"No, I haven't! Only yesterday I was real downright angry with Margaret when she wouldn't iron my white apron in season for me to wear it to school. You know all our class had aprons alike with pockets, and all braided the same pattern; and we had agreed to wear them together." Ellen's face flushed as she recalled her disappointment. "Yes, I was really angry, and felt like calling her a hateful, disobliging old girl!"
"But, instead of that, you controlled yourself and returned good for evil, by giving up a pleasant walk, to write a letter for her to her aged mother in Ireland. Do you think you would have done that when you first came here? Or, could you have done so now if the good Spirit had not aided you?"
Ellen laughed through her tears, saying,—
"I think I should once have scratched her face for her; but, Mary, do Christians ever feel angry? I never saw you, nor aunt, nor uncle vexed."
"You make me ashamed of my short-comings," said Mary, blushing. "I think as you have acknowledged your fault so freely, I must step into the confessional box, and say that I overheard your talk with Margaret about the apron, and after you left, reproved her sharply for disappointing you. I think she did very wrong; if I had known about it in season, I would have ironed it for you. I have heard mother say that I had naturally a passionate temper; but as I was taught to curb it from my earliest infancy, it has become easy to do so. You deserve far more credit than I do."
The tidings of Joseph's death came at last.
Mr. Saunders wrote his sister, who broke the sad intelligence to her niece in as cautious a manner as possible. Though the event had been expected for days, yet Ellen wept as if wholly unprepared for it.
"Is he happy now? Has he joined mother in heaven?" were questions ever recurring for the next few days.
Mrs. Collins wept with her niece, begging her to leave her dear brother where she had left herself,—in the hands of a merciful and forgiving God.
"Remember, dear Ellen," she said, "that your mother was a Christian woman, who early dedicated her son to his Saviour. What may those prayers not have done for him even in the last moments of his life?"
This was the saddest hour Ellen had ever known,—warm and ardent in her attachments to an extreme. Now that Joseph had gone, she tortured herself with thinking how little she had ever labored for his best good.
"If I had done my duty, had been a truthful, obedient child," she would exclaim, with a fresh burst of grief, "this dreadful sorrow would never have come upon us! Now father has no son, and I have no brother."
"Except Frank," murmured Mary. "We have all adopted you, darling."
The impulsive girl put her arms around her cousin's neck, and embraced her tenderly.
It was not, however, until Frank's return from school, that Ellen regained her wonted cheerfulness.
Dr. Collins made a great pet of her; and the first time he saw her smile in return to some sally of wit from his son, he said that a ton's weight seemed lifted off his breast.
"I miss my birdie's merry songs," he said, tapping her cheek. "Now that you are beginning to look like yourself, I shall hope to hear them again."
Frank's presence had a cheering effect on the whole finally. He had so much to relate about his school, and told his jokes in such a dry, off-hand manner, that no one could help laughing.
There were times, however, when he and Ellen sat together in the bay window, that he listened tearfully to her account of her brother,—how bright and intelligent he was; how capable under Aunt Collins's care, of becoming a useful man,—and showed her that with all his heart, he sympathized in her sorrow.
"But, Ellen," he added, one night after she had related many events in Joseph's early life, "you have a brother still. As long as I live, I will take care of you."
"Thank you, dear Frank," she answered, warmly; "but you know father will need me soon. I must go home and finish my education in the city."
"Then I wish you had never come at all!" he exclaimed, throwing her hand petulantly from him. "I thought you would stay here always; your father has Alice."
"And Uncle Collins has a wife and Mary and a passionate boy," Ellen answered, laughing. "When I'm gone, you'll be sorry you treated my poor hand so badly."
The youth gazed a moment in his cousin's face, then left the room without speaking.
I do not mean to give the impression that Ellen had changed suddenly from a passionate, deceitful child to a yielding, truthful one. She still had many faults to overcome, some of which sorely tried the patience of her good aunt: but the influences around her were all in her favor, and she was trying to do right.
The suffering and mortification sue endured during the first weeks of her residence with her aunt fixed indelibly on her mind the sin of lying as well as the happiness resulting from perfect truthfulness. More than all, Ellen, having learned by sad experience the weakness as well as the sinfulness of her own heart, sought strength from above to resist all temptation to do evil. Every day she witnessed in the conduct of a schoolmate the sad consequences of lying, and was more than ever resolved to guard carefully the door of her lips lest her mouth should utter deceit.
