The Blue Socks; or, Count the Cost

GREAT BEGINNINGS.

"OH, mother! Will you please give me some money, this minute? I want to go right down and get some yarn, so that I can begin to-night. And, mother, will you show me how to set it up?"

This was said by a very pretty little girl, about twelve years old. She had, apparently, just come in from school, for she still wore her hat and coat, while her satchel of books lay on the floor by her side, and her luncheon-basket dangled from her hand. Her mother sat on the sofa, busily engaged in cutting out animals and birds in paper for the amusement of another child, a sickly, deformed little creature, about two years younger than Henrietta.

Mrs. Laurens delayed her answer for a moment, as she carefully shaped the bill of the parrot then under her hand; and Henrietta stamped her little foot impatiently.

"Say, mother, won't you?"

"Won't I do what, Hetty? I should like to know the whole story, before I give my consent. You have not told me why you want yarn, nor what it is you want me to set up. It would really save a good deal of my time and yours, if you would learn always to begin at the beginning of a story."

Hetty coloured a little.

"Well, mother, I will. The girls at school are all going to knit socks for the soldiers. Miss Armitage talked to us about it this afternoon, and we are all going to knit one pair."

"What! Fifty girls all going to knit one pair of socks! What a curious pair it will be!"

"Mother, I do wish you wouldn't laugh when I am in earnest. Of course I mean that we are each going to knit one pair before Christmas—that will be fifty pairs of socks—only think, mother, fifty pairs! But I mean to knit two or three pairs myself, and so does Minny Granger. And, mother, only think! Elsie Probert would not promise to knit any! She said she must think about it, and ask her mother, because she did not know whether she should find time. I guess I would find time, if I had to sit up all night; and so I told her: wouldn't you, mother? I shall never like Elsie again, if she is not willing to work for the poor soldiers."

"Why, my child, you are coming to conclusions very hastily, as usual. Elsie did not say that she was not willing: she said she must think about it, and ask her mother—which was quite right. Elsie has more to do at home than either you or Minny Granger."

"Yes, I know that, because they keep only one servant; and I don't believe she is a very good one, either, for Mrs. Probert and Elsie work a great deal themselves. And, mother, Minny says that on washing-days, Mrs. Probert gets the dinner herself, for she has seen her going in and out of the kitchen-door, and even carrying kettles. Minny says she should think Mr. Probert would send his daughter to a public school, and not to a select school like Miss Armitage's, where only girls of the first families go—and such an expensive school, besides. You know he is only a book-keeper."

"You speak very improperly, my daughter," said Mrs. Laurens, with more severity than was at all common with her. "I shall forbid your having any thing to do with Minny, if she fills your head with such ideas. What business is it of hers or yours what Mrs. Probert does on washing-days or other days? She is a cultivated and lady-like woman, and Elsie is one of the sweetest little girls I know. Let me hear no more of such gossip."

Hetty coloured and pouted; but she was too strongly bent upon gaining her point to indulge in a fit of temper just then.

"Well, but, mother, about the yarn? May I go and get some, and begin to-night?"

"Do you think you would finish a pair of socks, if you began them, Hetty?"

"Why, yes, mother, of course. Didn't I tell you I meant to knit two or three pairs?"

"I know you did, my daughter; but 'saying' is one thing, and 'doing' another. However, I am willing you should make the trial, on two or three conditions."

"I hate conditions," said Hetty, aside, and in a low voice.

"On two or three conditions," continued her mother. "First, you shall knit them all yourself."

"Of course! I wouldn't have any one else touch them for the world!"

"Secondly, you shall not neglect your practising, nor any other of your ordinary duties.

"Thirdly, you shall go and put away all your school-things neatly, and then wait patiently till Cecy has had her luncheon and Peter is ready to carry her out. Then I will go down with you and buy the yarn."

"Why can't I go and buy it now, mother?"

"Because, my dear, you know nothing about yarn, and you might get what was very unsuitable to the purpose. Now begin by putting away your books, dress yourself neatly, and mend that hole in your glove."

Hetty pouted, and murmured something to herself; but she saw that her mother was decided, and, gathering up her things, she withdrew to her own room.

Little Cecy's large gray eyes had wandered wonderingly from her mother's face to her sister's during this dialogue, but she had not said a word. Now, however, that Hetty was out of the way, she asked, in her slow, hesitating manner,—

"What does Hetty mean, mother?"

"Hetty wants to knit some warm socks for the soldiers, my dear. You know winter is coming soon, and the poor soldiers' feet will be very cold, unless they have warm woollen stockings to wear under their boots: so a great many ladies are knitting socks to send them. You recollect I told you that all the soldiers were going to the South to fight the rebels. Don't you remember how Cousin Charles came to bid you good-by and show you his uniform and sword?"

"I remember," said Cecy. "But, mother, if the rebels want to go away and have a country by themselves, why don't they let them? It would be a great deal less trouble."

"Cecy," said her mother, "do you remember when we were down on the beach last summer, how little Cousin Harry wanted to sit out on the rock and watch the ships?"

"Oh, yes; and aunt would not let him. She called him, and he would not come, and when she went to lead him away, he lay down on the sand and kicked it up and screamed. Then aunt sent for Peter to take him up in his arms and carry him in."

"Why did not aunt let Harry stay out on the rock as long as he pleased? It would have been a great deal less trouble."

Cecy opened her eyes wide. "Why, mother, he would have been drowned, because the waves came up all over the rock that day. We could hardly see where it was. It was one of the days when the water came up high."

"Well, Cecy, it would be a great deal less trouble 'at first' to let the rebels have their own way, but by-and-by it would cause a great deal more, not only to us, but also to them, and wise people think it would end in our being entirely ruined. So the Government wishes to bring them to obedience, just as Aunt Mary did Harry. That is what the soldiers have gone for. Do you understand now?"

"Yes, mother, I think I do." Cecy was silent for a few minutes, and then sighed deeply.

"What makes you sigh, dear?" asked her mother.

"I was thinking, mother, how much I wished I could do something for the soldiers."

"So do I, my love; but I am afraid you could not knit. You know you tried to sew last summer, and it made your poor shoulder ache sadly."

"I know it, mother." And Cecy sighed again, and remained silent a while longer.

Then, as a new thought struck her, she brightened up a little.

"Mother," she said, in a low voice, "will you teach me a prayer to say for the soldiers, as well as for Uncle David and Cousin Charles?"

"Yes, my dear child," replied her mother, kissing her tenderly.

"That will be helping a little, won't it, mother?"

"A great deal, Cecy. No one can tell how much good it will do. Now you must have your luncheon, and then, as it is such a fine day, Peter shall take you out for a good, long walk, while I go with Hetty to buy the yarn."

Mrs. Laurens was a widow, and Henrietta and Cecelia, or Hetty and Cecy, as they were more commonly called, were her only children. She had married early in life, had abundance of this world's goods, her children were bright and healthy, and her husband the kindest of men. For six years she had lived in an earthly paradise, but then came a dark cloud.

Mr. Laurens was in the habit of spending every summer in the country or on the sea-shore. One afternoon he had been out with his wife, to try a horse which he had just purchased. The animal, though spirited, seemed exceedingly well broken, and, as they returned, Mr. Laurens, seeing Cecy, then two years old, standing on the steps with her nurse, said, gayly,—

"Now Cecy shall have a ride all alone with father, like a grown-up woman."

Cecy of course was delighted. Mrs. Laurens had perfect confidence in her husband's driving, and saw them set out without fear, while she walked to a neighbour's to bring home Henrietta, who had keen spending the day with a little playmate. On her return, she was met with the terrible news that the horse had run away and overset the chaise, and that her husband and child were even then being brought home in a dying condition. Mr. Laurens was dead before he reached the house, and it was some hours before Cecy gave any but the faintest signs of life.

At last, however, and by slow degrees, she revived. But it was not till many days afterwards that the whole of the sad story was known, and it was discovered that the little girl's spine was so injured that she must remain a cripple for life. For a long time it was feared that the shock had completely destroyed her mind, but, under her mother's unremitting care and watchfulness, she recovered. She was slow in thinking or speaking, and seldom talked much, except to her mother and one other person. She was very fond of her sister, and in general liked to be with her, but Henrietta was by nature hasty and impetuous, and found it hard to tone down her spirits to poor Cecy's minor key; and truth compels me to say that she was not seldom impatient with the poor child, for not being able to think as fast as herself. Then Cecy would cry, and bring on one of her fits of nervous exhaustion, and there was an end of all pleasure, or even comfort, for the day.

Our readers must not infer from what we have said that Hetty was altogether a bad child. She was warmhearted and affectionate, full of good impulses, and even conscientious. That is to say, when convinced that she had done wrong, she was very sorry, and made many good resolutions for the future, which she kept very well so long as she had no particular temptation to break them. Her mother was necessarily so much taken up with poor, suffering, helpless Cecy that she was not able to give as much time as she could have wished to Hetty; but she did the best she could for her, in sending her to an excellent school, and in checking her graver faults as they appeared.

Elsie Probert had always been Hetty's most particular school-friend. They had studied together, walked together, dressed their dolls together, and sat in the same class in Sunday-school, ever since they were three years old. Elsie fully believed Hetty to be almost perfection, and Hetty entertained the same opinion of Elsie. But of late, a cloud had come between these two friends,—a cloud small at first, but which grew larger and thicker every day.

A new scholar had come to Miss Armitage's school, in the person of Minny Granger. Minny's father was immensely rich, and she was an only child,—the undoubted heiress of three or four hundred thousand dollars at the very least. Her mother was a weak-minded, half-educated woman, very proud of her husband's wealth, her diamonds, her own beauty and that of her daughters, and last, not least, of that mysterious something called a social position. She found it hard to believe that a woman who kept only one servant or perhaps none at all, whose husband was a clerk or a retail grocer, who opened the door herself to visitors, or even, as in Mrs. Probert's case, cooked her husband's dinner upon occasion, could be as much a lady in feeling and taste as herself; and it may be doubted whether she did not in her heart consider mechanics and day-labourers as of a different and inferior species.

Minny had been brought up with the same ideas. She had also been indulged in an almost unlimited amount of pocket-money, which she spent with reckless profusion. The girls were daily amazed at the amount of chocolate cream-drops, cocoanut-cakes and caramels which she brought to school with her luncheon, and which—to do her justice—she was always ready to share. Moreover, she had vast stores of the finest stationery, which she gave away as readily as she did her eatables, and a whole library of story-books, which she was always ready to lend: so it was no wonder that she soon found herself surrounded with a large party of devoted adherents.

Of these Elsie had not been one. She had never quite liked Minny from the first. There was something in almost every sentence she uttered, which grated on Elsie's lady-like sensibilities, and this alone would have prevented their becoming intimate. But after a time, other traits began to show themselves, which turned indifference into positive dislike and distrust. Elsie was not jealous nor suspicious in her nature, but she could not help seeing that Minny was greedy, not only of sweetmeats and confectionery, but also of applause and admiration, and that she was by no means scrupulous in her methods of obtaining what she desired. She accepted help in her drawings and her French exercises from those more skilful than herself, did not hesitate to look into her book at recitation, if she were sure of not being observed, and, as Elsie strongly suspected, drew her compositions from some other source than her own brain. She was rude and overbearing in her manners to little girls and those whom she fancied not quite her equals. And Elsie noticed that, though she was very ready to give away what she had in more abundance than she could possibly use, she never made the slightest sacrifice of her own wishes or comfort to the convenience of others.

Hetty, however, saw none of these defects. Dazzled by Minny's beauty, and always fond of novelty, she soon plunged into the most devoted and exclusive friendship with the newcomer. Hetty and Minny walked together to and from school, played together at recess, and exchanged confidential little notes and mysteriously significant looks at all times; and Elsie found herself gradually but decidedly "left out." Hetty, indeed, would willingly have included her at first, but Minny demurred. She saw that she had failed to influence Elsie as she had influenced Hetty. Conscious that all she did would not bear inspection, she fancied that Elsie watched her, and, as she told Hetty, she had no idea of being intimate with everybody's daughters because she happened to go to school with them. She did not see, for her part, how such a girl as Elsie came to be there at all. The public school was the place for her, and, if her mother had any sense, she would send her there.

Elsie really loved Hetty dearly, and of course she could not see without pain the direction things were taking. At first she accused herself of jealousy and suspicion; but as days passed, it became more and more clear that she had not only ceased to be necessary to Henrietta, but that she could not join in the conversations and walks of the two girls without casting a damper upon their intercourse, and even being treated decidedly as an intruder by at least one of the pair.

Elsie was gentle and loving by nature, but she was also self-respecting and somewhat proud, and she could not help being deeply grieved at seeing preferred to herself a girl who was her inferior in every thing but wealth and beauty.

She withdrew herself as far as possible from Minny's society, and waited, hoping that Hetty's eyes would, after a while, be opened to the character of her new friend, and that then she would return to her old one. So far this hope had not been fulfilled. Hetty and Minny grew more and more intimate every day. It was plain that Hetty was coming to regard outside show as of more importance than any thing else; and Elsie could not help fancying that her friend was ashamed of her economical dress and plain straw hat, and would rather not be seen in the street with her. Such was the state of things at the commencement of our story.

As soon as Mrs. Laurens had seen Cecy duly wrapped up and deposited in Peter's sturdy arms for her promenade, she put on her own bonnet, and accompanied Hetty to look for some yarn. Hetty was all impatience, and would have taken the first that presented itself, but Mrs. Laurens persisted in her search till she found some that was both strong enough to wear well and soft enough to be agreeable to the feet. Hetty was rather dissatisfied that her mother bought only one skein.

"This will do for a beginning, my love," said Mrs. Laurens, smiling. "There is no fear that all the yarn in town will be used up. If you finish one pair in season, I shall think you do very well."

Suitable needles being procured, they returned home. Hetty, as usual, was all eagerness to begin, and could hardly wait to put away her bonnet.

"Are all your lessons learned for to-morrow?" asked her mother.

"Yes, mother,—no mother,—not quite. All but a little Roman history; and that is so easy, I can learn it before I go to school in the morning."

Her mother decided, however, that the lessons must be learned before the knitting was touched. Hetty pouted, and almost cried, but Mrs. Laurens was firm; and she took her book not a little comforted by seeing her mother preparing to wind the yarn and set up the work.

Meantime Peter was slowly walking up and down with Cecy in his arms. He was a very large, almost gigantic, coloured man, as black as ebony, who had been in Mr. Laurens's employ for many years, first as porter and warehouseman, and afterwards as coachman and gardener. It had been decided by the physicians that Cecy must spend as much time as possible in the open air; but there seemed some difficulty in bringing this about,—as she could not bear the motion even of the easiest carriage. It was at last discovered that Peter had the knack of adapting his strong arms to her weak back, so that Cecy declared she lay as comfortably as in her cradle, and many an hour of comparative ease and pleasure did the poor child owe to this discovery. Peter was always at her service, at any hour of the day or night: he was never tired and never impatient. Although, of course, not much educated, he had a strong, sensible mind, and a fervent and enlightened religious faith. Cecy was always sure that he would understand her, slow as the right word might be in coming; and she talked to him more than to any person in the world, except her mother.

"Peter," said she, as they pursued their walk, "Hetty is going to knit some socks for the soldiers."

"That will be very nice, if she only gets 'em done before the war is over," replied Peter, smiling.

"What makes you say that? Do you think the war will come to an end very soon?"

"I'm afraid not, my dear; but you know Miss Hetty don't always finish what she undertakes. She was going to make me a pair of mittens last Christmas, but I should have had a great many cold fingers if I had waited for 'em."

"Yes, I know," said Cecy, after a little consideration. "She never finished my doll's talma, either. But, Peter, I don't think Hetty meant to tell a story about the mittens: do you?"

"Oh, no, Miss Cecy. But she don't always think when she begins a piece of work how long it will take to finish it, and so she gets tired. A great many little people are that way,—and big people too, for that matter."

Cecy was silent for a while, apparently meditating on this unfortunate state of things. Then, as they passed two or three soldiers, she awoke from her revery with a sigh:—

"There are some soldiers now! Oh, how I wish I could do something for them! But I can't do any thing for any one, only hinder and take up time. Oh, dear!" Cecy's lip quivered, and the tears stood in her eyes.

"Now, Cecy, you know you must not cry," said Peter, tenderly but firmly. "That will make you sick, and give your dear mother trouble."

This argument was a strong one, and seldom came unheeded. Cecy stifled the rising sob, but she could not send back the large tears or prevent them from running over.

At that moment, the two soldiers who had attracted her attention stopped, and one of them turned back to ask Peter a question. Receiving his answer, he looked with some surprise at the unusual burden he carried.

"Is the little girl sick?" he asked, kindly.

"She is always sick, poor child," replied Peter. "She is quite helpless, and can only get out when I carry her. Just now she is fretting because her sister is working for the soldiers, and she is not able to do any thing."

"Poor thing!" said the soldier, looking at her with renewed interest. "To think of her caring about that, now, when she has so much to bear. But I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you."

"Oh, I don't mean to," replied Cecy, quite cheered up by this unexpected sympathy: "only you know it is hard to—" She hesitated, as she often did, for a word.

"Hard to see others working when you can't," said the soldier, taking her meaning at once. "Yes, I know that very well. I was in the hospital at the time of the fight at Big Bethel, and I thought lying abed was the hardest duty I ever did in my life."

"Were you, really?" asked Cecy, with great interest,—"because you were sick?"

"I was wounded, child. See here: my arm is not quite well yet." And he turned back his sleeve, and showed her part of the large red scar.

"Only think!" said Cecy. "I have really seen a wounded soldier with my own eyes!"

Both the men smiled.

"Perhaps you will shake hands with me, little miss," said the soldier. "When I go back to the camp, I will tell the men about the little sick girl who wanted to work for the soldiers."

"Put your head down, Peter: I want to whisper," said Cecy, eagerly. "Do you think I might give him my little red verse-book? It is in my pocket; and I bought it with my own money."

Peter was of opinion she might, and Cecy, her little fingers trembling with eagerness, drew forth the tiny gilt volume.

"Will you please take this?" she said, with a timid grace quite irresistible. "It has beautiful verses out of the Bible in it, and it is such a little wee book, you can carry it in your pocket. It is my very own: so I may give it away."

The soldier's bearded lip trembled, as he took the little volume and the hand that held it into his own.

"Thank you very much, my little girl. I will keep it and read it, for your sake." He kissed the little thin hand, nodded to Peter, and walked rapidly away.

Cecy was very much interested with the adventure, and could talk of nothing else all the way home.

"I have done something for one soldier, haven't I, Peter? You know it really was something, because I was fond of that little book. It was not just giving away what I did not care for?"

"True; and who knows how much good it may do? A single word of Scripture has waked up many a careless sinner and made a new man of him."

"But this man may be good now, you know, Peter. I'm sure he looked and talked as if he was good."

Peter could not quite agree to this. He thought the man looked like rather a hard subject, but he did not think it necessary to disturb Cecy's charitable view of the case.

"Well, dear, it's only right to think so, as long as we don't know any thing to the contrary; and the better he is, the more he will prize your little book. Did it have your name in it?"

"Yes,—'Cecy Laurens, 75 B— Street.' Cousin Charles printed it, in little wee letters. Why?"

"I thought he would think all the more of it: that's all."

"Of course," said Cecy. "I'm sure 'I' should. I'm so glad I had it with me!"

SELF-DENIAL.

ELSIE walked home from school in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. Her refusal to pledge herself to knit for the soldiers had arisen from no lukewarmness to the cause, nor did she at all doubt her own power to produce as good workmanship as any of her schoolmates; for she was a skilful knitter, and had made many a pair of warm stockings and mittens for her brothers. But, what with studies and home-duties, her time was very fully occupied already, and she really did not see how or where she was to find time for any thing more. She was now likely to be even more hurried than usual. She had always been very desirous of taking music-lessons, and expected to begin them in the course of the week, and she knew that the necessary practice would occupy at least two hours in the day. Then there was fall sewing to do for herself and the children. The more she considered the subject, the more her labours seemed to accumulate,—until she began to think, like the discontented pendulum, that she might as well stop work altogether.

She had been deeply wounded, too, by Henrietta's thoughtless and unkind speech, and the significant glances and shrugs of Minny and her adherents. Even Miss Milford had said,—

"Why, Elsie, I thought your patriotism was equal to any effort."

Only Miss Armitage and Rose Chesterfield had expressed no surprise, and she was a little comforted by the thought that they at least understood her. As she passed by Whitney's store, she had a glimpse of Hetty and her mother within; and Hetty held up her bunch of yarn with a significant smile.

The tears came to Elsie's eyes; but she drew her veil over her face and walked rapidly home. Her mother was standing at the door, dressed to go out.

"Elsie, my dear, you are a little late."

"Yes, mother: you know I had to stop on the way to do Aunt Wentworth's errand; and it took me some time."

"Very well, my child: I dare say it is all right; but now I want you to take the baby for an hour and let me go out. I must try and get the children's new flannels in hand, or we shall never have them done."

"Always the way!" thought poor Elsie, as she went up-stairs. "Never a moment to myself, from morning till night."

But a moment's reflection conquered the impatience.

"After all, it is just what I am made for," she said to herself, as she hung up her cloak and smoothed her hair: "there would be no great comfort in working for the soldiers if it prevented me from helping mother at home. Now, baby, if you will only be good and sit on the floor, I can learn my History lesson, and so have a little more time after tea."

The baby was in the best of humours, and willing to amuse herself upon the carpet for a full half-hour. But at the end of that time, she imperatively demanded attention, nor would she allow Elsie to hold her and her book at the same time.

"Why, you little torment!" said Elsie, giving up the attempt. "I shall be glad when you are grown-up and out of the way a little. There now, the book is put away, and you shall have sister all to yourself, and eat her up if you like. So she was a darling, if she was a little plague."

Elsie said nothing to her mother about what had passed at school till after tea. But when that was over, Mr. Probert gone out, and the younger children put to bed, the subject was opened.

"How tired and fretted you look, my dear! I am afraid you had a hard time with the baby. Was she naughty?"

"No, mother: she was very good: only she would not let me study."

"Babies generally have a great objection to a division of labour," remarked Mrs. Probert. "They like to engross the whole attention of those who take care of them. But I am sure something unpleasant has happened. You are not used to wear such a distressed face for nothing, or for a slight cause."

"It was something that happened in school, mother." She detailed the occurrences of the morning, adding, apologetically, "It was not much to worry about, after all; but I could not help being vexed at what Hetty said. I am sure I am as willing to work for the soldiers as any one, if I could only find the time."

"And the money," said her mother. "Yarn costs something, you know,—not much, to be sure; but, now that your father's income is so much lessened and our expenses are so great, I do not like to spend a single cent more than is absolutely necessary."

"But father did give something for the soldiers, mother."

"All he could afford, Elsie, and perhaps a little more."

"I have thought of a way to buy the yarn," said Elsie, after a ten minutes' pause: "that is, if you are willing—"

"Well, my dear?" said her mother, as Elsie paused.

"You know the money Aunt Wentworth gave me for hemstitching the ruffles for those pillow-cases? I have three dollars left, that I was saving to buy Christmas presents with. If you would explain it to the children when Christmas comes, and if you and father did not mind—"

"My love," said her mother, tenderly, "don't you know that your father and I would be more gratified with such a sacrifice on your part than by any present that could be bought for money? And as for the children, I undertake that there shall be no disappointment on their part. You know, too, that Aunt Wentworth always overwhelms them with presents. But, my dear, I see another hindrance, much more serious than this. What will become of your subscription to the Christmas-tree at school?"

Elsie sighed. "I must give it up and stay at home: that's all. I don't care so much about it now as I should a little while ago, when things were different."

"My dear Elsie, I know very well how you feel about it," said her mother, sympathizingly. "Such things are very unpleasant, as I know by my own experience; but you must try to bear it bravely. The simple truth is that you have rather overrated your friend, and now you are in danger of going to the other extreme. I think Henrietta will find out her mistake after a little while. She is really a good, warmhearted girl, though a little apt to be dazzled by whatever is new."

"But there is another trouble, mother," said Elsie, after a little pause. "I don't see, really, how I am to get any time."

"I thought of that, myself," said Mrs. Probert.

"You see, there are my lessons," pursued Elsie. "I really 'cannot' learn them all in school, work as hard as I may; and I don't like to drop any of them. Then there is practising, when I begin to take lessons, and helping you at home; and then all this great pile of sewing," she added, looking despairingly at the heaped-up basket. "I don't see, work as I will, how it is to be done."

Mrs. Probert sighed in her turn. She felt all the time that her oldest daughter was over-burdened for a girl of her age, and tried her best to relieve her. But relief was not so easy with four younger children,—three of them boys and one a baby,—one not very efficient servant, and a limited income.

"Suppose we drop the subject for the present, and sleep upon it, as Aunt Wentworth says," said she, after a little consideration. "Don't work any more at that flannel just now. Put it away, and read me the nest chapter of Motley."

Reading aloud was always a great pleasure to Elsie, as well as to her mother. The siege of Leyden soon drew her attention from her own embarrassments, and her intense indignation at "the stupidity of the Dutchmen" quite dissipated, for the time, her indignation at Henrietta.

"I declare, mother," she said, as she finished the chapter and closed the book, "it is quite a comfort to find that other people have made as great mistakes as ourselves!"

"I am not sure it is a very amiable kind of comfort," replied her mother, smiling. "But now go to bed, my dear; and don't have a blue yarn nightmare, if you can help it."

Things looked a little brighter to Elsie in the morning,—as they are apt to do after a night's rest. She could not help hoping that some way would be opened to enable her to accomplish what she had set her heart upon. As she thought over all her lessons for the day, she said to herself, "I must get up earlier in the morning, now that I have to practise."

At that moment a thought flashed upon her mind which sent the colour to her cheeks. What if she should give up her music-lessons for this quarter, and take that time for her knitting? It would be a great sacrifice, for Elsie was fond of music, and could already play very well, and she had been looking forward to her lessons with great pleasure for three months past. Still, it was to be thought of. She considered the matter in every light.

"Aunt Wentworth would not care. She gave me the money, to be sure; but she said at the time she thought I had quite enough to do already. I think father and mother would be willing, for they said I might do as I liked about beginning now or in the spring. But then I had so set my heart upon it! Then there is another thing: I have spoken to Miss M. about it, and, of course, she depends upon me. No: I don't see how it can be done."

Elsie said nothing more to her mother about the socks.

As she was walking leisurely along to school, she was overtaken by Rose Chesterfield. Rose was the oldest girl in the school, and was looked up to by all her companions, partly for her talents and accomplishments, but still more for her straightforward truthfulness and her readiness to assist every one in difficulties. She was, however, rather cold and reserved in her manners, and had the reputation of being very proud.

"Good-morning, Elsie," she said, as she came up with our young friend and walked along by her side. "Do you know you have been very much in my way this morning?"

"I didn't know it, I'm sure," returned Elsie, in surprise. "How do you mean, Rose?"

"Why, I have just been to Miss M., to ask her to take my sister into her musical class. But she says she has given you the last vacant place, and will have no other till next quarter. So Belle must wait,—though she will be sadly disappointed."

"Why doesn't she go to some one else?" asked Elsie.

"Perhaps she may; but mother thinks so highly of Miss M.'s method, and she says so much depends upon beginning rightly, that I think she will prefer to wait."

"Are you going home, or going to school, Rose?" asked Elsie, after they had walked a little farther, conversing on indifferent subjects.

"I thought of going home first," returned Rose; "but it does not mutter much. Why?"

"Will you please not to say any thing about the music-lessons till night? Something has happened which makes me rather doubtful about beginning this quarter, and, if I decide to give it up, Belle can take my place."

"Why, Elsie, I thought you wanted to begin music, of all things," said Rose, surprised. "Pray don't think of giving up on Belle's account."

"Oh, no," said Elsie, smiling: "I am not quite so good as that. But I want very much to do something else, and I don't see how I am to accomplish it unless I give up my music for the present."

"Knitting socks, eh?" said Rose, smiling.

"I did not think you would guess," returned Elsie, smiling in her turn, and also blushing a little. "But, Rose, please don't say a word about it in school. I am not sure that mother will be willing, you know."

"I understand. But, Elsie, I am sure of one thing. There is not a girl in the school but yourself who would dream of making such a sacrifice. I am afraid I should not be equal to it,—though I am pretty patriotic, too."

"How came you to guess what it was?" asked Elsie.

"I heard what you said yesterday about finding time," said Rose, "and also what Henrietta said to you. Minny Granger is spoiling that girl, and several others beside her. I am glad you have not joined her clique, Elsie. She is not a friend to do good to any one."

"I am sure she has done no good in one case," said Elsie, sadly. "Hetty is a different girl from what she was before Minny came: I don't mean to me only, but every way. She don't care half so much about her lessons, and all she seems to think of is dressing and going out."

"I hope that is the worst of it," said Rose. "I have always thought Henrietta very straightforward—"

"She is!" interrupted Elsie, eagerly. "I do assure you, Rose, she is as open as the day."

"I don't see, then, how she can like Minny so well, for Minny is any thing but that."

"Do you really think so?" asked Elsie. "I have had suspicions myself, but I thought perhaps I was unjust."

"I am sure of it," said Rose. "She no more writes those compositions than I do. By-and-by, you will see, Miss Armitage will be suspicious, and then there will be an explosion; but that is no business of mine. Well, then, Elsie, I shall say nothing decided to mother till I hear positively from you."

"If you please," said Elsie; and the two girls separated.

At recess, nothing was talked of but the socks, and several of the girls brought out their work to show how much they had already accomplished. Elsie could not help thinking that the soldiers would be none the better for some of the socks unless their latter end should be more prosperous than their beginning; but she kept her suspicions to herself, and was content with giving advice when it was asked,—which indeed, was pretty often, for Elsie was well-known as an experienced knitter.

"Haven't you begun yet, Elsie?" asked one of the girls.

"No: I should like it very much, but I don't see my way clear just yet."

"It takes some people a great while to make up their minds," said Minny, significantly. "It's a good thing for the soldiers that every one don't think so long before they do any thing."

Elsie's colour rose a little, but she answered gently, "You haven't quite so much to do at home as I have, Minny. We have a large family, and I must help mother all I can about sewing, and taking care of the children."

"Does your mother take in sewing?" asked Minny.

Elsie laughed outright: "No, indeed! I should think not. She has sewing enough to do without taking in any, considering that there are three boys in the family to work for, besides my father."

"Mercy on me!" said Grace Newland. "How do you ever contrive to learn so many lessons? I should think you would never have a minute to yourself. I'm sure I don't wonder that you don't want to knit."

"I do want to knit, Grace; but you see how it was that I could not promise at once. I have been thinking over every way, and I don't see how to set about it."

"Why do you come to school, then, if your mother is so poor and has so much to do?" asked Minny, who seemed this morning more than usually bent upon ruffling Elsie's serenity. "I should think you would go out to work and try to support yourself. I dare say mother would help you to find a place."

Elsie could not quite trust herself to answer this piece of impertinence. But Rose Chesterfield came to her aid:—

"I wish your mother would help you to find 'your' place and keep it, Minny! Your impertinence is rather beyond any thing I ever saw."

"Dear me! What did I say?" asked Minny, in a tone of injured innocence. "I only asked."

"You only said what you knew to be false, and asked a rude question, purposely to insult Elsie," interrupted Rose. "If I hear any thing more of the kind, I will tell Miss Armitage and see what she will say. Never mind, Elsie. Learn to take Minny and her speeches at their real value, and you will care very little for either."

It was not altogether what Minny said that had annoyed Elsie. It was seeing her former fast friend, Henrietta, standing by, without even an effort to interfere in her behalf. Try as she might to avoid it, the tears would gather in her eyes; her heart swelled with violent emotion, and, once safely back at her desk, she could not help putting her head down and giving way to her grief.

Hetty heard her sobs, and longed to go and comfort her, but she had held aloof from her so long that she felt a degree of awkwardness at making any advances towards a reconciliation. Besides, Minny might laugh at her; and she had learned to have a great dread of Minny's laugh.

As soon as school was out, Elsie hurried home and opened the plan to her mother.

"But, Elsie, that will be a great sacrifice! You have long wished to take music-lessons, and you may not have such another opportunity very soon. You know if you do not begin now, you must wait till the first of next quarter,—nearly three months."

"I know it, mother. I have considered all that. I thought it all over this morning, and almost decided to do it, but I felt myself bound by my engagement to Miss M. But of course it will make no difference to her if Belle takes my place."

"True; but it will make a decided difference to you. However, you may do as you please: only consider it well beforehand. It is an unpleasant thing, you know, to make a sacrifice and be sorry for it afterwards."

"Yea, mother, I know; but this will not be altogether a sacrifice,—not such a very great sacrifice, at least; for you know I can read while I am knitting."

"True," replied her mother, smiling: "that is an alleviation, I grant. Well, my love, I have no objection to your pleasing yourself, as I said. I suppose, of course, you will like to begin directly?"

"Yes, mother, if you please. I told Rose I would let her know to-night, and I thought it you could spare me to run up to Mrs. Chesterfield's, I would buy the yarn as I came back."

Mrs. Probert saw no objection. The yarn was purchased and wound, and when Elsie went to bed that night, she had the comfort of seeing a satisfactory commencement of her work.

PROGRESS.

HETTY'S knitting went on most prosperously for two or three days. Like most girls, she was fond of novelty, and any new piece of work was apt to engage all her attention,—while it was new. In the present instance, she worked so hard and so steadily as to draw forth a caution from her mother.

"You must be more moderate, my love. You are not used to knitting, and unless you are careful you will make your shoulders lame and your fingers sore, and there will be an end of your work for some time."

But Hetty could not be cautioned. She declared it did not hurt her fingers nor tire her the least bit.

But after a few days, Mrs. Laurens noticed that the stocking was laid down several times in the course of the evening, and finally put aside altogether.

"What is the matter, Hetty? Have you any difficulty with your work?"

"No, mother; but I have rubbed a piece of skin off my finger in some way, and this afternoon I went to push my needle down, and the point went into the sore place; and now it pains me so, you can't think!"

"You should have taken advice, you see, my dear. Inexperienced knitters are very apt—"

"But, mother," interrupted Hetty, "it was not the knitting. It was because the skin was off."

"How came the skin off, my dear?"

Hetty could not tell. She could not deny that the finger ached badly, but was quite sure it would be all right in the morning. In the morning, however, it was worse than ever, swollen and inflamed, and Mrs. Laurens decided that it must be poulticed, and that Henrietta must stay at home and take care of it. Hetty was unwilling to let her stocking alone; but it was clearly impossible to knit with her right forefinger tied up in a bag of bread-and-milk, and she was obliged to submit.

In two or three days, the finger was well, but Hetty's ardour had evidently abated. Her stocking was not taken up the moment she entered the house and kept in hand till bedtime. On the contrary, she found time to read, to play, and even to make a rain-cloak for her doll,—for Henrietta had not quite given up dolls, though she had begun to be rather ashamed of them.

"I am afraid you are growing tired of your knitting, Hetty," said her mother, one evening, as Henrietta, after finishing her lessons, settled herself with a story-book. "You know it was part of the bargain that you were to finish whatever you began."

"Yes, mother, of course. But there is plenty of time before Christmas, and I want to finish this book directly, because Minny has promised it to Sarah Stone."

"Very well, my dear: only you will find it very unpleasant to be hurried at the last, and you know they must be done at the time."

Henrietta made no reply, and Mrs. Laurens dropped the subject.

"I don't seem to see Miss Hetty knitting much now a-days," said Peter to Cecy one day, as they were taking their accustomed round on the common. "Has she got tired of it already?"

"Why, no, I don't think she is tired of it—at least she says she isn't," replied Cecy, after some consideration. "But you know, Peter, she had a sore finger."

"I know she had,—two weeks ago," said Peter, smiling.

"What do you think is the reason that Hetty begins things and don't finish them, Peter?" asked Cecy.

"I think that she don't count the cost beforehand."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Why, suppose you should go, we will say, to a toy-shop, to buy a doll's house and furniture. You see a house that pleases you, and you say at once that you will take it; but when you come to pay for it, you find that it will use up all your money, so that you will have nothing left to pay for your chairs and tables, and so on. That would not be very wise, would't?"

"Why, no," replied Cecy. "I think it would be very silly, because the house would be of no use without any thing to put in it. The best way would be to ask the price of the house, and then of the furniture. Then I would count my money and see if I had enough to pay for them both, and if I had not, then I would pick out a cheaper house—"

"Or cheaper furniture, whichever you thought best," said Peter. "That would be counting the cost."

"But yet I don't understand why you say that Hetty did not count the cost. She had plenty of money to buy the yarn, and it does not cost any thing to knit."

"Not in money, perhaps; but still I think it costs something. If Miss Hetty undertakes to knit a pair of socks by a certain time, she must give up a good many other things. She can't spend time to read her story-books, or play with her dolly, or walk with her little friends, and she must sit still in the house when she would rather be out-of-doors. Perhaps Miss Hetty didn't think of all this when she began; and that is what I mean by saying that she didn't count the cost."

"I see," said Cecy. "After all, Peter, I can't help wishing very much that I could knit. I should so like to make a pair of nice warm socks for one of Uncle David's men!"

"And I should like to have you. It would be very nice if you could knit, not only for the sake of the soldiers, but because it would help you to amuse yourself sometimes, when your mother is busy or wants to be doing something else."

"I know it. Sometimes I think I am selfish about that, Peter. Do you think I am?"

"I don't think you are always quite so considerate as you might be," replied Peter. "That is one of the great troubles of being always sick. People have to think of themselves a great deal, and it naturally makes them a little selfish."

"I don't want to be selfish, Peter," said Cecy, rather anxiously; "but, after all, it is very hard to lie on the sofa all day and do nothing at all except think how one's shoulder aches."

"That's true," said Peter. "I think it is very hard,—especially when you see others running about and playing as they please. You are wonderfully cheerful and good-natured, considering all you have to bear."

Cecy was silent for a while. "I am thinking about something very important, Peter," said she at last; "but I am not sure—I want to count the cost, you know. I am thinking whether if I did not ask mother to cut me out any animals, or paint me any pictures, or hold me in her lap, for several days, whether she could not find time to knit a pair of socks: that would be something as if I had knit them myself,—not just the same, but something like it."

"I think, as far as that goes, it would be a great deal better than knitting them yourself, Cecy," replied Peter. "But I am afraid you would find it very dull, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose it would be tiresome," said Cecy, with a sigh; "and I am not sure—I have not decided yet; but, then, I do want to do something for the poor soldiers so much, and I don't see how I can in any other way. So don't tell any one, Peter, till I quite make up my mind. See, there is Hetty coming, with Minny Granger. I don't like Minny half so well as Elsie Probert; but Elsie hardly ever comes to our house now. I wonder what is the reason?"

Henrietta and Minny were coming in the opposite directions, and, as they met, Hetty naturally stopped to speak to her sister.

"Are you having a nice time, Cecy? Why don't you go and see the flowers?"

"I like to walk here under the trees, and, besides, I love to watch the squirrels. Only think, Hetty, I saw one of them walk right up on a gentleman's knee and eat an almond out of his fingers!"

"Oh, what a story!" exclaimed Minny, thoughtlessly.

Cecy coloured in a way very unusual with her, and looked just ready to cry.

"You are very wrong to speak in that way, Miss Minny," said Peter, gravely. "Cecy never tells stories. I wish all the little girls I know were as good as she is, about that."

"Well, well, I don't choose to be lectured by you," returned Minny, colouring in her turn from vexation. "Come along, Hetty: I don't want to stay here all day, with every one staring at us. What an impudent man that is!" she continued, as they walked on. "I don't see how your mother can keep him."

"Peter is not impudent," said Hetty, not at all pleased with Minny's tone and manner. "I think some one else was impudent, for my part. You had no business to speak so to Cecy. Mother says she never knew a child so truthful as she is; and as for the squirrel, I have seen him do it myself, dozens of times."

"Dear me! What a fuss about nothing!" exclaimed Minny. "What did I say, after all? Who minds what they say to such children?"

Henrietta did not answer, and they walked along a little while in silence.

"After all, Hetty," resumed Minny, after a pause, "I do wonder that a lady of your mother's taste should let a poor little deformed fright, like Cecy, be made so conspicuous. I should think she would rather keep her out of sight. Everybody notices her, and knows who she belongs to, of course; and people make remarks about it, I can tell you."

"People had better mind their own business, I think," replied Henrietta.

"Oh, yes, it is very easy to say that; but, you see, they don't and won't. And, besides, it annoys other people to see such a miserable little object."

"They may be annoyed, then," said Henrietta, who loved her sister dearly, though she was now and then tempted to be hasty with her. "It would be a pretty story, indeed, if poor Cecy were to lose all the good of being in the fresh air, and seeing the people and the children, because she is sickly and deformed! I should think you would be ashamed, Minny Granger."

"Dear me! What a fuss for nothing!" said Minny again. "I am sure it is nothing to me: so you need not be so angry, Henrietta. I thought you would like to know what people say about it: that's all. How do you get on with your knitting?"

"I have not knit much lately," replied Henrietta, blushing a little, as she remembered how little progress the stocking had made for the last week. "You know my finger was sore, and that got me out of the way of it. But there will be plenty of time before Christmas."

"Have you finished one yet?"

"No, indeed: I have not got up to the heel of the first. Have you?"

Minny laughed. "I have not knit three inches yet. The yarn is so coarse, and the blue comes off on my fingers. After all, as Mr. Cheselden says, it is not exactly the work for ladies."

"But, Minny, all the ladies do it! Think of Mrs. Howard, and Mrs. and Miss Lewis,—how much they have done."

"I know that; but, after all, it is not very genteel work. But I mean to finish mine if I can—though I sha'n't make myself a slave to them. And that makes me think! Do you know I believe Elsie Probert is knitting for the soldiers, after all? I see her up at her window, or in their back parlour, day after day, with a blue yarn sock, knitting as fast as her fingers can fly."

"I don't believe they are for the soldiers," said Hetty, an ill-defined fooling of anger rising in her heart. "They are for her father or some one in the family. She would have spoken of it in school."

"I don't know: I don't believe she would, after all that was said. Anyhow, she gets help about it."

"How do you know?" asked Hetty.

"Why, you know, I can see right into their back parlour from my window. So I looked out, and there I saw Elsie knitting away very earnestly. I had a curiosity to see what she was doing: so I got mother's opera-glass, and, sure enough, it was a blue yarn stocking, with a strip of bright red yarn round the top, as if it had been put in for a mark.

"Well, I didn't think any thing about it till the next day. I was in the passenger-car, and in came Elsie with another lady,—her cousin, I believe. The lady got into the car, and as Elsie bade her good-by, I heard her say, 'Don't forget.'

"No sooner was she settled in her place than she pulled out this very sock with the red yarn in it, and knit on it all the way to Milton. So don't that look as if Miss Elsie was playing a double game?"