Josey Maxwell was an only child, indulged in every wish that her foolish little heart could form. At last her mother was taken sick and died, leaving her daughter to the care of the old housekeeper. This woman soon grew tired of her whims and caprices, and in the absence of her father, sent her to school. There she was under restraint, which soon grew so irksome that she resorted to every means to evade it.
With the most unblushing effrontery, she told falsehood after falsehood to her teacher as an excuse for not learning her lessons. Sometimes she had been suffering from severe headache, or her book was lost, or the housekeeper wished her to go away on an errand, or a letter from her father required an immediate answer. But on inquiring at home, the teacher found not one of these excuses had any foundation in fact. Then, in her reports, she could not be trusted; and so hardened was she by her guilt that she scarcely seemed to feel any mortification when a schoolmate was appointed over her to render a report in her place. At last she was expelled from school, the teacher fearing her corrupt example would have a bad effect on her associates.
A few days later, Ellen was walking slowly past Mr. Maxwell's handsome house in the village, when Josey came out and greeted her in the most cordial manner. The young girl was quite handsome, and, when so disposed, could render herself very agreeable. She urged Ellen to go in and see her, and our young friend, hoping to do her good, after a moment's hesitation, complied.
An hour or two was passed in talking of the school and then Ellen came frankly to the point of Josey's want of candor, begging her, by what she had herself suffered, to turn from so wicked a habit, and try the beauties of sincerity and truth.
At first, Josey looked very angry, but for reasons of her own, did not wish to show it; and concealing her true feelings, urged her companion to visit her often.
"I should like to," was the frank reply, "I thought I could influence you to become good. If I had not been sent to a kind friend like Aunt Collins, I don't know what would have become of me."
"Well," said Josey, "I'll promise to do as you wish me, if you will grant me one favor. Don't tell anybody you have been to see me; or if you do, don't say what we have talked about."
Ellen mused for a moment.
"I always tell aunt everything," she said; "and she'll wonder where I've been. I'll promise not to tell unless I am asked; and certainly, I need not say what our conversation has been."
They parted, our young heroine sanguine as to the reformation of her former schoolmate.
LIES OF MALIGNITY.
IT was near a fortnight later that one evening Miss Granby, the teacher, called at Dr. Collins's. Ellen, who ran joyfully to the door to meet her, noticed that she was unusually grave.
"I called to see you on business," said the lady when Mrs. Collins entered the parlor.
Ellen instantly rose to leave the room, blushing violently as she did so. There was something in Miss Granby's manner which she could not understand.
"I wish you would not leave the house," added the teacher, seriously; "I wish to talk with you before I go."
"What can it mean?" the young girl asked herself, retiring to her favorite seat in the bay window. "Perhaps something has happened at home, and they are afraid to tell me."
It was scarcely ton minutes before she heard her aunt speaking in a loud, excited manner.
"It can't be true," she said, in a positive tone.
"Call her and see what she will say," was the reply, in Miss Granby's voice.
The next moment she was standing before them in the parlor.
"Ellen," said her aunt, gazing searchingly in her face, "your teacher has heard some strange rumors about you; but I think you can explain everything fully to my satisfaction. She says you have visited Josey Maxwell."
Ellen started and grew very red, which was not unnoticed by either lady.
"That while there you talked against your teachers, and some of your schoolmates, whose conduct you called too strict; that you mimicked Miss Granby's words and tone; that you complained of being unhappy here, everybody was so pious, and declared your intention of writing to your father to take you home; worse than all, it is reported that you talked in an indelicate and improper manner of a young man, whose name Miss Granby cannot recollect. Now, what do you say to all this, my dear?"
While Mrs. Collins had been speaking, Ellen twitched her hand from her aunt and stood quivering with passion, looking defiantly in her teacher's face.
"It's all a lie,—a wicked lie!" she exclaimed, with more passion than her aunt had ever seen in her before. "I never thought of mimicking my teacher or making fun of her in any way; I told Josey—" She checked herself in great confusion and then went on. "I couldn't talk against her, for I always loved her before to-day. You know, aunty, that I love you and Uncle Collins and all the family dearly; and that I never was so happy as since I came to live with you. All I ever said about writing to father was to beg him to come and live here too."