"It does, certainly," said Henrietta; "and yet I don't like to think so. It isn't a bit like Elsie."

"Well, now, I think it is. It is just these quiet girls that teachers think are model girls, who are always doing such things. But time will show. Don't say any thing about it, Henrietta,—because it may be her own stocking, after all; and then we should be in a fix."

Henrietta bade her friend good-by, and walked homeward, feeling rather unpleasantly about several things. She was vexed at Minny for speaking of and to Cecy as she had done, and she was annoyed at the idea that the child should be the object of remark. She thought of the small progress her sock had made, and of the great things she had talked of doing. What was to become of the two or three pairs she had promised to knit? It was now almost the end of October; and all must be done by Christmas!

"How silly I was to say so much about it!" she said to herself. "I don't see why I couldn't hold my tongue. I mean to knit all the evening, at any rate. It will be too bad if Elsie should get hers done, after all. But I don't believe it. She is always knitting for her father or some of her host of brothers."

Evening came, and, unluckily for the sock, brought with it a new monthly magazine. Hetty could not forego the pleasure of cutting the leaves and looking at the pictures. But if one does not mean to read a new book, cutting the leaves is a mere trifling with temptation.

"I will just read this one story," said Hetty. "That will not take long."

It took till bedtime, however, and the stocking lay untouched that night.

Next day was Saturday. Mrs. Laurens always insisted on Hetty's mending her own stockings, and doing sundry other similar things for herself. And when these were finished, she did not feel at all inclined to sit down with her knitting.

"Saturday is not a good day for such things. I will begin in earnest on Monday, and finish them as fast as I can."

Meantime, Cecy had been reflecting on the idea which had occurred to her mind, and came to the conclusion that she would try it, at least.

So after she was put to bed, she called her mother and suggested the project for her consideration. Mrs. Laurens was not a little surprised and delighted at such an effort at magnanimity on the part of her little daughter, and readily consented to do her share. She was always afraid that Cecy's helplessness and suffering would make her selfish, and it gave her heartfelt pleasure to see that she was capable of making such a sacrifice.

"And, mother, please don't tell Hetty,—because I should like to surprise her."

"Very well, my dear: I will keep the secret. I can easily do so by knitting while she is in school."

"Don't you think I might knit a little, just a very little, you know, mother?"

"You can try, Cecy; but you must not be disappointed if you fail. Knitting is rather hard work for those who are unaccustomed to it."

"And will you get the yarn the first thing Monday morning?"

"I cannot say that, my dear," said her mother, smiling at her eagerness,—"because it may rain, or I may be engaged. However, if that should happen, I will take part of Henrietta's and buy her some more. I promise you that, if it be possible, the socks shall be begun Monday morning."

Monday morning came, and Cecy's gratified eyes beheld the socks fairly begun. She would not be satisfied without trying to knit; and great was her pleasure when she actually accomplished a whole round without an error. She would gladly have tried another, but her mother advised her against it.

"You have done very well for the first time, my dear, and if it does you no harm, you may try again this afternoon. But you know it will be bad economy both of my time and yours to make yourself sick."

To this Cecy heartily agreed. So she lay back on her pillows and watched the rapid motion of her mother's fingers with great satisfaction, much delighted to find that she could knit and tell stories at the same time.

When Hetty went to school on Monday morning, she found all the knitters in a state of great excitement. Word had come that the socks were greatly needed and must be finished as soon as possible. Happy now were those who had made the most of their time, and long the faces of the little workwomen who had acted on the idea that there was no hurry,—they could finish their work long before Christmas. Among these last was Henrietta; and the blood mounted to her face as she thought of her poor mateless stocking not yet up to the heel. Especially was she annoyed at a proposition which was made by Rose, that all the knitters should bring their work to school the next morning and compare progress. She would gladly have opposed the idea if she could have found any reasonable pretext for so doing, but she could think of no reason but the true one, which she was ashamed to confess.

"What do you say, Elsie?" asked Rose, turning to her as she stood silently by. "Are you willing to bring your work for inspection?"

"Of course," replied Elsie: "only perhaps some of the girls would like a little more time."

"But, my dear, what difference will it make?" asked Rose. "There will be just as much time to finish them afterwards."

"Elsie wants time to get her stocking home from Milton," whispered Minny to Henrietta, who nodded assent without paying much attention to what was said. She was thinking how much she could possibly knit before to-morrow, and wondering doubtfully whether her mother would allow her to omit her music-lesson, which occupied an hour and a half on Monday afternoon.

"To be sure," said Elsie, smiling; "I know that, of course; but I was thinking that some of us might like to get our work a little further along before making a display of it."

"Then you 'are' knitting, after all, Elsie?" said Lizzy Becket.

Elsie nodded.

"Well, for my part, I like a little consistency," said Minny, decidedly. "If I had said I wouldn't knit, at least I would stick to it. Consistency above all things, I say."

"Above right, for instance?" said Rose.

Minny did not find it convenient to hear this question, but Rose persisted.

"Suppose you had made a mistake, and begun your stocking too small: would you pull it out, or would you knit it too small all the way through for the sake of being consistent?"

"How ridiculous you are, Rose! Just as if that had any thing to do with the matter!"

"I don't know why not," returned Rose. "It seems to me exactly a case in point."

"But, Minny," said Elsie, "I never said I wouldn't knit. I only said I must take time and consider the matter before I made any promise. Where is the inconsistency in that?"

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Minny. "What a fuss about nothing! Who cares whether you were consistent or not?"

"But how much have you done, Elsie?" asked little Isabella Chesterfield.

"You will see to-morrow," replied Elsie, good-humouredly. "That is, if it is decided that we shall have a grand display."

"'I' am willing—" "And so am I—" was heard from one and another.

"What do you say, Henrietta?" asked Rose.

"I'm sure I don't care," replied Henrietta, pettishly. "I am heartily sick of the whole thing, any way! I wish we had never begun."

"I say, girls," said Lizzy, "let's beset Miss Armitage to let us omit the paper this week."

"A good thought—only she won't do it," said one of the girls.

"Why not?"

"Because—to begin with—she never does let us off from any thing; and, besides, didn't we promise, when we began, not to ask to be let off?"

"The idea of Miss Armitage letting any one off!" exclaimed Elsie, laughing. "And, indeed, having so promised, I don't see how we could very 'consistently,' as Minny says, try to beg off from the papers."

"That's a very different thing!" said Minny.

"Very different, I admit; but I don't think the advantage of the difference is on our side. No, no! Let's stick to our bargain, and do our best. And, girls," said Elsie, "won't you bring in your pieces to-morrow? You know I have it all to do this week."

"All what?" asked Henrietta.

"All the work upon the paper, because Jenny Price is sick, and Mary Carew is out of town. So pray be in time."

STORIES.

HENRIETTA walked home from school in any thing but a good humour. She could not flatter herself that her work would make any great figure, even with all she might be able to do to it before to-morrow, and she felt sure that some of the boastful speeches she had made at the beginning would be remembered and quoted against her. She felt vexed at Elsie for knitting "after all," as she said,—though after all what, she did not specify even to herself. So that, taking every thing together, she reached home in a mood ready to be angry with any thing or anybody who might happen to cross her path.

The first thing she saw upon entering the parlour was Cecy, propped up as usual in a corner of her own especial sofa, busily knitting on a blue sock just the colour of her own. The poor child was so deeply engaged in her work that she did not observe her sister's entrance at first. But the moment she did so, she coloured, and made a movement as if to conceal her work.

"You little meddling torment!" exclaimed Henrietta, flushing in her turn with vexation. "How dare you touch my work? I dare say you have spoiled it entirely," she continued, snatching it roughly from her hand, and thereby pulling out a whole row of stitches. "Now, just see what you have done!"

Cecilia attempted to speak in her own defence, but, as usual when agitated, the words would not come. She stammered and hesitated, and finally burst into tears and sobbed bitterly.

"What does this mean?" asked Mrs. Laurens, who had entered the parlour just in time to hear Henrietta's last hasty words. "What is the matter, Cecilia?"

But Cecy was by this time far past explanation, and could only sob hysterically.

Mrs. Laurens turned to Hetty.

"She had my work," said Hetty, too angry to see or heed any thing; "and she has pulled out the stitches and half-spoiled it. Then I took it away, and she cried,—just as she always does if any one looks at her. She is the greatest cry-baby that ever lived."

"Henrietta!" said her mother, sternly.

"Well,—I don't care. She is; and she had no business to touch my work."

"Is that your work?" asked Mrs. Laurens. "Look and see."

Hetty looked. It certainly was not hers, for it was not more than half as long.

"Well, I thought it was mine," she said; but her mother checked her.

"I do not wish to hear any thing from you at present. You may go to your room and stay there till tea-time."

Henrietta left the room, closing the door with violence, and the door of her own room also. The first thing that met her eyes was her own work, lying exactly where she had laid it on Saturday night. She walked up to it and threw it across the room.

"Hateful old thing! I wish I had never seen it! I don't care whether I ever get it done or not. Mother always sets Cecy above me in every thing. No matter what she does, she is always right and I am always wrong."

"You are certainly wrong in this case," said conscience; but Henrietta would not listen.

She put away her bonnet and satchel, and looked around for a book to read: but she could find none, except those she had read again and again.

Suddenly she remembered that there was a large pile of magazines put away in the back attic. True, her mother had forbidden her to leave her room; but she was too much out of humour to care whether she obeyed or not. She opened her door softly, stole up-stairs, and presently descended with an armful of the coveted treasures. She could not feel very happy, for she had been trained in habits of obedience and of honesty, but her temper was roused, and she was determined, as she said, to face it out.

She found plenty of entertaining matter in the magazines, and sat reading till it was nearly dark. Then she remembered her knitting, and that it must be carried to school in the morning, and she began to look around for it. What was her consternation to find it lying in the water-pail, and, of course, soaked through and through! This was a new misfortune, none the easier to bear because she had brought it upon herself. Henrietta burst into tears, and cried till she brought on a headache, which sent her to bed before tea, and—almost for the first time in her life—without saying her prayers.

People are rather apt to get up in the same humour with which they go to bed; and Henrietta rose feeling any thing but happy. As soon as she was dressed, she looked round for the unlucky knitting-work. The stocking had dried during the night: not so the ball, which was still like a wet sponge. And when she tried to knit, she found the needles covered with rust and quite immovable.

What was to be done? Again Hetty cried; but crying would not mend matters. And after several unsuccessful attempts to put it to rights, she concluded that the only way was to carry the work to her mother.

"See here, mother; what shall I do with my work?" she said, as she entered the breakfast-room. "I dropped it in the water last night, and now the needles are all rusty. I cannot knit at all."

"You should have brought it to me directly," said her mother. "I could easily have put it in order for you; but now it will be a work of time to draw out the needles and put in others. So much for one of the consequences of a fit of temper, my daughter. If you will leave it here, I will attend to it as soon as I have time."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Hetty, impatiently. "Can't you do it now, mother? All the girls are going to bring their work to school and compare their progress."

"If that is all, you can carry it as it is," replied Mrs. Laurens; "but I cannot possibly attend to it now. Cecy has had a very bad night,—thanks to her fit of crying,—and will not be able to get up to breakfast, and I must go to her immediately."

"Cecy is such a cry-baby," said Henrietta, colouring at this allusion to the scene of the day before; "one cannot look at her without her going into a fit. I should think she might learn not to cry at every little thing, when she knows it always makes her sick."

"And I should think a strong, healthy girl might learn not to hurt the feelings of a suffering younger sister, when she knows what the consequences will be," said Mrs. Laurens, much displeased. "Cecy was not the only cry-baby in the house last night."

"Cecy never does wrong," murmured Henrietta to herself. "I wish I was crooked; and then perhaps I might have some privileges now and then."

"Henrietta," said her mother, sternly, "if Cecilia could have a hundred people devoted to her every day and all day long, with nothing to do but to minister to her pleasure and alleviate her suffering, she could well afford to give them all up for the health that you enjoy without a thought of its value. You are indulging in a most wicked and unthankful temper, my child. Conquer it, or no one can tell how far it may lead you."

Henrietta dared not answer when her mother spoke in such a tone, but her heart was full of anger, which she made no attempt to put down. She hastily swallowed her breakfast, gathered her books together, and, putting the unlucky knitting in her satchel, she set out for school without kissing either her mother or Cecy.

"Good news, Henrietta!" said one of the girls, meeting her at the door. "Miss Armitage has excused us from the paper this week, of her own accord. We are to have it next week instead of composition; but Miss Armitage says we may have the time now to finish our socks, as they are so much wanted. Wasn't it clever in her,—and without being asked, too?"

At any other time, Henrietta would have joined cordially in the praises of Miss Armitage. But she was not now in the humour to be pleased with any thing: so she answered, shortly,—

"I don't see any great generosity in that, I am sure. If she had let us off altogether, there would have been some fun in it. But as long as we have to write next week, I don't see what difference it makes."

"All the difference in the world, I should think," said Lizzy Becket. "We shall have time to finish our socks this week if we don't have to write for the paper. 'I' can, I know. Let me see how far yours is done. Is that your second one?" She made a movement to take it up.

"Do let things alone, Lizzy, can't you?" said Henrietta, pushing by her. "I want to go to my seat."

"Heyday!" said Lizzy, looking after her. "Some one has got up wrong end foremost this morning, I should think. If I were you, I would go to bed and try again!"

"I think Hetty gets up wrong end foremost very often," said little Belle Chesterfield. "I used to think she was one of the best-natured girls in school, but she is downright cross very often nowadays. I wonder what is the reason?"

"'Evil communications corrupt good manners,'" said Bessy Stanley, sagely. "Take care you don't indulge in them, Belle."

"If you mean Minny Granger, there's no danger; for I can't bear her," said Belle. "She called me a little—"

"Never mind what she called you," interrupted Rose. "Minny's speeches are not worth remembering, much less repeating. Come; it is time to go into school."

At recess the girls collected with one accord in the play-room, and the stockings were all produced. They made a goodly show, and spoke well for the industry of the little workwomen. Some had finished the first of the pair; some were half-way through the second. Even Minny's had advanced as far as the middle of the foot. Hetty's was the only one which had not reached the heel. The girls, who remembered her grand speeches, looked at one another significantly. And Augusta Stephens said,—

"I am afraid you won't accomplish your two or three pairs, Hetty. If you finish these, it will be as much as you can do."

"Mine is as far forward as Elsie's, any way," said Hetty, ready to cry with mortification.

"Yes; but that is Elsie's second pair," said Augusta. "She has done more than any of us. Oh, come; what's the use of being so modest, Elsie?" she continued, as Elsie made her a sign to be silent. "You know you have; and you deserve more credit than any of us, because you have so little time."

"Oh, yes, she deserves a great deal of credit, to be sure!" exclaimed Henrietta, forgetting in her anger her promise to Minny to say nothing about the affair of the opera-glass. "Perhaps if I had had some one to help me, I might have knit two pairs as well as Elsie."

Minny pinched her arm and recalled her promise, but the mischief was done.

"What do you mean, Hetty?" said Elsie, surprised.

But Hetty would not explain.

"Never mind, Elsie," said Rose, seeing Elsie's eyes filled with tears. "We all know you too well to believe that you would do any thing dishonourable. I know, too, what a sacrifice you made to be able to knit at all. Don't be troubled," she continued, as Elsie took up her work and turned away. "Henrietta is out of humour, and doesn't know or care what she says."

"If it was any one else, I wouldn't mind so much," said Elsie, as soon as she could steady her voice. "But we used to be such good friends, and—" The words failed.

"I don't know what to think of Henrietta," said Rose. "She is very much changed."

"It is not her natural disposition; I am sure of that," replied Elsie, generously unwilling to have her former friend blamed. "I believe Minny puts things in her head."

"She ought to be ashamed to listen to them," said Rose, indignantly. "I should think any one might see through Minny. She is a vain, shallow, vulgar girl, and her mother is as shallow and vulgar as herself."

"That is some excuse for her," said Elsie; "but Rose, I can't think what they mean about the stockings. No one has ever touched them but myself: I wouldn't even let Cousin Ellen take them to try the needles."

"Of course not. Don't disturb yourself about that," said Rose. "Your character is too well-known for any one to suspect you of dishonesty. It was only a pettish speech of Henrietta's because she was mortified at her own slow progress. You know she had a great deal to say, when we began, about how much she was going to accomplish, and it was no great wonder that she felt ashamed and angry when she found herself behind the youngest girl in the school. I think if I were you, I would take no notice of the speech, but leave the matter to die of itself. I presume there will be no more heard of it."

Contrary to Rose's prophecy, a great deal more was heard of it. A number of the girls—a particularly those of Minny's party—asked Henrietta what she meant, and Henrietta could not resist the temptation of telling such an important secret. The story passed from one to another, losing nothing by transmission, till at least half the girls in school believed that Minny had seen Elsie's cousin Ellen knit both pairs of stockings in Mrs. Probert's back parlour.

When Minny was appealed to, she shook her head, looked mysterious, and dropped broken hints that she could tell a great deal more, if she chose, about that and other things. Minny concluded by inviting all the elder girls in the school, except Elsie, to meet at her mother's house the next afternoon, to knit and drink tea.

Much to her mortification, Rose Chesterfield refused point-blank, and so did the Stanleys; but all the rest accepted, some from curiosity to see a house about which they had heard so much, some because others did, some, perhaps, influenced by the prospect of a treat, &c., which Minny held out.

As Elsie was walking homeward, she was overtaken by Sarah Stone. Elsie did not particularly like Sarah, whom she suspected of a mischief-making disposition and knew to be possessed of a strong propensity to tattling; but she could not in civility run away from her, and the two walked along together.

"Are you going to Minny's party to-morrow night?" asked Sarah.

"I presume not," replied Elsie, surprised, "as this is the first I have heard of it. Is she going to have a party?"

"Why, yes, to be sure," replied Sarah,—affecting a great deal of astonishment, though she well knew that Elsie had not been invited. "She has asked all our set,—all the older girls; and every one is going. I should think Minny would be ashamed to leave you out."

"Not at all," said Elsie, steadily,—though she could not prevent her cheeks from burning at this new affront. "Minny has a right to ask whom she pleases to her own mother's house."

"But she 'is' just as mean as she can be, Elsie. Everybody knows that. Just because her father is rich, she thinks she can lord it ever every one in the school as much as she pleases. I think all rich girls are mean, for my part; don't you?"

"No, indeed," said Elsie, promptly. "I am sure the Chesterfields are not mean, nor the Stanleys, nor Augusta Stephens; and they are the richest girls in the school. I think I have known quite as many poor girls who were mean as rich ones. As for Minny, I don't pretend to like her, but there is nothing mean in her not inviting me if she did not wish to do so. And, I must say, if I were you, I should be ashamed to accept her invitation, and even receive presents from her and then talk against her behind her back."

Elsie spoke with unusual warmth and it is possible that her virtuous indignation against Sarah was a little increased by the affronts she had received from Minny. But Sarah was altogether too obtuse to be abashed by any such hints.

"You would not defend Minny," she said, mysteriously, "if you know what she and Hetty Laurens said about you. Of course it isn't true, and a great many of the girls don't believe it. But then, again, they do say it looks oddly for you to have accomplished so much more than any one else, when you began last."

"I am a great deal more used to knitting than most of the other girls," said Elsie,—not knowing how to understand Sarah's speech.

"Yes, of course: that's just what I say. 'Of course,' I said: 'Elsie knows how to knit better than any of us; and, besides, if she did get her cousin to help her, there is no great harm done. The stockings are knit all the same, and Elsie has so little time that she is excusable, if any one is.'"

"What do you mean, Sarah?" asked Elsie, very much agitated.

But Sarah was too much delighted with having found a way of tormenting Elsie to give up her amusement suddenly.

"To be sure, we did agree to knit them all ourselves, but perhaps you did not understand that,—though Henrietta says she knows you did. And, at any rate, it was mean in Minny to tell of you. But she could not know any thing and not tell it. That is quite impossible."

"What do you mean, Sarah?" asked Elsie, again. "Does any one think I had help about my work?"

"Why, yes, to be sure!" rejoined Sarah. "Minny and Hetty both say they know you had. Minny says she saw a lady knitting on that very pair of stockings that you brought in,—with the red mark. She saw you knitting on one of them at your back parlour window, and that very afternoon, she saw your cousin have that same stocking on the Milton cars. And besides, she says she has seen your mother knit on them. And that is the reason she would not ask you to her party."

"I should like to know how Minny pretends to have seen so much," said Elsie, as soon as she could recover her voice. "I have never had my sock out of the house."

"Oh, you know the back of their house is just opposite to yours," replied Sarah, rejoicing in the effect of her words. "She can look right into your window from her mother's back parlour, and with an opera-glass she could see every thing that went on in the room. Mind, I don't say she 'did,'—only that she might if she chose. But, at any rate, she ought to be ashamed of herself to tell. She does worse things than that. I know where she gets her compositions; and I sha'n't keep her secret much longer, either, if she don't mind her Ps and Qs. Now, mind, Elsie, you don't tell any one who told you."

"Well," she said, as she walked away, "she never denied it. I should not wonder if it was true, after all. I don't believe these saints are any better than other people, for my part."

ELSIE'S TROUBLES.

ELSIE entered the house, and went at once to her own room, feeling more angry that she had ever done before in her life. She was not easily disturbed, and her mother often thought that Elsie's sunny, even temper was one of her greatest blessings; but now her spirit seemed moved from its lowest depths. To her natural anger at being suspected of so mean a fraud was added a deep sense of grief and injury that the accusation should have come from such quarter; and she felt that she could almost say, with David, "It was not an enemy, else I could have borne it; but it was thou, mine equal, my guide, mine acquaintance."

"I will tell mother and father all about it," she said to herself; "and ask them to take me away from school. I am sure my father would never let me stay there to be so treated."

"Elsie!" her mother called, from the foot of the stairs.

"Yes, mother, in a moment," replied Elsie, hastening to put away her bonnet and cloak.

But before she had finished, her mother made her appearance.

"Do you think you can manage with the children for a little while, dear? Cousin Frances sent for me this morning in great haste. Little Anna has fallen into the fire and burned herself very badly. I ran down there for a few minutes, but could not stay till you came home. But if you think you can do without me—"

"Why, yes, mother, of course," replied Elsie, forgetting all her own small troubles for the moment. "Do go this minute! Dear Anna! How sorry I am! How did it happen?"

"No one knows. She was playing in the back parlour as usual; Frances ran up-stairs for a moment, and, while there, she heard Anna scream, and, hurrying back, found her all in flames. The child is unable to speak, and can, of course, give no account of the matter."

"Dear child!" exclaimed Elsie, with her eyes full of tears. "Is she very badly burned?"

"Very badly, my dear. I have little expectation that she will live through the night. Dr. H. has done every thing possible, and keeps her under the influence of ether all the time: so we may hope she does not suffer a great deal. Poor Frances is very calm and composed, but she feels as though she would be glad to have me with her."

Elsie did every thing in her power to hasten her mother's departure, and as soon as she was gone, set herself seriously to the task of taking care of and amusing the younger children. They were very good and quiet. George and Jack were old enough to feel the sobering effects of such a fearful accident, and even the baby seemed disposed to be less exacting than usual. Elsie found that by setting her on the floor at her feet and providing her with toys, she was able to take her sewing and pursue her own reflections in peace.

Her school troubles, which had seemed so important and distressing an hour before, faded into insignificance before the overwhelming calamity which had befallen her cousin. Anna was the only surviving child of five beautiful little ones, four of whom had been borne to the grave before they reached the age of three years. Anna had passed the period which had been fatal to them without any of the symptoms of decay which had so many times wrung the hearts of the parents, and they had hoped, at first with trembling, and then with confidence, that the peril was over. Her father was an officer of volunteers, and had left town with his regiment only about three weeks before.

"Poor Cousin Frances!" thought Elsie. "It does seem as if she might have had one child to comfort her! We all thought Anna would live to grow up, she seemed so healthy and strong; and now to have her taken away by such a fearful death! It seems a great deal worse than though she had died like Lucia and the others. It is strange that God will let such things happen!"

It is strange to us; and the wisest theologians and philosophers have never found a way to explain it. Happy they to whom grace is given to take refuge in the simple declaration of his word,—

   "All things work together for good to them that love God."

Mr. Probert came in to dinner as usual. He had not heard of the accident, and, after despatching a hasty meal, hurried down to Mrs. Percival's house. Elsie gave the children their dinner, fed the baby, and finally put them all to bed, and sat down before the fire, with the little one in her arms, to await the return of her parents. It was the first leisure she had had that day; and what a long day it seemed, as she went back and reviewed its events, and how differently some of these events looked from what they did before she had heard of little Anna's calamity! When she entered house, she felt that she could hardly ever forgive either Minny or Hetty,—that she could hardly ever speak to them again,—certainly she would never have any more to do with them than she could help. Forgiveness did not now seem so impossible.

"At any rate, I shall not tell mother or father any thing about it," she said to herself. "They have trouble enough without that. I knew that Minny was mean enough, but the idea of using an opera-glass to look into another person's window! That is beyond any thing. I can fancy how Miss Armitage would look if she were to hear of it; but I am sure I shall not tell her. It is rather vexatious to think of being overlooked in that way, and it would annoy father dreadfully, because he is so particular; but, after all, we never do any thing to be ashamed of, that I know. If she would only tell the truth about what she sees, it would not be so bad. But how she could have taken up such a notion I cannot understand.

"Now, I remember, she was in the car that very day I went down with Cousin Ellen, and Ellen's work did have a red stripe, just like mine. I dare say she told Henrietta. But then Hetty ought to have known better than to believe such a thing. I am sure I never would have taken up a story about her, much less have told every one of it. Oh, I don't see how I can forgive her. I don't mind so much about Minny. I never did like her; but Henrietta,—I did love her dearly. And yet I must forgive her! I dare not even say my prayers to-night unless I do. Oh, dear! I never knew before how hard it is. I don't think I ever really had any thing to forgive till now."

Elsie was thinking, as she had never thought before, of that wonderful scene in Pilate's judgment-hall,—of the meekness, the patience, the love, there displayed,—of those amazing words, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do."

She thought of the martyr Stephen and his persecutors. She had heard an excellent sermon a little while before upon his cruel death, and had been much moved by the eloquent description of his forgiveness and prayers for his murderers; but it had not come home to her then as now. He could pray, "Lay not this sin to their charge," could not she?

If our blessed Lord could pray, "Father, forgive them," what wonder if Elsie laid the baby softly in the cradle and kneeled down by her side, shedding a few tears, and sobbing now and then or that when she arose, her face was calm and serene,—that the bitterness had passed away for the time, and that she felt in her heart that she could forgive all who had injured her?

"But that was a very little thing," some of my young readers may say; and perhaps they may even think Elsie almost irreverent in appealing to her heavenly Father about so small a matter as a school-quarrel. Many children, and some older people, seem to have an idea that there is something wrong, if not foolish, in making the daily trials and perplexities of life subjects of prayer. I not long ago heard some one speak sneeringly of a poor and lonely woman who asked God to direct her as to whether she should rent her house or take in boarders. But it did not seem to me in the least absurd that this poor disciple should go to her only and all-wise Friend in a matter of such importance to herself, nor that she should have felt a confident hope that He without whose knowledge a sparrow falls not to the ground, and who does not disdain to care for the ox which treads out the corn, nor even the tenants of a bird's nest, * would influence her mind to the best course.

* Deut. xxii. 6.

True, Elsie's injuries were slight compared to those of a martyr; but it was not a trivial thing to a girl of fourteen to be falsely accused and to be deserted by friends. One reason why even people who desire to be influenced by Christian principles bear the minor trials of life so ill, is that they do not ask that help from above which they need, and which they always pray for in times of great sorrow and perplexity.

Elsie had been taught to pray from her earliest years. She had been taught that God was her Father, loving and guiding and taking care of her before she ever knew him. She loved him for all he had done and was doing for her, and she had for a long time desired that she might grow into the likeness of his dear Son; but this time, she seemed to herself to come nearer to the cross, nearer to Jesus, than ever before. She had found what it was to "need" the sympathy and help of Him who said, "Come unto me, all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

About eleven o'clock, Mr. and Mrs. Probert returned. Elsie went into the entry to meet them.

"It is all over, my dear," said her mother. "Little Anna is in heaven. She died about eight o'clock. Poor Frances is entirely overcome. She has fainted several times, but is now more composed, and Dr. H. hopes she may get some sleep. Mrs. H. is kind enough to stay with her, and your father will stay there. I am afraid you are very tired with the care of the children and sitting up so late. You must go to bed directly."

Elsie would have liked to tell her mother how good the children had been, but she was indeed quite worn out, and fairly sobbed when she tried to speak. Mrs. Probert kissed and soothed her, and, after helping her to undress, would have sat by her till she fell asleep, but this Elsie would not allow. She made a great effort to control herself, and succeeded, and Mrs. Probert, coming softly into the room half an hour afterwards, found her sleeping as quietly as though she had never known a care.

Elsie could not be spared to go to school next day. Mrs. Probert felt that she must be with her cousin, and there was no one but Elsie with whom to leave the children.

Elsie was not sorry, for she did not care to meet either Minny or Henrietta just now.

She had rather a trying day. The children missed their mother,—especially the baby, who was not at all inclined to accept Elsie as a substitute, and, finding herself obliged to do so, seemed to come to the resolution at least to get as much work out of her as possible. Elsie found that she must give up all her own employments and devote herself especially to the care of Miss Molly. Then George and Jack got into a dispute, in which both were wrong and ill-natured. And when Elsie tried to reconcile matters, she only succeeded so far as to unite them both against her.

"Oh, you little plagues!" she could not help saying to herself. "I wonder how mother lives with you every day, and all day long? But I suppose I was just as bad; and, at any rate, it is a pity if I cannot manage you one morning."

So saying, she diverted the boys from their troubles, first by the prospect of luncheon, and then by allowing them to take down all her own particular books and look at the pictures. This unusual privilege brought them into a good humour, so that things went smoothly for the rest of the day. And Elsie was able, on her mother's return, to say with a clear conscience, that, "on the whole, the boys had been very good."

"There!" she said to herself, as she went to bed, "I have hardly thought of Minny's party to-day."

Minny's party was not very satisfactory to herself. Rose Chesterfield and the Stanleys refused to go; Lizzy Becket also stayed away. And though Augusta went, she did not seem at all dazzled by the magnificence, but took every thing very coolly and quite as a matter of course.

"I wonder why Elsie did not come to school this morning?" said one of the girls in the course of conversation. "I hardly ever knew her stay away a day before."

Minny and several of her friends exchanged significant glances.

"I should not wonder if she did not come any more," said Minny.

"Why not?" asked Augusta.

"Oh, because I should not think she could find it very pleasant to associate with girls so superior to herself. And besides, you know, after what happened yesterday—" Minny was very fond of these broken hints and insinuations. She fancied they sounded very important.

"Allow me to ask, Minny, who are the girls whom you consider so superior to Elsie?" said Augusta, disregarding the latter part of the sentence.

Minny shrugged her shoulders, and was silent.

But Sarah Stone took up her defense:—

"Oh, but really now, Augusta, that is absurd. Elsie may be well enough in her studies and behaviour, and so on; but as to her social position,—why, there is hardly a girl in the school who does not spend more money in a quarter than she does in a year."

"Does spending money constitute a social position?" asked Augusta. "That is news to me. For my own part, I think Elsie one of the most lady-like girls in school; and well she may be, for her mother is a lady in every sense of the word."

"You need not be so warm in her defence, Augusta," said Sarah, mysteriously. "You wouldn't, if you knew—"

"If I knew what?" asked Augusta, with some impatience. "You are always hinting, Sarah. Why can't you speak out what you have to say, and be done with it?"

"That's just what I want to do, only you never will let me," said Sarah, delighted at finding such a good opening, for Augusta would hardly ever consent to listen to her. "Elsie says all the rich girls in school are as mean as they can be, and that she never knew one who was not so."

"Did she say so herself, or did you say it and then ask her if she didn't think so?" asked Augusta, with a penetrating glance which made Sarah colour in spite of herself. "Ah, I thought so! That's the way many a good story is made."

"Now, it's of no use, Sarah," said Marcia Barclay, laughing, as Sarah began to say something in her own defence. "Augusta knows you like a book, as Lizzy says. But, Augusta, I am sure you cannot defend Elsie's conduct about the stockings. If what Hetty and Minny say is true, she has acted very meanly about them. It looks exactly as though she had held off at first, in order to produce the greater effect at last. And really, considering how we know her time to be occupied, it seems strange that she could accomplish so much in so short a time."

"I don't know about that," said Augusta.

"But I do!" interrupted Henrietta. "I know just how much she has to do, in tending the baby, and all that sort of thing; for I have been there a great deal. And now that she has so many studies in school, and takes music-lessons besides, it is just impossible."

"Does she take music-lessons? I did not know that."

"She began this quarter, at least she told me she was going to, and I suppose she did," said Henrietta.

Sarah knew better, but she said nothing.

"So you see, Augusta, it is quite impossible."

"She may have given up something else for the sake of knitting," said Augusta.

"Not she! That isn't a bit like her," said Henrietta.

"Who was it that gave up the picnic last summer to stay with her friend, because that friend had hurt her foot and could not go?" asked Augusta. "You seem to have a short memory, Hetty."

"I dare say she stayed at home because she had nothing decent to wear," said Minny, answering for her friend.

"The long and the short of the matter is, that Elsie has imposed upon every one," said Henrietta, growing very angry. "I know it of my own knowledge. A lady told me who saw the whole, that her cousin knit at least one pair of the socks. She saw Miss Delancy knitting on that very pair of socks with the red stripe round the top, and saw Elsie give them to her and tell her to be sure not to forget to finish them. So, how can there be any mistake?"

"Who was this lady?"

"I promised not to tell. But I know her, and so does Minny: don't you?" added Henrietta, appealing to her friend.

Minny nodded, and looked very wise. She did not choose to commit herself; but she did not object to Henrietta's doing so to any extent. She had conceived a dislike to Elsie very early in their acquaintance, and adhered to it with all the tenacity of a little mind. In fact, Minny prided herself on being "a good hater."

"It certainly does not look well," observed Marcia, who was apt to be influenced by the last speaker.

"No, indeed, it doesn't," returned Henrietta, who, somehow, seemed to feel her own honour interested in making out as bad a case as possible for Elsie. "Of course I shouldn't say so unless I know."

"Then you do know of your own knowledge that Elsie employed her cousin to knit her socks, and then brought them in and exhibited them as her own work?" said Augusta, looking keenly at Henrietta.

Henrietta thought the look implied a decided distrust of her word, and answered warmly,—

"I do know it of my own knowledge. I must say, Augusta, I don't see why you should be so very anxious to defend her. You know you laughed at her for being so strict and going to church in Lent, and all that. She never was any great friend of yours."

"She was a very great friend of yours," said Augusta, drily, "and some people might think that a good reason why you should not be so desirous to make out a case against her now. But, as you say, I have no great interest in the matter: only it is natural to some weak minds to defend the absent and those who have no one to speak for them. However, I have done. Time will show. There is no fear but the truth will come out sooner or later."

The conversation was here interrupted by a call to tea, and was not again taken up.

As Henrietta walked homeward, and thought over the conversation quietly, she could not help feeling a little alarm. She had certainly stretched the truth a good deal, if she had not uttered an absolute falsehood, in asserting that she knew of her own knowledge,—since, in fact, she knew nothing except what Minny had told her. But she had gone over the matter so many times in her own mind, cherishing all the while such a spirit of resentment against Elsie for outdoing her, that she really could not distinguish between what she had known and what she had only heard and imagined.

This is a state into which people often full who allow themselves to repeat slanderous stories. In general, we are more influenced against people by the things we ourselves say than by what we hear. Having once uttered an unfavourable opinion, we seem, in some sense, bound to abide by it, and therefore catch up eagerly every trifle which appears to sustain our view of the case.

The confidence with which Henrietta spoke, and the looks of mysterious importance with which Minny supported her, were not their effect upon the minds of the girls. Even some of those who had at first been most confident of Elsie's innocence began to waver. Minny's devoted adherents of course sustained her view of the case, and the story lost nothing by repetition.

Elsie did not appear in school again till Friday morning, and when she did, she found herself in a very unpleasant position. Some of the girls (Minny and Hetty among the number) refused to speak to her; others treated her with great coldness, and exchanged significant looks among themselves when she appeared. At recess, she found herself decidedly left out of every thing that was going on. Rose and the Stanleys, and perhaps Augusta, alone treated her as usual.

It was a severe trial, and almost overcame Elsie's generous determination to say nothing to her parents on the subject. It is very hard to suffer injustice,—doubly so when no opportunity is given for self-defence. Elsie had always held a high place in the school from her natural talents and her industry. While her even, sunny temper, and her readiness to sympathize with both the pleasures and the trials of others, made her a general favourite, in spite of what some of her schoolmates considered her over-strictness in religious matters. Miss Armitage trusted her entirely, and was wont to say that Elsie's simple "Yes, ma'am" was worth more than the most earnest protestations of a great many of her companions.

Elsie had always felt a pride in being trusted. Perhaps she had unconsciously built up a little edifice of self-conceit and a sense of superiority upon this foundation. And now to feel that she was looked upon as an impostor,—as deliberately contriving a deception, and such a mean deception!—It was almost too much to bear. It was not so easy to forgive Minny and Hetty while feeling so acutely the immediate effects of their conduct, as it had been while sitting alone, full of grief for little Annie and pity and sympathy for the lonely bereaved mother. Elsie thought she had never before known how hard it was to do right.

"Good news for you, Elsie!" said her mother, meeting her at the door. "Aunt Wentworth has come home, and she wishes you to come and spend the day with her to-morrow."

"Oh, how glad I am!" exclaimed Elsie. "But has she come home for good this time?"

"So she says," replied her mother. "She came in her quiet fashion night before last, giving no notice to any one but the housekeeper, spent yesterday in settling herself, and drove down this morning to see Frances, stopping here on her way back. She wants to persuade Frances to shut up her house and go to live with her while Mr. Percival is gone; and I hope she may succeed."

"That is so like Aunt Wentworth," said Elsie. "She always thinks of the right thing to do for every one. But you cannot spare me all day to-morrow, can you, mother?"

"I think I must, since it is Aunt Wentworth who desires it," said her mother, smiling. "You have had rather a trying week, too; and it is no more than fair that you should have a little recreation."

"Mother might well say so if she knew all," said Elsie to herself. "But I am so glad Aunt Wentworth has come home. I mean to tell her all about it, and she can advise me what to do."

THE DISTINGUISHED STRANGER.

HENRIETTA had fully determined to employ every spare moment during the week upon her knitting. She flattered herself that, by so doing, she would be able to finish the socks upon which she was engaged, and, perhaps, to complete another pair before they should be called for. But she found that, as usual, she had overrated her own powers. She was not a fast knitter at best, and her eagerness to get on with her work sometimes defeated her own purpose, for in her haste, she dropped stitches and made other mistakes which it took a long time to rectify. Thus, she narrowed off her heel before it was nearly long enough, and her mother decided that it must come out.

"What difference does it make, mother?" asked Henrietta, impatiently. "It is only for the soldiers; and I am sure they need not be so very particular. They ought to be thankful to get any, I think!"

Cecy, who was laboriously knitting on her sock in the corner of her sofa, opened her eyes wide at this speech. "I think the soldiers ought to have the best of any one," said she, much more promptly than usual. "I'm sure they work the hardest!"

"True, my dear," said her mother, "and their socks come to much harder wear than those of ordinary people. Socks with short heels will be worn through in a day's march, while those which have abundance of room around the foot will be perfectly whole. But, my dear Hetty, your patriotism seems to have cooled very decidedly. When you began, you thought nothing too good for the poor soldiers."

"I think there is a great deal more fuss made about them than there is any need of," said Henrietta, not very well pleased at being reminded of her patriotic zeal in the beginning of the work she now found so disagreeable. "I am sure they are paid for all they do, and I suppose they expected it, or they wouldn't have gone."

"Do you think Uncle David's pay as captain will make up to him for the business he gave up for the sake of going into the army?" asked Mrs. Laurens.

"Uncle David is a lawyer: of course it is different with him," replied Henrietta. "I was talking about the common soldiers."

"The remark applies not less to them," said Mrs. Laurens. "Many a man has given up a lucrative trade or left a fertile farm to go into the ranks as a common soldier, simply from a sense of duty. I could name a dozen such among my own acquaintance. No doubt people have enlisted in the cities who would not have done so unless they had been out of employment; but think of the country regiments, and especially those of the new States, where every man has his place and is missed when he leaves it. Think of the long marches through mud and rain; think of standing on picket duty on the edge of the woods, or perhaps without even that shelter, all night, in such a storm as this, for instance, liable to be shot down at any moment by an unseen enemy!"

"But do the soldiers have to stay out in the rain, mother?" asked Cecy, very much shocked at the idea. "I should think they would go in the house when it rained."

"Oh, you little goose!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Don't you know that the soldiers have to stay out in all sorts of weather? Go in the house, indeed! I guess they would soon be turned out if they did!"

"Hetty is right,—though she does not speak very properly," said her mother. "A soldier must do his duty without regard to his personal comfort. If the camp or the road were left unguarded on such a night as this, for instance, the enemy would be sure to take advantage of it, and make an attack."

"Then I should think Hetty would want them to have very nice stockings indeed, because their feet must be so cold," observed Cecy, deeply impressed with the hardship of standing out in the rain all night.

"Of course I do!" said Hetty, indignantly. "But I don't see the need of making such a fuss about shaping them just right, as though they were gentlemen."

"Gentlemen could go and buy some more if theirs were worn out or did not fit," said Cecy; "but soldiers couldn't, because I suppose they don't have any shops to go to."

"And not much money to spare," added her mother.

"And, besides, some soldiers are gentlemen. Are they not, mother?"

"A great many, my dear."

"But about the heel, mother?" said Hetty, impatiently. "I am sure it is long enough now. See how it stretches!"

"My dear, it is hardly long enough for you," replied her mother, shaking her head. "I am sorry, but it must come out. If you will do it, I will take up the stitches for you, and you will soon make it up. Take care! You are pulling out more than is necessary," she added. "You need only go to where you began to narrow."

But Henrietta had already got nearly to the top of the heel. Her impatient jerks first entangled the yarn, and then broke it, and thus more time was wasted. At last, however, it was fairly in progress once more.

"When do you think my socks will be done?" asked Cecy, laying down her work to stretch her cramped little fingers. "Only think, mother! I have done three rounds without stopping!"

"Very soon, I hope, if they progress as nicely as they have done already," replied her mother, examining the sock. "You have done these last rows very nicely, Cecy."

"I don't see why Cecy calls them hers," said Henrietta, who seemed possessed by the spirit of contradiction. "She hasn't knit more than a dozen rounds in all."