Miss Granby pursed up her mouth, and looked unconvinced; but Mrs. Collins said, soothingly,—
"Don't get excited, Ellen; I believe all you say. Now what is it about the young man?"
"I don't remember any young man being mentioned."
"Then you do acknowledge going to visit Josey after she was dismissed in disgrace from the school, and that, too, without the consent of your aunt?"
The tone was slightly exultant, and grated harshly on Mrs. Collins's ears.
"Yes, I did go. I'll tell you sometime, aunt, how it happened."
"And what did you talk about?"
Ellen burst into tears.
Mrs. Collins looked astonished; Miss Granby, confirmed in her worst opinion.
"Try to control yourself, my poor child," said the former, leading Ellen to a chair, and laying her hand on the hot temples. "I feel quite confident that you meant to do right. Take time, and tell us what was said during your visit."
"I can't! I can't! I mustn't tell; it would be a lie!"
"You see, now, that I was right," urged the teacher, sitting very erect, and smiling unpleasantly. "If there were no wrong, there would be no concealment."
Ellen, uncovering her face, saw that her aunt was very pale; and, with a cry of anguish, screamed out,—
"She is making you hate me! You are beginning to believe her! Oh, dear! But I'll go to Uncle Collins. He will be my friend, and Frank will know I'm not guilty!" And, with a fresh burst of grief, she rushed from the room.
Her aunt immediately followed her and, by caresses, sought to convince the poor child that her confidence was unimpaired. When she had somewhat soothed her, they went back to the parlor where Miss Granby sat firm and unbending. She was a good woman; but her dignity had been deeply wounded by the liberties taken with her name; and fully believing in her pupil's guilt, she took no pains to conceal her feelings.
The doctor's gig at this moment drove into the yard; and Ellen, who heard his voice, said, eagerly,—
"There's uncle! Mayn't I ask him to come in?"
The gentleman presently made his appearance and gazed inquiringly at one and another, as if waiting for an explanation of the scene.
"Uncle," cried Ellen, "if I make a promise not to tell anything, wont it be a lie if I should tell?"
"Certainly; or, rather, it would be breaking your promise."
"I went to Josey Maxwell's once. I used to know her at school; and I felt very sorry for her disgrace, because I couldn't help thinking that I—you know."
"Yes, pet, I know."
"One day I was walking by, and she came out and urged me to go in. I thought at first I wouldn't, and then—" She leaned forward and whispered in her uncle's ear.
"Very right; very well, child."
"I stayed a good while, and when I come away, Josey promised to do what I had been asking her, if I would promise not to tell that I had called there, and what we had been talking about. I promised the first unless I was asked, and said certainly I wouldn't tell the last."
"Now," said Mrs. Collins, "there are sad reports concerning that visit, all of which Ellen indignantly denies."
"But not quite to my satisfaction, I must confess," added the teacher, with a forced smile.
"From whom do these reports come?"
"I have traced them to Josey herself."
"Will you repeat them?"
She did so without a word of comment.
"Pshaw such stories are simply absurd. We know our Ellen too well to believe such nonsense. She has become a truthful girl, Miss Granby; and it will take a good deal more than the testimony of a miss who has been convicted of lying as often as Josey Maxwell has, to make me doubt her word."
"If there was nothing wrong in the conversation," murmured the lady, "what motive could there have been for concealment?"
"Ellen, look me in the face," said her uncle, in his abrupt way. "Was there anything in the conversation alluded to which you would be ashamed to tell me or your aunt?"
"Oh, no, indeed, sir! I was only—Yes, now I do remember a boy's name; it was Hiram Jenkins, at the store. I was—But I mustn't repeat it. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go right away with you to Josey's house and ask her to let me tell you."
"Yes, that will do finely. Miss Granby, I make a request that you will remain here till I return."
Not a word was spoken during the short ride, though the doctor could see how closely every variation in his countenance was watched by the excited child.
Unfortunately, Josey was away from home for a visit of a week, and the explanation was, therefore, necessarily postponed.