"True; but that is a great deal for one situated as she is. And, moreover, she has given up many hours of her favourite amusements, that I might employ my time upon these same socks: so that I think she has every right to call them hers."

"You never will knit a stitch on mine," said Henrietta.

"I thought it was part of the original compact that you were to knit them all yourself," replied her mother. "If I recollect rightly, you would not have any one touch them on any account."

"Then, if you don't knit on mine, I don't see why you should on Cecy's," persisted Henrietta. "I don't think it is quite fair."

"The cases are entirely different," said Mrs. Laurens, "as I am sure you must see if you look at them for a moment. As I understand, you agreed with all your companions not to accept assistance from any one, and, having done so, it would be very wrong to break your word, and would, besides, give you an advantage over the rest. But Cecilia has made no such agreement. It was very doubtful whether she would be able to knit at all. Her property in the work consisted, as I said, in giving up her favourite amusements that it might be done; and a considerable sacrifice it was for a little girl in her circumstances. It gave me a great deal of pleasure to see her capable of so much self-denial."

"A great self-denial, to be sure!" said Henrietta, scornfully. "To give up a few paper parrots and monkeys! It ought to be put in the paper:—'Wonderful patriotism of a young lady.'"

"You are in a strange humour to-night, my daughter," said Mrs. Laurens. "I advise you not to talk any more till you are in a better temper, and, meanwhile, to consider seriously what manner of spirit you are in."

But Henrietta did not choose to consider any such thing. She preferred to consider herself very ill used by the world in general and by her mother in particular. She worked on in sullen silence till bedtime, and then put away her knitting and went up-stairs without a word. She had always been used to reading a short lesson in the Bible before saying her prayers; but, as may be supposed, she now felt in no humour for any such occupation. She picked up one of the magazines she had brought down, and read till after ten o'clock; and then, as she thought, hearing her mother coming up-stairs, she hastily put out her light and crept to bed in the dark.

This said pile of magazines proved a sad snare to Henrietta. Not that there was any harm in the papers themselves. On the contrary, they were full of entertaining and instructive matter, and might have afforded her a great deal of harmless pleasure. But the bringing them down in the first place was an act of direct disobedience, since she had been ordered not to leave her room, and she was constantly taking them up when she knew that she ought to be doing something else. Then she would read and read all the time with an under-current of uneasiness of conscience, and leave off at the last moment dissatisfied with herself and ready to quarrel with every one else. It may be imagined that the knitting suffered in consequence of these stolen moments and half-hours of reading.

At the end of the week, the second stocking was not more than three inches long, and Henrietta saw that she must give up the idea of having it ready to send with the rest unless she gave up to it the whole of Saturday.

This was not very pleasant; but any thing was better than having to meet again the laugh of her companions. Henrietta went up-stairs after breakfast, fully determined to sit down at once to her knitting, and not leave it till dinner-time. She persevered very steadily for an hour, making famous progress, when, happening to glance out of the window, she saw Peter coming in with a large basket in his hand, carefully covered and tied down.

The Blue Socks.
She saw Peter coming in with a large basket in his hand,
carefully covered and tied down.

"What in the world has Peter got now?" she exclaimed. "Look, mother: he is carrying a great basket, all tied up, as if there were something alive in it. What can it be?"

"Whatever it is, you will soon know; for he is coming up-stairs," said her mother.

And at that moment Peter entered the room. He set the basket down and opened it,—when out stepped a magnificent, bushy-tailed, long-haired Japanese cat, with as much dignity as a gentleman alighting from his own carriage.

"Oh, the splendid eat!" exclaimed Hetty, dropping her work and jumping up. "Where did you get it, Peter? Whose is it?"

"It is Cecy's," replied Peter. "It was sent her by that soldier to whom she gave her little red book. I met him coming to the house, and he begged me to take charge of it, as he was in a great hurry. He told me that his brother, who is mate of a ship, brought him two of these kittens, and that he should be very much pleased if Miss Cecy would accept of this one."

Cecy's delight was too unbounded for words. She loved all sorts of living creatures, and would have liked to make pets of the very flies on the wall. Her last pussy met with a tragical end by the fall of a slate from the roof, and its place had not hitherto been supplied by any new favourite. And now, to think of having such a rare and superb animal, brought all the way from Japan, and given her "by her soldier," as she always called him,—the pleasure was almost painful.

The illustrious stranger conducted himself with great dignity and discretion. Probably his sea-faring life had overcome the usual feline prejudices as to change of place, for he showed no uneasiness at his new situation, but walked around the parlour, examining the different articles of furniture with the eye of a connoisseur, and, the survey completed, accepted the refreshment of a saucer of milk, smoothed his fur and whiskers, and prepared to make himself agreeable. Like all sailors' pets, he was very accomplished, would stand on his hind legs an incredible length of time, and, as he grew better acquainted, performed such antics that the little girls were quite exhausted with laughing at him. Various names were suggested for him; but none seemed to suit exactly, till Peter proposed to call him Corporal.

"Your soldier is a corporal, now, Miss Cecy, and it wouldn't be more than polite to call the gift after the giver."

"Very true," said Mrs. Laurens; "and these dark marks on his face and paws may very well represent the stripes on the corporal's arm."

Though all these matters were readily adjusted, the present proved rather unfortunate for the progress of Hetty's work. Perhaps it was not to be expected that she should resist the pleasure of playing with the Corporal. At any rate, she found it impossible to do so; and thus it came to pass that at bedtime the new stocking was but little advanced, after all.

"It is all the fault of that hateful cat!" said Hetty to herself, by way of excuse. "I wish I had never seen him! I mean to sit up a couple of hours and knit."

But sitting up to knit was found to be rather sleepy work; and, after she had nearly put her eyes out with the needles once or twice, she concluded to abandon the effort and go to bed.

The next day was Sunday, and, of course, there was nothing to be done on that day.

"Oh, dear!" said Henrietta. "How I wish I never had touched it! If I had only worked harder at first; but then I did work till my finger got sore, and after that, I could not bear the sight of it. If ever any one catches me in such a piece of work again—"

Sunday morning was stormy, and as Hetty had a slight cold, her mother did not think it best for her to go out. But the weather cleared up about noon, and Mrs. Laurens thought it would do her no harm to attend afternoon service. She herself always remained at home with Cecy at that time.

It was a lovely afternoon. Henrietta had been reading quietly all the morning; and, as she walked soberly along, she felt in better tune than she had done for some days. Presently she was overtaken by Minny.

"Why are you going to church alone, Hetty? So am I. How lucky! We can sit together in one pew, and have it all to ourselves."

Henrietta demurred a little. "Mother always tells me not to sit in any pew but our own."

"Oh, well, of course she couldn't mean ours. She wouldn't want you to sit with strangers; but with us you know that's very different. Besides, she won't know it. So, what harm will it do?"

Such an argument ought to have been enough for Hetty; but she was very much changed from the open-hearted girl of six months before. She had learned to think that there was something rather grand in having a "secret." She suffered herself to be overruled: and the two girls seated themselves in Mrs. Granger's pew.

Henrietta had been taught, upon entering a place of public worship, to offer a silent prayer for a blessing on the services. And, as a matter of course, she did so on the present occasion.

But as she put her head down, Minny bent hers, also, and whispered,—

"What saints we are! Almost as good as Saint Elsie herself!"

"Minny, for shame!" said Henrietta. But the words had their effect, and she rose without any prayer.

They were quite early, and Minny amused herself with making remarks upon the people who entered:—

"Look at Mrs. Langford's bonnet,—clear off her head! It must have been made before the flood. Rich as they are, I should think she might afford a new one. Oh, do see the bride! In a 'red' shawl, of all things!—But I suppose Mrs. Becket must show that she had real cashmere if she died for it. To be sure, she is as old as the hills. Mother says she might be a grandmother instead of a step-mother. Don't you pity Lizzy Becket? See how 'proper' she looks, as though she hardly dared to breathe, for fear her mother should hear her."

"Does Lizzy call her 'mother'?" asked Hetty. "I am sure I wouldn't."

"Nor I. And Lizzy said, before her father was married, that she would die before she would call Miss Palmer 'mother;' but her spirit is quite broken already. I said something about Mrs. Becket the ether day, and she took me up as sharply as could be, and said she did not choose to hear her dear father's wife spoken of in that way."

"Hush, Minny; don't talk so loud," whispered Hetty. "She will certainly hear you."

"Who cares?" said Minny, lowering her voice a little, however. "She isn't my step-mother, thank goodness!"

"Who sits in the pew before this?" asked Henrietta. "How nicely it is fitted up!"

"Madam Wentworth has taken it," answered Minny. "She has just come home from the country, somewhere. Her house was opened yesterday for the first time this season, and I saw the carriage at the door last night,—a beautiful little coupée, with gray horses."

"Last night?—Why, it rained pitchforks!" said Hetty.

"Yes, I know, and we thought it odd. But I believe she had some one spending the day with her,—a young lady, I should think, by the glimpse I had of her in the carriage. It seems singular that she should have company the very first day. I should think she would have wanted to put her house in order and get settled: shouldn't you?"

"I dare say it was all in order before she came," said Henrietta, feeling all the time that she was doing very wrong to indulge in such gossip in church, but afraid to incur Minny's ridicule by saying so. "You know she has a housekeeper who has been with her for years."

"And no end of servants, besides. I know she has two men-servants, and, I believe, a boy; and she has a French maid—"

"Oh, Minny," said Henrietta, laughing, "her maid is old Philly, who has lived with her years and years. She is a yellow-mulatto, and as wrinkled as a monkey. She is a good old soul, too, and has made many a bonnet for my doll."

"Dear me!" said Minny. "I heard she had a Frenchwoman, direct from Paris, who could not speak a word of English. Then you knew her, Hetty? Does your mother visit her?"

"Yes, indeed: they are connected by marriage, some way,—I don't exactly know how," replied Henrietta, with an air of superiority. "We go there a great deal."

"I wish we did! I wonder whether she will call on mother? You know we moved into the neighbourhood while she was away. I would give any thing to be acquainted with her. Mother says the Wentworths are among the nobility."

"I didn't know we had any nobility," said Henrietta; "but I don't believe she will call. She hardly ever goes to see strangers nowadays."

"But we are not strangers in town, only in that neighbourhood," said Minny, anxiously. "Can't you take me there some time, Hetty? I would give any thing to go."

"I will see about it," said Henrietta, rather consequentially, feeling her dignity considerably increased by knowing a more distinguished person than Minny. "But, Minny, do stop talking. Mr. Warren is looking straight at us."

"Who cares if he is?" said Minny, boldly. "I am not afraid of him, I hope." She continued to whisper, till Henrietta, really alarmed, withdrew to the other end of the seat.

"The Lord is in his holy temple. Let all the earth keep silence before him."

Henrietta had often listened to these words with pleasure, thinking how appropriate they were to the beginning of public worship, but now they seemed to sound like a reproach. Her mind was out of tune, and she felt as though she would rather be anywhere else than within hearing of those solemn words.

As the congregation kneeled in worship, she was conscious that some one entered the pew before her, but she did not look up till Minny whispered in her ear,—

"Henrietta, here is Madam Wentworth, and some one with her."

"What of it?" retorted Henrietta. "Do be quiet, can't you?"

"I do believe it is Elsie!" said Minny, in a tone of the utmost amazement that a whisper could express. "I wish I could see her face. It is Elsie, as sure as you are alive! Well, if that isn't beyond any thing!"

"Hush, I tell you! She will hear you," said Henrietta, in real terror.

"Don't be such a goose! You are very good all at once, seems to me!"

Henrietta would have given any thing to be safely in her mother's pew. She refused to answer Minny, who whispered with a scarcely suppressed giggle,—

"Do look, Hetty! Here's Mrs. Noah herself come to church!"

Hetty looked up, and had much ado not to laugh aloud. A little woman stood in the aisle, dressed in black, but in a very odd fashion. She wore a black straw bonnet of the smallest dimensions, such as were fashionable several years ago. It had no cape to speak of, and, as if in an effort to make all the atonement possible for its limited size, the poor lady had drawn it down over her eyes till it covered no more of the back of her head than a soldier's cap would have done. Her short hair, tinged with gray, was arranged in prim little curls all round; and she wore a very long, bright-green veil. The rest of her dress was in the same style, and in her hand she carried a large book and a handkerchief about the size and thickness of a dinner-napkin. She stood quite still, looking about her, and seemed waiting for some one to give her a seat. The sexton, however, was not to be seen, and no one else made a move to do so.

"I wonder some one doesn't ask her to sit down," said Minny. "She must be a distinguished stranger, I am sure,—perhaps some foreign princess in disguise."

Just at that moment, Mrs. Wentworth caught sight of the unconscious cause of all these remarks. She whispered something in a very low tone to Elsie, who immediately opened the pew-door and beckoned the stranger to a seat.

The poor woman accepted it very simply, and with a devout propriety which might have put to shame the two silly girls behind her.

Between Minny's whispers and her own disordered thoughts, Hetty hardly heard a word of the sermon. She had been taught to behave properly in church, and that nothing could be more unladylike (to say nothing worse) than irreverent behaviour in the house of God; and she could not help thinking what her mother would have said if she had seen her this afternoon. To add to her discomfort, she thought she caught a glimpse of Peter in the gallery,—though she could not be sure.

"It would be just like him to tell," she said to herself; "and then what would become of me?"

Minny's astonishment was quite irrepressible, and, almost before they were out of church, she attacked Henrietta on the subject.

"Well, if ever I expected to see Elsie Probert coming to church with Madam Wentworth, of all people in the world! I wonder if she is going to live there?—If Madam Wentworth has taken her for a companion or something? It would be a great thing for her, wouldn't it?" she continued. "Though I suppose she would be only a kind of servant,—not an equal, at all."

"What are you talking about?" asked Henrietta, who had not attended to the words of her companion, being intent upon seeing if Peter was among the people. She could see no one at all like him, however; and her mind being thus relieved, she had leisure to attend to Minny.

"How stupid you are!" said Minny, with her usual politeness. "I say, how odd that Elsie Probert should be in church with Madam Wentworth!"

"Not at all," replied Henrietta. "Elsie goes there a great deal. Madam Wentworth is her great-aunt."

"Why, Hetty Laurens, what 'do' you mean?" exclaimed Minny, incredulously. "I should like to know how that can be. I don't believe it."

"It is true, whether you believe it or not,"' said Hetty, not very well pleased by the tone and manner. "Mr. Probert is Madam Wentworth's own nephew; and he married Judge Wentworth's cousin. So, you see, they are connected both ways."

"Well, if ever!—If I had known that.—But are you sure?"

"I tell you I have known them all my life," said Hetty, angrily. "I have spent days and days there with Elsie, playing with our dolls. Madam Wentworth had a beautiful doll's house in her little dressing-room, all furnished for us, and she very often makes little parties for Elsie, and asks all the girls. Sometimes we have tableaux and charades, and she lends us all her beautiful things to dress our characters,—shawls and jewels and all. I wore all her diamonds once, when I was Mary Queen of Scots."

"Did you, really? How splendid!"

"Yes, indeed! They are worth thirty or forty thousand dollars," said Henrietta, yielding to the temptation of making a good story, and exaggerating considerably.

"But does she stay in the room all the time?" asked Minny. "I shouldn't like that. When I have a party, I always make mother stay up-stairs. I don't think there's any fun in playing with grown-up people in the room."

"Oh, she isn't a bit of a spoil-sport,—not like Miss Armitage," said Henrietta. "But never mind that now. I want to talk about something else. Do you know I haven't touched my composition yet? I was so busy all day yesterday knitting, and playing with Cecy's new cat, that I never once thought of it till this afternoon in church it popped into my head. What shall I do?"

"Do without," said Minny, "or use some old one."

"But I haven't any,—because I never went to any school but this; and it is so near the end of the term that I can't afford to lose any credits."

"Can't you write it to-night?"

"No: mother won't let me. She never will let me do any school-lessons on Sunday."

"What a bother!" exclaimed Minny. "I don't see but you will have to 'hook' something."

"What do you mean?" asked Henrietta.

"Take something out of a book, you little goose. Haven't you some old annual or magazine, or something? You needn't look so shocked," she continued, laughing. "Lots of girls do it, and no one is any the wiser."

"But it is so mean!" objected Henrietta.

"Why is it any meaner than writing down the names and dates in history and geography?" asked Minny. "You know you did that yourself last week, and so did Louise Sutherland. But you can take your own way, of course," she added,—rather offended at Henrietta's look of horror. "I suppose you will run and tell Miss Armitage about it. That's all one gets by being good-natured and trying to help people."

"I shall do no such thing," replied Henrietta, almost crying. "And you have no business to say such things, Minny."

"Well, well, don't make a fuss! Of course, you can do as you please. I only mentioned it to help you. Good-by."

Henrietta had always been accustomed to give her mother some account of the sermon; but, as may be guessed, she was not very well prepared to do so on this occasion. She blundered sadly in repeating the text, and could not even tell where it was to be found. She excused herself by saying that the church was so warm and close that it made her sleepy and gave her the headache.

"Was there a fire?" asked her mother, in surprise.

"Yes,—mother; at least, I suppose so; for it was very hot."

Now, Hetty had no idea whether there was a fire or not, or even whether the church was warm or cold; but she seized upon the first excuse that presented itself.

"And do you know, mother, Madam Wentworth has come home, and she invited such a queer-looking woman into her pew! Minny said she looked like—"

"Minny! Why did Minny sit with you? You know I have told you never to ask any of the school-girls into our pew unless I am there. Some of them are very giddy. Did you invite Minny to sit with you, or did she ask herself?"

"She didn't sit with me, mother. I saw her coming out of church."

"I didn't tell a lie," said Hetty to herself, as she went up-stairs. "For she didn't sit with me: I sat with her. And I certainly did see her coming out of church, as I said."

"You did tell a deliberate lie!" said conscience.

"Well, I don't care: mother needn't be so dreadfully particular. At any rate, it is not so bad as getting some one else to do my work, as Elsie did. I wonder what Madam Wentworth would say to that if she knew it?—She thinks Elsie so specially good. Oh, dear! What shall I do about that hateful composition? I wish I dared take Minny's way! I wonder if it would do any harm just for once?"

MADAM WENTWORTH.

"SO odd in you, Hetty, not to tell me that Elsie Probert was Madam Wentworth's niece!"

Such was Minny's salutation to her friend as they met on Monday morning at the schoolhouse door; and it was spoken in a tone of reproach which grated uncomfortably upon Henrietta's sensitive nerves.

She answered, therefore, rather impatiently,—

"Why should I tell you? What business was it of yours?"

"It was as much my business as any one's, I suppose," said Minny, haughtily. "At any rate, I think you might have told me. With such friendship as you profess for me, I must say, it seems very odd that you should keep such a thing a secret."

"What nonsense!" retorted Henrietta. "Why should I keep it a secret? I never cared any thing about it one way or the other; and I don't see now why you should make so much of it. What difference does it make to you whose niece she is?"

"Why, of course, I should have treated Elsie rather differently if I had known that she was somebody," said Minny. "Madam Wentworth! Why, I would give any thing to be invited to her house as you used to be; but I suppose you won't be asked there any more, now that you have quarrelled with Elsie."

"What of that?" said Henrietta. "If Elsie gets some one else to do her work for her, and then pretends that it is all her own, she is a mean, contemptible, deceitful girl, if she were niece to Alexander the Great. And I, for one, don't want any thing to do with her."

"Yes,—'if' she did!" said Minny. "But after all, Hetty, we are not sure—at least I am not—that she did any such thing. It might have been Miss Delancy's own work that I saw her have on the car; but I suppose you know something more about it, from what you said at our house."

"What do you mean?" asked Henrietta.

"Why, you said you knew of your own knowledge that Elsie had not done her work herself. So I suppose you found out in some other way. And besides, Hetty, I don't think you ought to have told all the girls without my permission. You know very well that I charged you not to tell. Didn't I?"

Henrietta coloured deeply. Minny certainly "had" charged her not to tell.

"But, Minny, you did as much as to say yourself—"

"I didn't say a word," interrupted Minny. "I was vexed enough at you for talking so, and would have stopped you if I could. Of course, I was not going to contradict you in my own house—"

"'Your' house!" interrupted Henrietta.

"Well, my mother's house, then,—though, by the way, it 'is' my house, for my grandfather left it to me. What is the use of interrupting so? I wasn't going to contradict you then, and make you look like a fool before all the girls, by telling them that you had broken your word—"

"Or make yourself look like a fool, by telling how you looked into a neighbour's window with an opera-glass!—"

"If you keep interrupting me, Henrietta, I shall think you want to quarrel with me," said Minny, in a calmly superior tone. "I must say, I think you are very childish this morning. If you don't want me to talk to you, I won't; though I don't know what I have done that you should treat me in this way. But I advise you not to say any more about Elsie, unless you do know certainly; for you might get into trouble that it would not be so easy to get out of. I am sure it is nothing to me, any way: I only spoke out of friendship to you; and, I must say, I didn't expect to be treated in this way!"

And Minny immediately proceeded to dissolve in tears, as her custom was on all occasions when she chose to consider herself aggrieved.

"Now, Minny, it's very silly to cry," said Henrietta. "I am sure I didn't mean to quarrel with you, or any thing of the kind: only I didn't like to have all the responsibility thrown on my shoulders, when I never should have thought of such a thing if you hadn't begun it."

"But you ought not to have told!" sobbed Minny. "You know I told you not to say a word about it. Oh, Henrietta!—to think that you should have betrayed me,—you that I loved so much, that I trusted so! But I shall never have confidence in any human being again! I wish I never did love any one, and then I should not always be disappointed!" And all this was accompanied by torrents of tears and hysterical sobs, till Henrietta really became alarmed.

In the midst of this interesting scene, Elsie entered the recitation-room, and naturally stood astonished at the sight of such amazing grief without any apparent cause.

"What 'is' the matter?" she asked. "Has Minny heard any bad news? Or is she sick?"

Minny sobbed and sighed, and explained with many words that some one had wounded her heart and betrayed her confidence, and gave notice that she might never be expected to recover from the shock, and finally came to the point,—that Henrietta had told of something which Minny had desired her never to repeat.

"Is that all?" asked Elsie, who had lately seen too much of real grief to be greatly affected by Minny's sentimental distress. "Come, Minny, don't cry any more. I know Hetty did not mean to do any thing wrong. She might forget,—any one might; but I am sure she wouldn't do any thing mean, for the world. No, no, Minny; you don't know Hetty as well as I do or you would never suspect her!"

These simple, kind words from the friend she had so cruelly injured touched Henrietta to the heart. She would have given any thing to throw her arms round Elsie's neck and "make up." But nothing is harder than to forgive those whom we have injured. The consciousness of the unkind speeches—nay, the downright treachery—of which she had been guilty towards Elsie, came between, and she resisted the good impulse. The next moment, she had hardened her heart anew, and even felt as though Elsie had given her fresh cause for anger.

"Come, come, Minny; don't cry any more," said Elsie. "The bell will ring in a minute. Miss Armitage has taken off her bonnet, and is just going up-stairs. If she sees that you have been crying, she will be sure to ask the reason, and make a fuss about it; and you would not like that. Kiss, and be friends, and then come and wash your face before school begins."

"You 'are' a good girl, Elsie!" said Minny, really touched for the moment. "And I am sorry I ever did any thing to vex you. I should never have said what I did, if I had known what I do now."

"Yes, if you had known she was Madam Wentworth's niece," said Henrietta to herself. "Well, if ever I would do any thing so shabby as that! And Elsie, too! If Minny had said to me what she did to her, I would never speak to her again the longest day I lived!"

She suffered Minny to kiss her, and even said something about being sorry she had done any thing to hurt her. While Minny, on her part, was profuse in caresses and protestations. Thus the breach was apparently healed; but it was only in appearance. Henrietta despised Minny for what she considered her time-serving. She was vexed with her for wishing to get rid of her share of responsibility about the story. And, above all, she was angry at her for placing herself so decidedly in the wrong. Minny had charged her not to tell: there was no denying that. Yet she had told all she had heard from her, and a great deal more; and, as was to be expected, the story had lost nothing by being transmitted from one mouth to another through the school. She was sensible that if Minnie deserted her, she would be placed in a very awkward position, supposing she should ever be called to account.

"Oh, dear!" she said to herself for the hundredth time. "How I wish I had never seen the old socks! They have made nothing but trouble and mischief!"

Minny, on her part, was very well pleased with the unexpected turn things had taken. It gave her an opportunity of making friends with Elsie, without seeming to go out of her way to do so. And the fact that Hetty had betrayed her confidence gave her, as she imagined, a great advantage, which she would not in the least scruple to use as best suited her purposes. It never occurred to her to think that she had, by her silence, her mysterious looks and half-uttered hints, confirmed all that Henrietta said, and had thus made herself a party to the slander.

All day she continued to make advances to Elsie, who received them coolly enough; for her distrust of Minny had been too long in growing to be removed all at once. She was not influenced merely by Minny's former impertinence, but she had seen in her more than one instance of downright falsehood. And she had every reason to believe that Minny was at the bottom of all the trouble about the socks—that it was she who had influenced the girls against her—and she could not overlook that matter of the opera-glass. She therefore received Minny's polite advances with civil indifference, and did not seem in the least flattered by them.

And when school was out, Minny could not decide in her own mind whether she had made any headway at all. Meantime, her new line of conduct did not pass unnoticed by the other girls.

"Minny is trying to be friends with Elsie," said Sarah Stone, whose eyes and ears were everywhere, as usual. "She has been doing the charming to her all day. I wonder what that is for?"

"Perhaps she has found out that she was wrong about the socks, and wants to make up," observed one of the girls.

"Not she! She would only be all the more vexed," said Sarah. "It is something more than that, you may depend."

"I think I could give the clue to the mystery," said Rose Chesterfield, smiling; "but I don't want to be uncharitable."

"I know well enough," said Lizzie Becket. "Madam Wentworth has come home, and Minny has found out that Elsie is her niece. They were in church together yesterday; and I heard Minny asking Henrietta about it on their way home. Hetty and she sat together, and, certainly, I never saw two girls behave worse in church than they did. I could hear them whispering and laughing all the way to our pew. Mother asked me who they were, and I Was really ashamed to tell her that they went to our school. I don't know what Mrs. Laurens would have said."

"Mother!" said Sarah, affecting surprise. "I thought your mother was dead."

"For shame, Sarah!" said Rose.

"Oh, you mean your father's wife. Excuse me, but I thought I remembered hearing some one say that she never would call Miss Palmer mother, if she died for it. Perhaps it wasn't you, though."

"You know it was I, well enough," said Lizzy, bluntly. "I said a great many foolish things about it. I did not think I ever could like her; but I do. She is very kind to me and to the children; and, besides, it ought to be enough that she is my father's wife, to make me respect her, at any rate."

"Well, I must say, I like a little consistency!" sneered Sarah. "Consistency for me, above all things."

"In other words, having once been in the wrong, I will always be in the wrong!" observed Rose.

   "'Don't be consistent, but be simply true!'"

"Who was it said that?"

"A wise man and a witty," said Augusta. "I am glad Lizzy has the independence to own that she was in the wrong, if she thinks so."

"Well, I think I wouldn't be quite so ready to talk, if I had to eat my words so often," said Sarah. "It isn't a kind of refreshment I am very fond of myself."

"Ah, there I give in!" replied Rose. "We all talk too much."

"'You' haven't any thing to reproach yourself with in that line, Rose," said Augusta, laughing. "However, I agree to the principle. It is better not to be in too much of a hurry to express one's opinion about things or people. Blessed are they who know how and when to hold their tongues."

Henrietta went home from school feeling very uncomfortable. She was angry with Minny, with Elsie, and with herself. She had repeated the story of Miss Delancy and the socks over and over, and had dwelt upon it in her own mind till she had come to a full belief in Elsie's dishonesty. And she was deeply displeased at being reminded on how slight a foundation her conviction rested.

Elsie's kind and trustful words to Minny had touched her, in spite of herself; but, as she had hardened her heart to them, they only increased her displeasure. She felt as if being forgiven by her former friend was the one thing that she could not endure. Then her conscience troubled her sorely, and would not be quieted; and now added to all was the consciousness of an act of dishonesty, which she could not recall without a feeling of shame and terror which almost made her sick. If she would only have laid the blame where it was due, she might have come to a true sense of her sin, and so, by confession and reparation, have attained to peace. But she persisted in ascribing the trouble to any thing and every thing but her own fault: to the socks, which had taken so much of her time,—to Elsie,—to Minny; nay, even poor Cecilia had to come in for a share, for possessing such a fascinating cat!

Moreover, her sister's steady industry in the face of so many difficulties was a continual reproach to Henrietta. It really annoyed her to see Cecy propped on her cushions, and working away with as much seriousness as though the fate of the whole army of the Potomac depended on her poor little wasted fingers. And she would even have been glad had something happened to put an end to the poor child's employment.

All these conflicting feelings did not tend to make her very amiable. She had been in the habit of allowing Corporal to take great liberties with her ball of yarn, till he had come to regard it as his legitimate plaything, and would stand on his hind legs and lift it out of her lap with the coolest and most businesslike air conceivable, much to the diversion of the little girls. On this particular evening, she did not feel disposed to allow that officer any such latitude; and, on his making his usual approaches, he was rewarded by a sound box on the ear.

Mrs. Laurens looked up surprised, and Cecy's ever-ready tears rose to her eyes.

But the Corporal had no idea of being treated in any such way, and returned the blow with his paw,—which, having the advantage of very long and sharp claws, was very unwelcome. He then retired, and took up a strong position in the corner of Cecy's sofa.

"You hateful creature!" exclaimed Henrietta. "I wish you were drowned! See how he has scratched me. That is always the way with cats,—treacherous things!"

"Who struck first?" said Mrs. Laurens.

"Well, I don't care! He had no business to take my ball. I'll teach him to meddle with it, if he comes here again!"

"You taught him to meddle with it, in the first place," replied her mother. "I told you, you would make him troublesome. But it is hardly fair to punish the poor animal for a trick which you yourself taught him. I don't wonder his sense of justice is offended."

"He never scratches 'me,'" said Cecy, petting her favourite.

"Oh, of course it is all right," said Henrietta, colouring, and with a voice trembling with anger. "It is only 'my' hand that is scratched. Of course, that is of no consequence. If it was Cecy, it would be different; but if he wanted to eat me up, it would be all right, so long as it pleased her."

"Henrietta, my child, what is the matter with you?" asked her mother, seriously. "You are not like the same girl that you were six weeks ago. I never would have believed you could show such a temper towards any one, much less towards your sister. I am sure all is not as it should be. If any thing has gone wrong, tell me what it is, and I will try to have it set right; but pray do not go on indulging such a spirit as this."

"There is nothing the matter," replied Henrietta: "only I don't like to be always blamed and found fault with, while Cecy never can do anything wrong. I don't see why she should have her own way in every thing, while I must be the one to give up."

And Henrietta burst into a flood of tears, which had been accumulating all day.

Her mother tried to soothe her, and then to reason with her; but all in vain.

She could be brought to say nothing but that every one was against her,—everybody hated her,—she had to bear the blame of every thing that happened, in school or at home, and she wished she was dead and out of the way!

Mrs. Laurens perceived at once that there was more behind all this grief and anger than the quarrel with Corporal, and came to the conclusion that something unpleasant must have happened at school. By degrees she extracted the information that Hetty had had a quarrel with Minny, and that Minny and every one had treated her very unkindly. Mrs. Laurens had not forgotten (as many people do) the feelings of her own childhood. She remembered the bitterness of a quarrel between school-friends, and was therefore inclined to excuse Henrietta's petulance. She did not think it desirable to go very deeply into the subject while her feelings were so much excited, and therefore asked few questions, but applied herself simply to the task of pouring oil on the troubled waters.

When the first tempest of anger was over, Hetty had the grace to be heartily ashamed of her outburst. She kissed Cecy, whose affliction had been equal to her own, and, at her earnest request, made friends with Corporal by scratching his chin and smoothing his fur,—advances which he received with much pleasure.

"You are not vexed with me now, are you, Hetty?" asked Cecy.

"No, my dear," replied her mother, taking the answer on herself. "Hetty was uncomfortable about something else, and that made her impatient. You know you are sometimes cross when you are in trouble. We will not talk about it any more just now."

"Oh, dear! If I could only tell mother everything, as I used to, what a comfort it would be!" thought poor Henrietta. "But then that last! I should not dare! She never would forgive me, I am sure. Oh, dear, dear! How miserable I am! And then to see Minny courting Elsie all day, just because she is Madam Wentworth's niece, and trying to throw all the blame on me! Elsie never would have done that, anyhow."

For the first time, the thought crossed her mind that she should be glad to find Elsie innocent; and yet, if she was so, what was she? She made a great effort to think of something else, and was so pleasant all the evening and the next day, that her mother hoped the trouble had passed by. But it was only covered up, and ready to break out again on the first provocation.

Henrietta and Minny met very coolly next morning. No absolute broach was apparent as yet, but there were none of those abundant demonstrations of affection with which they were accustomed to greet one another,—no kisses, or interlaced arms, or going aside into corners to whisper confidences.

Minny assumed an injured look, and spoke with a plaintive tone, exasperating Henrietta to the last degree. Her whole air and manner seemed to say, as plainly as possible, "Behold my magnanimity! You have injured me deeply, you have betrayed my confidence and abused my affection; but I forgive you! I heap coals of fire on your head, and I hope you will find them hot enough to make you very uncomfortable."

Towards Elsie, Minny was cordiality itself. She would willingly have been something more than cordial, had that been possible.

But Elsie gave no encouragement to any display of affection. Her dislike of Minny was no prejudice. It was founded on a pretty accurate estimate of that young lady's character, and she did not believe Minny would have turned round so suddenly unless she had a point to carry. It might be merely a desire to spite Henrietta, or it might be for some other reason, which did not appear. At all events, she felt no disposition whatever to form an intimacy with her, and contented herself with replying sparingly and with the coolest civility to her advances.

Towards Henrietta, Elsie felt very differently. Ever since they were little children, they had played and studied together: Elsie had always loved her like a sister, and, though deeply wounded by her late desertion, she continued to cherish a strong regard for her former friend. She knew that Hetty was easily led, whether for good or evil; and her own stronger will had kept her out of many difficulties, and helped to sustain the good character which, till lately, she had always maintained in school.

Elsie believed that Minny had used Hetty for the furtherance of her own designs as long as it suited her convenience, and, as she also believed, would have no hesitation in casting her off, and throwing all the blame on her—if blame there was—whenever it became desirable to do so. She would willingly have warned Henrietta, had it been possible; but Henrietta sedulously avoided her, and, though she did not absolutely refuse to speak when they met, her salutation was the coldest and briefest possible.

"And, after all," Elsie reasoned, "I really know nothing certain: it is only suspicion. Henrietta may have got up the whole story herself,—though it is not the least like her old ways. Sarah Stone says she did; but then Sarah is no more to be trusted than Minny,—perhaps not so much. The girls are all coming round again: that is one comfort."

The tide had certainly turned in Elsie's favour during the last two or three days. The older girls felt ashamed of the suspicions they had been led to entertain of one who had always borne such an excellent character for uprightness and honesty.

Rose, and two or three of her friends, had adhered to Elsie from first to last, and they were girls who had great weight in the school. Rose was ordinarily a person of few words; but, when she did speak, it was to the point, and her reputation for accuracy was such that her simple "I think so," or, at most, "I am quite sure," was more convincing than a whole volume of protestations from those whose ideas of truth were more loose. Rose had not hesitated from the first to declare the whole tale to be a slander.

And when Minny inquired, with what she intended for crushing dignity,—

"Do you mean to say, Miss Chesterfield, that you could believe Hetty or myself capable of inventing such a story?"

Rose coolly replied,—"Much sooner than I would believe Elsie guilty of such an imposition."

"I should like to know why," said Minny.

"Because," replied Rose, "I have known you to tell falsehoods, and Elsie I never did."

Minny did not care to pursue this conversation any further, nor did she repeat it to Hetty. She thought Hetty might take it up more warmly than would be quite convenient at present.

In the course of Tuesday morning, a carriage was heard to stop at the school-door. Elsie was sent for down-stairs, and, after a few minutes' absence, she returned with a very bright face, and whispered to Miss Armitage, who went down in her turn. The girls looked at each other with significant smiles. They had seen such proceedings before, and knew what they portended.

"When, Elsie?" whispered one of the girls as she passed.

But Elsie only laughed, and put her finger to her lip.

Presently the carriage was heard to drive off, and Miss Armitage returned to the school-room. The class which was reciting when the interruption occurred finished the lesson, and things went on as usual till the hour of recess, when Miss Armitage called the attention of the young ladies by her usual signal,—tapping the table with the key.

"I have the pleasure of informing you, young ladies," said the principal, in her most gracious manner, "that you are all invited to Madam Wentworth's house to tea this afternoon at five o'clock. Mrs. Wentworth begs me to say that she hopes you will excuse the shortness of the notice, which was unavoidable, and also that she hopes to see every one in the school, from the oldest to the youngest. As most of you are acquainted with the habits of our kind old friend, I need not tell you that when she says five she means exactly sixty minutes past four, and not a moment later. And, as I suppose you may wish some little time for preparation, I shall dismiss school at two o'clock. The young ladies may now have a short recess."

As may be imagined, there was but one subject of conversation.

"A party at Madam Wentworth's! Isn't it grand?" said Lizzy. "How long it is since we have had one!—Not since last winter."

"Because Aunt Wentworth has been away," remarked Elsie.

"I am sure she is very kind to take so much trouble for us so soon," said little Isabella. "But I wonder why she asked all the school at once? She never did that before. She used always to invite us young ones by ourselves on Saturday afternoon."

"Oh, that was last winter," said little Kitty French, who, though only eight, felt at least twelve. "We were very little girls then. It Is quite different now."

"I dare say she had a good reason for it," said Augusta, carelessly. "She isn't apt to do things without a motive."

"But the notice is so short," said one of the new scholars. "I can never get any thing ready to wear."

"Don't trouble yourself about that, Christine," said Elsie. "Aunt neither expects nor wishes us to dress. That blue merino you wear sometimes is just the thing."

"Why didn't you let her alone?" asked Sarah Stone, as Christine left the room. "It would have been such fun to put her up to wear a light silk dress and short sleeves, and then see how she would look when she found all the rest of us in our school-dresses! You are a regular spoil-sport, Elsie."

"I don't like such sport," replied Elsie. "It is rather cruel, I think,—especially with a stranger."

"Dear me, Saint Stockings!" retorted Sarah; but no laugh followed.

The girls looked indignant, and Sarah, seeing that she had missed her mark, thought it advisable to withdraw.

Minny joined Henrietta as the school went out. "Are you going to Madam Wentworth's?" she asked.

"I don't know, I am sure," replied Henrietta, who had been debating the matter in her own mind. "I can't say that I want to go; but I am afraid it will look odd if I don't."

"Yes, indeed, it will," said Minny, decidedly. "Connected with her as you are, and having been there as much 'as you say' you have,—" a slight emphasis on these words made Hetty wince, "it would look very odd to stay away now when the whole school is invited. You will have to give her and your mother a reason; and if you say you have quarrelled with Elsie, it will all come out. Oh, yes: you must go; and do try to look a little less as if you were going to be hung, Henrietta."

"I can't help it, Minny," said Hetty, half crying, "I am so unhappy."

"What of that? I am sure you haven't half as much to bear as I have. Nobody has betrayed your secrets. Come, now; don't begin to cry. I told you I forgave you, and I only hope you can forgive yourself."

And with this charitable wish, uttered in a highly exasperating tone of superiority, Minny bade her friend good-night.

THE TEA-PARTY.

FIVE o'clock found the whole party of school-girls assembled in Madam Wentworth spacious, old-fashioned drawing-rooms. From the oldest to the youngest, not one was absent. Most of the girls had been there before; but those who had not, gazed with interest at the family-portraits, by Copley and Stuart, the tall India-cabinets surmounted by almost equally tall china vases of fabulous age and priceless value, the étagères with their curious and beautiful things gathered from all parts of the world, the portfolios of engravings, the heavy, handsome, old-fashioned furniture, and Madam Wentworth's own particular ebony worktable, inlaid with ivory and lined with sea-green satin.

The little girls gathered in the back parlour, where Elsie's old baby-house displayed its attractions, together with gems, puzzles and picture-books innumerable. The elders walked about, or chatted in groups, or disposed of themselves in any way that pleased their fancy.

Madam Wentworth sat by the fire, knitting, as usual; only, instead of fine thread or splendidly coloured Berlin wool, her fingers were occupied with a blue woollen stocking. Some of the girls thought her graver than common; but she had a smile and a kind word for every one,—especially the strangers. Presently she arose and went into the library, where quite a little party had gathered, including Minny, Sarah, Elsie and Christine. Christine stood a little apart from her companions, earnestly engaged in running over the titles of the books on the lower shelves.

"Look at Christine!" said Minny. "One would think she never had been in a library before in her life."

"I dare say she never was," said Sarah. "Christine, dear, did you ever see so many books together in your life before?"

"I have seen as many," replied Christine, simply; "but there are some books here that I never met with." And she mentioned the titles of several. "Oh," she said, with something of a sigh, "how nice it must be to be able to buy every thing that one wants! What a collection of rare books!"

"Rare!" said Sarah,—sneeringly, as usual.

"Rare out West, I suppose she means," remarked Minny. "Of course, they are not rare here."

"Rare anywhere," said Christine, with spirit. "Rare even in London,—some of them. I believe you think that people out West don't know how to read."

"Oh, no!" replied Minny, who was making a great effort that day to do the amiable. "Of course we know that Western people are very industrious and thriving, and all that; but we don't expect them to be literary. We all know that you are a very good scholar, Christine. We were only amused at your thinking so much of seeing these books, and fancying them so rare."

"They 'are' rare!" persisted Christine. "My father buys a great many books, and gets catalogues of all the great sales: so I know. He has been trying these five years to get a copy of 'Pococke's Travels,' without success."

"I believe Christine is right, Minny," said Elsie. "This book belonged to grandfather; and I rather think it is one of the original subscription copies. There are some splendid books in that next case, Christine."

Christine passed on, and was almost struck dumb at the sight of the magnificent folios relating to the zoological world.

"Oh, Elsie!" she said, in a tone almost of awe. "Do you think your aunt would be willing to let me take down one of these volumes?"

"Take down any thing you please, my child," said Madam Wentworth, answering for herself. "I am glad to find some one who is interested in them. Elsie, my dear, draw out that table for Christine. Have you seen those volumes on European birds? You will find them well worth looking at."

Christine flushed up, and seemed almost too shy and too happy to speak. Madam Wentworth well understood the precious art of setting people at their ease, and drawing them out to talk of what they understood best. And the other girls stood amazed to hear the shy, timid girl chatting with their hostess about different authors on Natural History, comparing the relative merits of drawings, and expressing her opinions with modest frankness when they chanced to differ from those of Madam Wentworth.