"I wish I might tell you, uncle," said Ellen, when she had again squeezed herself into her seat beside the doctor in his buggy. "I couldn't think why she should wish to keep it secret."
Mrs. Collins was greatly disappointed. "Not on my own account," she said, "but in order to satisfy Miss Granby that our confidence in Ellen is deserved."
"You and I are satisfied; aren't we, pet?" added the merry doctor, tapping her cheek.
"I'm sorry Miss Granby don't believe me," faltered the poor child, after a glance into the teacher's uncompromising face.
"That is not of the slightest consequence," the doctor began, when, meeting a cautionary glance from his wife, he added, "compared with the approval of your own conscience. Miss Granby does not know you as well as we do, or she would not have been so ready to believe a report coming from such a source."
The teacher suddenly remembered that Dr. Collins was chairman of the school committee, and that her capabilities as an instructor might be questioned after this. She made an awkward attempt to justify the proceeding and then took her leave.
The half-hour passed at the supper table was usually a merry one; but on this occasion, no one seemed disposed to talk. Ellen ate mechanically, her thoughts appearing absorbed in a reverie; and Mary, who had heard what had passed, having been especially requested by her mother not to allude to the subject for the present.
The doctor, having listened to all the particulars of the teacher's visit, had ventured the remark to his wife that personal pique at hearing herself ridiculed had prompted the interview,—that he was mistaken in the woman, having always before considered her a person of good sense.
At last Ellen broke the silence by exclaiming,—
"And I loved her so dearly!"
"Loved whom, pet?"
"Miss Granby. Uncle, will you go to Mr. Maxwell's when Josey comes home?"
"I'll see about it."
The next morning, Ellen was learning her lessons as usual, after a great struggle in her own room for grace to forgive her teacher's unkind looks, when her aunt said,—
"I'll hear your recitations to-day, my dear. Go on and commit them as usual."
Ellen embraced her aunt in a rapturous manner.
"How could anybody believe I wanted to go away from this dear home," she said, eagerly, "when you are such a darling mother to me."
Still Ellen did not seem quite happy. Several times during the day her aunt saw her sitting lost in thought. She was wondering what motive could have induced Josey to tell such dreadful lies about her, and whether her innocence would ever be proved. Another thing also troubled her. She was afraid that she had indulged in anger toward her teacher and that God was displeased. Even now she found it difficult to say, "I can forgive her;" how, then, could she repeat the Lord's Prayer, "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors"?
On the Sabbath, Ellen passed Miss Granby in the porch, and though blushing painfully, held out her hand as usual to the lady. Mrs. Collins was deeply grieved to see that the teacher took no notice of the friendly salutation.
The next afternoon, the doctor in driving from one patient to another, stopped at the house and beckoned Ellen, who sat at the window, to come to the door.
"Tell your aunt," he said, "that she is to have company to tea. The lady will be here about five, and I'll try to be at home by that time."
The doctor and his guest came up the yard together. He was in high spirits, while the lady looked anxious.
Ellen ran to the door to meet her uncle and give him her usual kiss of welcome. Miss Granby bowed rather stiffly.
After tea, the doctor ushered his company into the parlor, and then began in rather a formal manner,—
"I have seen Miss Josey—"
"Oh, uncle, I'm so glad—"
"Hush, pet! I have the floor now. I saw the young lady. I had considerable difficulty in bringing her to the point, but finally overcame her objections, and prevailed on her to put her confession in writing. Here it is, and I do not hesitate to declare the statements she made regarding Ellen as lies of first-rate malignity; lies which any person acquainted with our pet could scarcely credit."
He passed the paper to his wife, who read as follows:—
"I, Josey Maxwell, do hereby confess that every word I reported concerning the conversation that passed between Ellen Saunders and myself was false,—that I told the story because I hated her for being a favorite among the scholars; and for reporting that I whispered in the class; and because she talked to me on the subject of lying. It was for the same reason I made her promise not to relate what had passed between us, from which promise she is now free."JOSEY MAXWELL."
It was curious to watch the countenance of Ellen as her aunt read the above. Joy, surprise, and contempt expressed themselves by turn on her beaming face. At the close, she heaved a great sigh of relief, and clasping her hands, said, softly,—