"Have you the Australian Birds?" asked Christine.

"I am sorry to say I have not," replied Madam Wentworth. "I had fully intended to treat myself to the book this fall; but, after this unhappy war broke out, it did not seem to me right to expend such a sum on what was, after all, but an article of luxury, when so much is required for necessaries. It is no time now to indulge in superfluities."

"I suppose that is right," said Christine, thoughtfully; "and yet buying books does not seem exactly like self-indulgence."

"I do not mean to imply that it is always so," said Madam Wentworth; "but intellectual tastes may be indulged to a selfish extent as well as sensual appetites. A man may spend money improperly upon books as well as upon fine furniture or rich food."

"It seems a higher kind of self-denial, to deny oneself books and such things," remarked Elsie.

"Undoubtedly it is," said Madam Wentworth, "to those who have intellectual tastes. But, my dear Christine, since you are so fond of Natural History, I shall be happy to have you come here and read whenever you are so disposed. It need make no difference whether I am at home or not. Gertrude will find you what you want, and make you comfortable."

Christine expressed her gratitude in few but efficient words. Minny looked on in wonder and envy. Here was this little, ignorant country-girl (as she had been accustomed to consider her) treated by the great lady as an equal, and invited to come to her house whenever she pleased. While she—the rich and beautiful Miss Granger, daughter of a millionnaire—was honoured with no more notice than was given to the youngest of her companions.

"So much for knowing how to get on the right side of people," thought Minny. "I dare say she knew before she came that Madam Wentworth was fond of such things; but hew any one can care so much for a parcel of birds passes my comprehension."

Henrietta was rather later than her companions. She had felt a strange unwillingness to come at all; for she had an uncomfortable presentiment that something was going to happen. It might be the effect of her own uneasy conscience, but she fancied that Madam Wentworth's greeting lacked something of its accustomed cordiality. Elsie had tried to treat her just as usual,—but that is a thing which, under such circumstances, no one ever yet accomplished; and she felt vexed at herself for colouring and feeling constrained and awkward.

Minny sported her injured innocence and wounded affection, and Henrietta thought all the girls were more or less cool to her. As she wandered about the house, and remembered how happy she had been there with Elsie, she could hardly restrain her tears, and, but for the dread of exciting attention and remark, she would have pleaded illness and gone home.

The time passed on, and tea was on last announced. On these occasions, a table was always set the whole length of the long dining-room, and adorned with all the magnificence of the Wentworth plate and china. Mrs. Wentworth sat at the head of the table, and, usually, one of the elder girls at the foot; but now that place was occupied by Miss Delancy.

Henrietta looked at Minny, and tried to catch her eye; but Minny looked resolutely another way. The table was spread as the tea-tables of old-fashioned ladies are wont to be when they entertain their young friends. There was plenty of good wholesome bread and butter, a great abundance of cakes of all sorts and sizes, and such preserved fruits and cream—as many of the girls thought and declared—were never seen anywhere else: cherries as clear as amber, in syrup like virgin honey; peaches not shabbily canned, but preserved by the good old-fashioned rule of pound for pound; pink quinces built into blooming pyramids with a cement of their own jelly; with strawberries, pine-apple, &c., all in rare abundance.

Gertrude took great delight in preparing all these delicacies, and enjoyed equal pleasure in seeing them appreciated by "the young ladies." And Madam Wentworth's own man Septimius stood behind his mistress's chair, and our old friend Peter, in gorgeous array, behind that of Miss Delancy. The places were taken without confusion, grace was said, and all sat down.

"What an odd ideal—saying grace at the tea-table!" whispered Minny to Augusta, who happened to be her next neighbour. "I didn't know any one did such things nowadays."

"Why shouldn't one say grace at tea as well as at dinner?" asked Augusta.

"Well, I don't know. It don't seem appropriate, somehow."

"I don't see why it should be omitted at tea more than at any other meal," answered Augusta. "It seems to me that is like saying, in effect, that you would like a blessing on your breakfast and dinner, but as for your tea, you don't care whether you have one or not."

"How you 'do' like to twist words round, Augusta!"

"I like to 'untwist' them," replied Augusta, laughing. "I like to put them into plain English: and I admit that they sometimes sound very differently when they are so translated."

The meal went on merrily and pleasantly. There was abundance of lively conversation and laughing, and a thorough enjoyment of the good things before them. Madam Wentworth looked on, pleased, as usual, with the pleasure of the young folks; but several of the girls besides Hetty thought she was graver than usual.

When every one had finished, she made a signal to Septimius, who immediately left the room, followed by Peter, and closed the door. The girls, a little surprised, looked at Madam Wentworth, expecting the usual signal to rise; but she remained sitting for some minutes in silence.

"Now that you are all together, girls," she said, at last, in a kind but very serious tone, "I wish to speak to you in relation to a matter which has given me a great deal of pain. I allude to the story which has been circulating among you concerning my niece, Elsie Probert."

The girls looked at each other, and then at Minny and Hetty. Minny coloured deeply, while Henrietta turned as pale as death.

"I understand," Madam Wentworth continued, "that it has been publicly said in the school that Elsie has employed another person to do her work for her, and has then attempted to pass it off as her own,—and that the person in question was her cousin, Miss Delancy, who was actually seen at work upon the stocking in question. Was not that the story?" she asked, addressing herself to Rose Chesterfield.

"It was," replied Rose.

Madam Wentworth continued:—"Elsie herself told me that the girls distrusted her and treated her coldly upon this account, and asked my advice as to what she had better do about it, as she did not, for reasons that you will easily understand, wish to mention the affair to Miss Armitage. I advised her to do nothing, and let it pass over; but, upon consideration, doubted the propriety of allowing such a gross calumny to be unreproved, and I therefore resolved, without saying any thing to her, to take the matter into my own hands. Miss Delancy will now speak for herself."

"I have never taken one stitch on Elsie's work since she commenced it," said Miss Delancy. "I was staying at her father's house while the socks were in progress, and we used to have some trials of speed, in which I confess I was ignominiously beaten. But so conscientious was Elsie that on one occasion when I had ravelled out a part of her work, mistaking it for my own, she would not even let me knit it up to where it was before. The work which I had on the Milton cars was my own. Elsie never told me not to forget to finish her work, as has been reported. What she said was, 'Do not forget!' And the words referred to a message to a friend."

"The facts in the case are these," resumed Madam Wentworth. "Elsie was doubtful at first whether she should have time to finish the socks if she began them. She is, as you know, very busy in school, and she has many home-duties besides. Moreover, she intended to begin taking music-lessons just at that time, to which she had been looking forward with a great deal of pleasure, and which would, of course, occupy most of her time. Her father had already given to the cause of the country all that he felt he could afford, and for that reason Elsie did not like to ask him for money to purchase her materials. Upon consideration, however, she came to the conclusion to devote to her stocking-yarn the funds she had saved for Christmas purposes, and, that she might have time to knit, she gave up her music-lessons, resigning her place in the class to Isabella Chesterfield. By this means, and by carefully husbanding all her spare moments, she was enabled to accomplish what she did, and, having counted the cost before she began, she was not disappointed in the result.

"You know as well as I who were the authors of these slanders," she continued, with a shade more of severity in her voice. "To them I shall say nothing. To those who have believed them, I shall only remark that I am sorry to find them so ready to think evil of a school-mate in whom they certainly have never seen any tendency to deceit. 'Charity,' says the apostle, 'thinketh no evil,' and though we have every thing else, but lack charity, it will profit us nothing."

There was a pause. Henrietta was stunned. She could think of nothing except to wish that she could somehow sink out of sight and memory. But her cup was not full! Ever since Madam Wentworth began speaking, Minny had been considering how best to save her credit. It would be useless to deny any thing,—that she saw at once; but could she not gain something by a frank confession? Like many other politicians, she had no scruple about sacrificing an ally if it became necessary. Before Madam Wentworth concluded, her mind was made up.

"I suppose I am partly to blame," said she, speaking quite clearly and distinctly. "I did suspect Elsie of having help about the work. I saw her knitting on a blue sock with a red stripe round the top, and I afterwards saw Miss Delancy have such a sock on the cars. I told Henrietta what I thought, but begged her not to repeat it to any one, as it was only a guess on my part. She did repeat it, and, I am sorry to say, with very great additions; for she said she knew of her own knowledge that Miss Delancy had knit on Elsie's sock, and a good deal besides. I was very much vexed, and told her so; and we had quite a quarrel about it, as Elsie knows. I never told one of the girls but Henrietta, and no one can say that she ever heard me. I am very sorry that I ever mentioned the matter to any one. If I had known Elsie as well as I do now, I should never have thought of suspecting her of such a thing, and I beg her pardon for having done so."

"There!" she thought. "I don't see how I could be expected to do more than that!"

But Madam Wentworth's face did not relax, as she expected, and Elsie, for the first time, looked very angry.

"Then you never, in any way, helped to give currency to the report, except by telling your suspicions to Henrietta, under the seal of confidence?" said Madam Wentworth.

"No, ma'am," replied Minny, boldly. "I never did. All the rest was Henrietta's doing."

The girls looked at each other in amazement, and Rose and Augusta exchanged intelligent glances.

To Rose's lips came the words, "Shall I speak?"

Augusta nodded.

"I should like to say something about that," Rose began. "Henrietta was undoubtedly very wrong; but it is by no means fair that she should bear all the blame. I do not say that Minny confirmed the story in so many words, but she certainly did all that looks and actions and very broad hints could do, both in the school and, as I understand, in her own house. She never contradicted Henrietta in a single instance, and certainly intimated very clearly that she not only believed what was said, but could tell a great deal more if she would. I do not defend Henrietta, but, I must say, I think Minny was equally to blame."

Minny tried to put on a look of injured innocence; but it was a signal failure.

"Where did you see Elsie have her work?" asked Madam Wentworth, turning to Minny.

"I saw her at her back parlour window," answered Minny. "Our windows look directly across."

"You must have good eyes, to distinguish one sock from another at that distance," observed Miss Delancy.

"She used an opera-glass," said Sarah Stone, loud enough to be heard by every one.

Madam Wentworth smiled in spite of herself.

"I congratulate you upon your zeal in the pursuit of knowledge," said she. "If you bring it to bear upon your school-books, you must be a very good scholar. But it unluckily happens that people who bestow so much attention upon their neighbours' affairs, often have but little left for their own. I see, by Elsie's imploring looks, that she is desirous I should drop the matter; and I am very ready to do so. I hope this will be a lesson to all of you on the subject of slander. You see how great a matter a little fire kindleth. I do not doubt that Henrietta sees clearly the sin and folly of her conduct, and I trust that she will never be tempted to repeat it. As to Minny, I must say, I should think much better of her if she had not tried to clear herself at the expense of her companion. I wish to repeat, and to have it distinctly understood, that all this has been planned by me, without Elsie's knowledge or consent. We will now go up-stairs."

As soon as Elsie could escape from the congratulations and apologies of the girls, she hastened in search of Henrietta, who had disappeared immediately after supper.

After long searching, she found her occupying a low seat behind the curtains in her aunt's dressing-room, crying as if her heart would break.

Minny was occupied in putting on her hat and cloak to go home, talking angrily, though in a low tone.

And as Elsie entered, she heard her say, "I will never speak to you again the longest day I live; and, what's more, I will be revenged on you, if I die for it,—you mean, little, hypocritical story-teller!"

"Hush, Minny," cried Elsie. "You must not talk so. It is very wrong. Henrietta is unhappy enough now."

"I never will speak to her again," repeated Minny, "and I wish I had never known her."

"It would certainly have been a blessed thing for her if you never had," Elsie could not help saying.

Minny deigned no reply, but marched down-stairs, and shut the street-door after her with a violence that shook the house.

Elsie sat down by Henrietta in the window-seat, and tried, by caresses and kind words, to soothe her agitation. She could not help crying herself; and perhaps her tears did as much good as any thing.

Henrietta turned away at first, and would make no response to Elsie's entreaties; but it was not in her nature to resist kindness, and by degrees she was won over to lay her head on her friend's shoulder, and, with her arms around her neck, to beg her pardon:—

"Oh, Elsie, I am so sorry! I never realized till to-night how wicked I had been all the time. I have done nothing but go more and more wrong ever since that first day I spoke to you so about the stockings. You can't guess half the mean and shameful things I have done. I have felt so wicked, I have not dared to say my prayers for ever so long."

"I know how that is," said Elsie. "When I have done any thing very wrong, I have had the same feeling; but, Hetty, I don't think it right to give up to it, because then one only gets worse and worse."

"That is just what I have done," said Henrietta, crying afresh. "If any one had told me, six months ago, that I should have acted so, I never would have believed it. I was even angry at you yesterday for telling Minny that I would not do any thing mean. I know very well that I had done so many mean things, besides talking about you as I did. I have been angry with mother, and cross to poor Cecy; and oh, Elsie, worse than that,—I was ashamed to have any one know that she was my sister, because Minny said she was a frightful little object; and I wished mother would not let Peter carry her out where people could see her."

"She is not frightful," said Elsie, indignantly: "she has the sweetest face I ever saw. I really cannot see, Hetty, how you could let Minny lead you as she did. I should think one such speech would have opened your eyes."

"She flattered me so," replied Henrietta. "I was just such a fool as to believe it all; and she could make me do any thing by coaxing and praising me. And I don't believe she really cared for me, after all. All she thinks about the girls is whether they are rich and fashionable."

"I suppose it is a good deal in the way she was brought up," remarked Elsie. "Frances Percival, who hardly ever speaks against anybody, says her mother is a very silly, half-educated woman, who cares for nothing but dress and show; and of course that makes some excuse for Minny."

"I don't blame Minny half as much as I do myself," said Henrietta.

Elsie was glad to hear this remark. She thought it showed the sincerity of Henrietta's repentance that she did not throw any more blame on her companion. And she could not help contrasting her disposition with Minny's, ready to sacrifice Henrietta for the least chance of clearing herself.

"You must try to forgive Minny, though," she said, with a little hesitation,—for she was always somewhat shy of speaking upon religious subjects. "You know,'If we forgive not men their trespasses—'"

"Yes, I know," said Henrietta. "But, Elsie, when I think about it, it does seem as though—" She paused, and then added, in a much lower tone, "as though He never could forgive me."

"You mustn't think so, Hetty. He is always ready to forgive a great deal more ready than we are to ask it."

"If it was only once or twice," said Henrietta. "But I have done wrong over and over so many times. Sometimes I would be really sorry, and resolve to behave better; but I never did."

"Hetty," said Elsie, "don't you remember what Christ told Peter?—That he should forgive his brother, 'not seven times, but seventy times seven'? And don't you think he would be ready to do as much as he told Peter was right?"

"Do you know, Elsie," said Hetty, after a little silence, "I used really to think I loved him and wanted to be like him?—Last spring, you know."

"I know," replied Elsie. "I thought so too; and that made me all the more sorry—"

"It began with my doing little things that I knew were wrong," continued Henrietta, "not trying to keep my thoughts fixed in prayer-time, and then reading story-books in school. After that, Minny came to sit next to me, and we used to do very bad things. I used to write down dates and numbers on a little piece of paper, and hold it in my hand to look at in the class, and peep into the book if I got a chance. And this week I did something worse. I don't know how to tell you Elsie; but, indeed, I never did any thing quite so bad as this before. I am afraid you will never want to speak to me again when you know what it is."

"I think I know now," said Elsie, desirous to relieve her friend as far as possible from the shame of such a confession: "you mean about your composition."

"How did you find out?" asked Hetty, surprised. "Did Minny tell you?"

"No, indeed," exclaimed Elsie. "If Minny had told me any such thing about you, I should have shut her mouth quickly enough, you may depend upon that. She undertook this morning to say something about your reading your lesson, and I just told her, plainly, that people who lived in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

Hetty felt a new pang of remorse, as she reflected how differently she had behaved. "But about the composition: how did you find out about it?"

"Oh, I knew in a moment. You see, we have taken Littell's 'Living Age' from the very beginning, and father has always had them bound. And when I get out of any thing else to read, I take down one of the back volumes. So I am pretty familiar with them. I thought the verses sounded very 'natural,' and yet I could not tell where I had heard or seen them. I repeated two or three lines to my father, and asked him if he knew who wrote them, or where they were to be found. And he went to the bookcase and took down the very volume!

"So I just threw the paper into the fire that no one else might see it, and meant to speak to you about it; but all this fuss put it out of my head. But, Hetty, you would have been in a dreadful plight if I had not known—if they had gone into the paper. Maria Bradley read those very verses in school one day when you were not there. Just think how you would have felt if they had been read!"

Hetty shuddered. "It would have served me just right, though! But how shall I manage about the piece? I never can write one now."

"Oh, never mind. You can scribble something, and make it up next time. You are a great deal better off than usual this week, and you know Miss Armitage never asks who is in the paper. I am only glad I saw it before any one else did."

"Those 'Littells' were among my troubles," said Hetty. "I was cross with Cecy one day, and mother sent me to my room and told me not to leave it till tea-time. I had my knitting, but I would not work on that: so I ran up to the attic and brought down a whole armful of magazines. After that, I was always reading them when I ought to have been doing something else,—reading the Bible, or studying, or knitting on my socks; and I wasted a great deal of time on them. That was one reason why I didn't get my sock done. I shall never want to see a 'Littell' again as long as I live."

"I think that is hardly fair," remarked Elsie, smiling. "The poor papers are not in fault. They would have done you no harm if you had read them at a proper time."

"One thing I am determined on," said Henrietta. "I mean to tell mother every thing. I will never have a secret from her again."

Elsie applauded this resolution, and begged her not to defer putting it into practice. "You will find it a hundred times easier to-night than to-morrow, Hetty. The longer such a thing is put off, the harder it is."

"I will do it before I sleep," replied Henrietta. "I know she will be very angry—"

"I don't believe she will," interrupted Elsie.

"Well, perhaps not; but she will be sorry, and that is worse. Do you know, I am so glad it has all come out? Even with the disgrace and all, I feel happier than I have done for weeks. I don't suppose the girls will ever speak to me again, though."

"Oh, yes," replied Elsie. "When they see that you are sorry, they won't remember it against you,—that is, not very long. I dare say there will be some to twit you with it when they get vexed; but they are not those you care the most about. Come; don't let's stay up here in the dark any longer. I want the girls to see that we are friends again."

There was a good deal of staring and whispering, as Elsie and Hetty entered the drawing-room arm in arm.

"Well," said Letty Stanley, emphatically, "if Elsie is not a Christian child, I never saw one. I will never laugh at her preciseness after this."

"She likes to make a show of magnanimity for aunt's benefit," remarked Sarah, sneering as usual. "It is very cheap, and goes a great way."

"Sarah," asked Letty, "did you ever do one single good or true or kind thing in your whole life?"

"Upon my word, Miss Letitia Stanley, that is a singular question! I don't think I am so much worse than any one else. Why do you ask me?"

"Because," replied Letitia, with emphasis, "I never yet, in all the time I have known you, heard you allow that any one acted from good motive, or spoke the simple truth, or did a kind action, without some expectation of advantage; and it is only fair to suppose that you judge others in some degree by yourself."

"But, after all, Letty, don't you think it shows a want of spirit in Elsie to be so ready to take Henrietta up again, after being so badly treated by her?" asked Lizzy, as Sarah turned away, for once too much abashed to answer.

"It shows a want of a certain sort of spirit, I admit," replied Letty,—"but a great abundance of another sort which is infinitely better. It shows a spirit of love and forgiveness—"

"In short, a Christian spirit," interrupted Rose.

"Well, yes, a Christian spirit,—which is much better than pride and resentment."

"Elsie can afford to be magnanimous," said Rose, smiling. "She has been in the right all the time. I think it is comparatively easy to pardon those who have injured us. It is those we have injured that we find it hard to forgive."

MINNY'S EXCUSES.

ENTERING upon her resolution fortified by Elsie's advice, Henrietta confessed every thing to her mother before she slept. She concealed nothing that she could remember, from her first deviation from truth in school to her disgraceful behaviour in church and the affair of the composition, throwing as little blame as possible upon Minny. Deeply grieved as Mrs. Laurens was, she could not but rejoice that her daughter had been stopped short in her career of deception, and also that she took in such a good spirit the severe lesson which circumstances had taught. She was pleased, too, that Henrietta showed no desire to excuse herself at the expense of her companion,—friend she could hardly be called,—though her eyes seemed opened to Minny's true character at last. She could not say enough in praise of Elsie's conduct both before and after the discovery.

"Only think, mother, what sacrifices Elsie was making all the time that we were treating her so,—giving up her music-lessons that she was so anxious about, and spending all her money on the soldiers, and never saying one word about it. Nobody knew but Rose."

"Why did not Rose tell?" asked her mother.

"I believe Elsie asked her not to say any thing about it," replied Henrietta.

"Rose always defended her, however, and told Minny she should believe Elsie's word before hers any day, because she had never known Elsie tell a falsehood. Minny was so angry."

"Yes, I dare say. A great many people who do not in the least scruple to tell a lie are very angry at being accused of it."

"Well, mother, I blame myself a great deal more than I do Minny. I ought to have known what sort of a girl she was. I knew long ago that she would tell stories."

"What do you mean by stories, Henrietta?" interrupted her mother.

"Why, falsehoods,—stories, mother,—real lies!"

"Say lies, then, my dear. I think if people accustomed themselves to call that sin by its right name, they would be more careful about committing it."

"To be sure," said Henrietta, "it does sound differently to say one tells a lie. But the stories Minny told did not seem of so much consequence at first; they were only about little things. And she used to rattle on so, it was amusing to hear her. I know they could not be true, of course; and that ought to have put me on my guard.

"But there was another thing, worse than that: she would pretend to think all the world of girls, and be very intimate with them, and then talk about them in their absence. There was Bessie Dwight, her cousin,—she pretended to be so fond of her when she was with her, and Bessie believed it all, and perfectly worshipped Minny; but Minny made no scruple of calling her a little fool and an affected little doll, and saying her weak eyes and head were all a pretence,—she could see well enough when she had a novel to read. I dare say she talked so about it me behind my back."

"I have no doubt of it. Bessie is not the brightest girl in the world: her weak eyes have been a great disadvantage to her, but she is no fool. And if she were, it is not her cousin's place to proclaim it."

"And she is just as honest as the day is long," said Hetty. "But, mother, don't you think it is odd that Bessie should be able to read stories when she cannot study?"

"No, my dear. Reading stories requires a very different degree of application from learning lessons. Bessie is quite right in employing her mind as far as she is able,—even though that is not very far. But, Henrietta, all these things ought to have opened your eyes to Minny's true character; and, above all, what she said about Cecy. No person of any delicacy—of any decency—would have talked to you so about your sister."

"I know it, mother, and at first it did make me very angry. But by-and-by I did not seem to care so much. And then, oh, mother! I began to be vexed about her myself. I did not like to have people know that she was my sister, and I wished she could be sent away to some asylum where she could be out of sight."

"I am heartily glad that Madam Wentworth took this public way of putting a stop to the calumnies circulated about Elsie, and I trust it will be a lesson to all of you. But, my dear child, pray do not forgot that there is One whose pardon you have to ask, and whose forgiveness is of far more consequence to you than that of any earthly friend."

"I know it, mother: I try to think of that. Elsie and I talked about it, and she said something that comforted me very much,—about the Saviour's readiness to forgive; and she said she would pray for me. It seems as though I could have some comfort in saying my prayers, now. Every time I have tried to pray, lately, I have felt as though there was a great weight hanging over me, and I could only think of that verse in the Psalms:—

   "'If I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.'"

"You had no right to expect any thing else," said her mother, "so long as you persisted in your wrong course. Your prayers were a mockery and an insult to your Maker. But I hope all that is over now. I trust you see your past sins in a just light, and truly repent of them, and that you do earnestly intend to lead a new life, trusting in God to give you grace to do so. And in that case, you may approach your heavenly Father, humbly and sorrowfully indeed, but with confidence and love."

It was hard for Hetty to go to school the next day. She felt that she had lost all title to the respect of her companions. She knew how some of them would look at her, and she dreaded meeting Minny again. But she felt that all this was part of her just punishment, and she resolved to bear it as meekly as she might. She found it, however, easier than she expected.

Elsie met her with her bright face and kind smile, and most of the girls were too much ashamed of their own part in the affair to wish to keep it in mind longer than was necessary. Most of the girls were generous; and when, at recess, they were all gathered in the play-room, and Henrietta, with tears and a faltering voice, confessed to them how wrong she had been, and begged their pardon for so misleading them, there were few who were not ready to take their own share of the blame, and assure her, with kisses and kind words in abundance, that they should not remember it against her.

Minny had come to school in a very different spirit. She was determined, as she said, to face it out, and show that she was not to be put down by any of them. She had not given up all hope of conciliating Elsie, either. She had been brought up in such an overweening idea of her own consequence that she found it difficult to believe in the possibility of any one's being indifferent to her friendship or enmity. Her anger towards Henrietta knew no bounds, and she could not think of her former friend without feeling as though she should like to crush her on the spot. She was a little late in the morning, and saw none of the girls before school; but she mingled with them at recess as if nothing had happened, and was present when Henrietta made her confession.

"What a beautiful scene!" she sneered. "Really, Miss Laurens ought to go on the stage."

Then, vexed at the indignant glances with which her amiable comment was received, she continued, with growing anger, "But I think the confession is rather incomplete. Why don't you tell how you stole your French exercises out of the key, and wrote down your dates and distances, and read the 'Arabian Nights' in prayer-time? Oh, I could add a great deal to the catalogue if I chose."

"Only nobody would believe a word you said," observed Lizzy,—bluntly, as usual. "Every one knows you do those things yourself, and a great many more. We have a shelf full of the old 'Tokens' and 'Souvenirs' at our house, Minny, and some things in them are very interesting. I think I will lend them to Miss Armitage some day."

Minny coloured very much at this intimation.

"Don't, Lizzy," said Henrietta. "Please don't. It is all true that she says. I don't deny a word of it. And I want to say another thing. It was true that Minny told me not to tell any one."

"There!" said Minny, triumphantly. "She owns it; and yet I have to bear all the blame, and be publicly disgraced, while she is to be made a saint of, because, forsooth, after it is all found out, she confesses what every one knew before."

"Nobody makes a saint of Henrietta," said Augusta. "We all know that she has done wrong, and believe that she is sorry. That is very different. It would have been easy enough, Minny, for you to quash the whole thing by telling the true story, and showing how much—or how little, rather—it amounted to. But, instead of that, you agreed to every thing Hetty said—"

"When did I?" interrupted Minny.

"Here in school, and at your own house, when she appealed to you."

"I didn't say one word!" said Minny.

"You nodded, though, and that is just the same; and you hinted, very plainly, that you could tell more if you chose. If you were so very angry at Hetty for telling, why didn't you check her, instead of encouraging her?—As you did, till you found out something which you thought made it more worth your while to coax Elsie than to coax Henrietta?"

"What a fuss about nothing!" said Minny. "I didn't think it a matter of any consequence, any way. What does it signify who knits the socks, if the soldiers only got them?"

"Nothing to the soldiers; but a good deal to ourselves," replied Rose. "It signifies much whether we are true to our engagements. It signifies much whether we really do deny ourselves for others, or whether we only want to get the credit of it. And it signifies a great deal to us whether we tell the truth or tell lies."

The ringing of the bell broke up the conversation. Minny could not but feel that she had lost, rather than gained, so far. The sympathy of the girls was clearly with Henrietta. Not even Sarah Stone said one word to imply a doubt of Hetty's sincerity, and no one was inclined to reproach her.

"So much for the humble dodge," said Minny to herself; "but I will be even with her yet."

She could find to opportunity of speaking to Elsie that day; but the next, she contrived to join her going home, and intimated that she had something of consequence to say to her. Elsie was civil, but no more, and certainly gave no encouragement to any confidence. But Minny was not easily daunted when she had a point to carry, and proceeded in her usual way:—

"I think it is my duty to tell you, Elsie, though I don't suppose you will believe me. All the girls have made up their minds that I am a liar and a slanderer,—and that is all about it; but you have more sense than the rest of them. It is very cruel and unjust; but I can bear it." And Minny forced a few tears.

"If you have any thing good to say of any one, I shall be glad to hear it," replied Elsie, coldly.

Minny was rather disconcerted, but proceeded, nevertheless:—

"You thought I was very cold to you and treated you very badly when I first came to school; and so I did; but it was because I was misled about you. I was told—Well, I may as well tell you the whole. Hetty told me that you belonged to low people; that your father was only a book-keeper, and that your mother was a very vulgar woman and did her own work, and that she took in sewing besides."

"Suppose all that had been true: would it have been any reason for insulting me?" asked Elsie. "Is one to be treated with disrespect because one is poor?"

"Why, no, not because one is poor; but then, you know, Elsie, after all, distinctions must be preserved."

"Why must they?" asked Elsie. "And what sort of distinctions?"

Minny was not quite prepared to say why, so she disregarded the question, and went on:—"If Henrietta had not misled me so, I should never have treated you as I did. Of course, if I had known what I do now, I should not have asked you why you did not go out to service, and such things."

"If you had known what you do now?" repeated Elsie. "Do you mean if you had known that I was related to rich and fashionable people?"

Now, this was exactly what Minny did mean. But she had a perception that such a meaning, put into plain English, would not sound very well in Elsie's ears, so she changed her tactics.

"No, Elsie, that was not it; but Hetty told me that you were a very different sort of person from what I find you. She said you were vulgar and coarse, and not lady-like any way; that you used bad English; and that you talked as no young lady ought to talk. Of course, I believed what she said, as you and she had been intimate so long, and I was influenced by it."

"Why didn't you judge for yourself?" asked Elsie. "You saw me every day in school and in recess, and you could easily have known how I talked and behaved."

"Yes, but, you see, I was prejudiced against you by Hetty in the first place."

"But, Minny, you knew me before you knew her," said Elsie, much disgusted. "Henrietta was not in school the last part of last term. Don't you know that you sat at her desk next to me when you first came, and that Miss Armitage told you, you would have to take some other seat when Miss Laurens returned? We sat together nearly two months before you ever saw Henrietta, and surely you were not prejudiced against me then."

Minny had nothing to say. She had quite forgotten this circumstance. It is very unfortunate for liars to have short memories.

"Moreover," continued Elsie, "I cannot believe that Henrietta told you such things about me—"

"There it is!" interrupted Minny. "You won't believe a word I say. That is the very thing I complain of,—and all because I was so unlucky as to make a mistake that time. I must say, I don't think it is acting very much like a Christian. We ought to forgive and forget, the Bible says."

"It says we ought to forgive; but I don't remember any thing about forgetting," replied Elsie. "The Bible never commands impossibilities. If you mean that we ought not to dwell upon injuries and keep up our anger by thinking about them, that I admit, and that I try to do. But, Minny, since you have spoken plainly, will you excuse me if I do the same?"

"Of course," replied Minny. "That is just what I want."

"Well, then, I will," said Elsie. "I certainly had no prejudice against you when I first knew you. On the contrary, I liked your appearance very well till, one day when Miss Armitage was reading, I happened to look over you, and I saw that you had a story-book inside your Bible, which you were reading when you ought to have been following the lesson. That was one thing I did not like: I thought it was deceitful, besides being very irreverent. Then, as I saw more of you, I could not help finding out that you told lies."

"Elsie!" interrupted Minny. "How dare you use such a word to me?"

"Because it is the only word which expresses what I mean," said Elsie. "They were not very important always; but still you said what was not true. You were not at all particular in giving in your report, and you answered 'Perfect in conduct' a great many times when I knew that you had violated several rules. And you answered 'Perfect' in history, when you had all your dates written in the palm of your hand."

"But, Elsie, I don't call that a lie, exactly," said Minny, in rather subdued tones. "Miss Armitage did not ask me whether I had whispered, or whether I knew my dates by heart."

"Oh, Minny, don't deceive yourself in any such way: pray, don't! You know what is meant when we answer 'Perfect.' It is just as bad to act a lie as to tell one. And you did tell lies, besides. You told Miss Milford that your watch was half an hour too slow, when you know you set it back yourself in the dressing-room. And then—oh, Minny!—those compositions."

"But, Elsie, I do think you are hard upon me. Henrietta does things just as bad as these."

"She did not once," said Elsie. "Hetty and I have known each other since we were little. She is passionate sometimes, and she is apt to be idle; but she was just as truthful as daylight, till—"

"Till she knew me, I suppose. Is that it?" said Minny, as Elsie paused. "You may as well speak out," she added, with a forced laugh. "You can't well say any thing worse than you have said already."

"You know, Minny, I did not want to say any thing about it, but you would make me."

"Oh, I don't blame you," replied Minny; "and I don't deny it, either."

The girls walked along silently for some distance, and Elsie began to wonder what was coming next, when Minny said, suddenly,—

"Elsie, I do really want you to like me. I don't know why, I am sure; for no one ever said such things to me before. Come; I will tell you the truth for once, and you may believe me this time, for it don't sound very well for myself: I 'did' want to make friends with you, as you said, because I found out that Madam Wentworth was your aunt, and so on; but that is not all. I feel differently about it now. I like you for your own sake. Now, if I try to do differently,—if I tell the truth, I mean, and if I am honest about my lessons, and all that,—will you try to feel differently towards me?"

"I shall feel differently without trying," replied Elsie,—"especially if you make friends with poor Hetty."

"I don't know about that," said Minny, shaking her head.

"But, Minny," continued Elsie, very earnestly, "I wish you would not think so much about pleasing me. That is a very small matter. Think how wicked it is to tell such stories. Think what the Bible says about liars,—that no one who loveth or maketh a lie shall enter the kingdom of heaven, and that all liars shall have their part in the lake that burneth with fire and brimstone."

"Is that in the Bible?" asked Minny, in surprise.

"Why, Minny, don't you know that?"

"To tell you the truth, Elsie, I don't know a great deal about the Bible, any way. I never went to Sunday-school, and no one ever made me read it at home. To be sure, I heard it in school and in church; but I never paid much attention. It did not seem any matter that concerned me."

"But it does concern you, Minny,—you, and every one. It is God's own word, and tells us of his will, and the way of salvation, and all his goodness to us. It tells us how our Lord Jesus Christ took our nature upon him to save us from our sins, and all about his life and death."

"Yes, to be sure, I know that," said Minny. "I have a kind of general idea about all those things, as I have about the History of England, you know; but I never seemed to care about them. I never thought they had any thing to do with our every-day life in school and at home. You see, Elsie, I have not had much of a chance, after all. Father is always busy down town from morning till night; and when he is at home, he is reading the papers. Mother is sick a good deal, and when she is not sick, she is going out, or getting ready to go out. They never teach me any thing.

"I used always to stay with nurse till I was eight years old, only I went down in the parlour after dinner and sometimes when we had company. Nurse was very good to me in her way, but she used to tell stories awfully; and she taught me. Mother forbade nurse going to see any of her friends when I was with her; but she always did it, and I thought it was very good fun. I never had any playmates at some, you know. Then nurse would say, 'Miss Minny, if your mother asks you where you have been, you can say so-and-so;' and I did.

"But one day it all came out. Dr. H. saw me going with nurse into a house where there were some people sick with ship-fever. Of course nurse did not know that. She would have cut her hand off before she would have exposed me to any danger; for she really did love me dearly. But the doctor told mother, and nurse was sent away. Oh, how I did cry and bog them to let her stay! But it was of no use: she had to go.

"Then I was with mother a few weeks. But she soon grew tired of that, and really she couldn't see to me very well,—she had so many engagements: so I was sent to a school in the country. It was called a very select school,—about twenty girls, big and little; and, oh, how they did go on! It was there I got into the habit of eating so many sweet things. I suppose you will think it one of my old stories if I say we did not have enough to eat; but really, Elsie, we didn't. The table was handsomely set: we had china and cut-glass, and silver forks (but we carried those and our spoons from home), and a man to wait, and all the dishes were very genteel, only there was not half enough in them. Honestly and truly, I was hungry half the time.

"Well, the express-man came every day to the house, and we used to put our money together and send to the city for cakes and candy and all such things. Sometimes we would bribe the cook to give us milk and sugar, and then we made chocolate and coffee up in our own rooms. They wouldn't let me into the secret at first, because I was so little; but they soon found out I was sharp enough, and had plenty of money besides."

"But didn't the teachers ever find you out?" asked Elsie.

"If they did, they never interfered. I have sometimes thought they must have known. But the fact was, the whole thing was a sham,—sham lessons, sham teachers, sham every thing. Miss Brownfield taught drawing; but it was precious little of the drawing we did, I can tell you. She used to do more than half the pictures herself, and then 'finish it up,' as she said; and very differently it looked after it was finished. You would hardly have known it. It was just so with every single thing.

"We used sometimes to have public-days, when Miss Hatty examined us in our studies. She would open anywhere in the book, and seemed to skip about in the most promiscuous way; but every girl knew beforehand just what was coming to her."

"Oh, Minny!" interrupted Elsie.

"Any one that went to the school will tell you the same."

"But didn't you have any religious instruction?" asked Elsie.

"Oh, yes: that was the worst of it. Yes, Elsie, I really think it was. Miss Hatty was called religious, and Miss Brownfield was called religious. There was so much humbug about the whole thing that we couldn't help seeing,—I mean about the management of the school, and the house-keeping, and all that. They pretended to teach Chemistry and the Natural Sciences, and said in their advertisements that those branches were 'taught by competent professors and illustrated by a fine apparatus and cabinets of specimens,'—when, in fact, all the apparatus I ever saw was an old, broken electrical machine, and an air-pump about as good; and they were never used as long as I stayed in the school. There was something of a geological cabinet; but nothing was labelled, and the class never was referred to it. Of course the girls saw all these things,—they couldn't help it, and of course they didn't think much of the religion that allowed them."

"Of course they didn't!" said Elsie. "Oh, how much such people have to answer for!"

"Well, Elsie, now don't you think there is some excuse for me?"

"Certainly I do," replied Elsie. "But, Minny, you are older now, and can judge and act for yourself. And I don't think all this will continue to excuse you, now that you know better."

"But it is very hard, when one is in the habit of a thing, to leave it off," urged Minny. "And besides, the girls wouldn't believe me if I tried to do better. They would say I was making believe because I had a point to carry."

"You do them injustice," replied Elsie. "They might distrust you,—and with good reason. But if you persevered, they would believe you after a while. But, Minny, their opinion is not of so much importance. They can see only the outside; but God sees the heart, you know. I don't want to preach to you," she continued; but Minny interrupted her:—

"Do say just what you think, Elsie. I do believe you are a real Christian."

"Well then, Minny, I wish you would think of him, and ask him to forgive you and make you better. You know he must be displeased with you. And, oh, Minny, think if you should die!"

"Well, Elsie," said Minny, after a pause, "will you promise me one thing?"

"I must hear what it is first," replied Elsie, gently; "because it might be something I could not possibly do."

"Of course," returned Minny. "That is what I mean."

"Well," said Elsie, "I promise you I will, if it is possible."

"All I want is this: If you see me trying to be a better girl, to tell the truth and do my lessons honestly, will you try to believe that I do it because I want to be really better, and not because I have a point to carry,—not for what I said at first?"

"Yes, indeed I will," said Elsie, warmly, "and be very glad to do it. You don't know how I hate to distrust any one. It seems so mean to be suspicious. But then, you know, I really couldn't help it. But there is one thing I want to say before I go in." (They had been standing for some minutes at Mrs. Probert's door.) "If you try to be good in your own strength, you will fail."

"How do you mean in my own strength?" asked Minny.

"I mean that you must ask God to help you, to give you his Holy Spirit in your heart, and show you what is right and what is wrong."

"That is all very well for you to say," replied Minny, shaking her head; "and I don't doubt you mean every word of it; but it won't do for me."

"Won't do for you! What do you mean?"

"It would be all a sham if I were to pretend to any religion, Elsie. I haven't one bit."

"But, Minny—"

"Yes, I know: you think it is dreadful; and so it is, I suppose. But, Elsie, it wouldn't be making a very good beginning in telling the truth, if I were to pretend to be good when I don't care any thing about it. Now, would it?"

"But why need you pretend? Why can't you be in earnest?"

Minny shook her head again. "I don't think it is in me to care about such things. No, no! I am going to try to be a better girl. That I will promise; and perhaps the other will come in time."

"It must be the reverse of that, Minny."

"Perhaps so. But I mustn't keep you standing out here in the cold any longer. Good-by."

"What a long talk you have been having with Minny!" observed Mrs. Probert, as Elsie entered the parlour. "I thought you and she were not on very good terms,—not intimate, at least."

"No, mother, not intimate; but, when she told me that she wanted to talk to me, I couldn't refuse. She is the oddest girl I ever knew. But after all, there seems to be something in her; and, if she really wants to be a good girl, one would like to help her if one could."

"Of course," replied her mother. "But do you think she is in earnest about it?"

"I am sure I don't know," replied Elsie. "She says she is. And if it was any one else, I should not think of doubting a moment; but Minny is so odd. However, time will show."

CONCLUSION.

AT the end of the week the stockings were all collected; and a goodly show they made. True, some of them were not exactly models in shape, and a good many seemed to have been knit under the prevalent impression that soldiers are necessarily giants. But, on the whole, they were very creditable to the industry and patriotism of Miss Armitage's young ladies. They reached their destination in safety, and doubtless ore this have fulfilled the destiny of all army socks.

A few days after they were sent away, Henrietta came to her mother with a very serious face.

"Mother, will you let me try another pair of socks? I want to see if I cannot get them done without losing time."

"Certainly, my child," replied her mother. "You will find abundance of nice yarn in the basket."

"But, mother, I think I would rather buy the yarn with my own money. It will seem more like giving them all myself. Don't you think so?"

"Oh!" said Mrs. Laurens, smiling. "Yes, certainly, if you want to give the yarn as well as the work. But I am afraid I cannot go out to-day to buy it for you. However, I think I see how we can manage that," she continued,—seeing that Hetty looked disappointed at the postponement of her project. "You can pay me the price of the yarn out of your own purse, and I will give the money to Mrs. L—, at the employment-rooms."

"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Henrietta. "But it will be so little, mother,—only fifty cents. I am afraid Mrs. L— will laugh at me."

"It will pay a poor woman for making two flannel shirts, my dear, and thus enable 'her' to pay the rent of her room or buy a frock for her baby. Moreover, I don't think Mrs. L— would laugh at you for giving ever so little, if it were done in the right spirit."

"Well, mother, here are the fifty cents, and I will begin directly,—as soon as I have done practising, I mean. And, mother, you will see—I mean, I hope you will see—that I won't be idle over those as I was over the others. I think I have counted the cost this time, mother."

Hetty was as good as her word. She worked most faithfully, and suffered no temptation to walk or to read, or even romp with Corporal, to draw her aside from her self-imposed task. Doing her work faithfully, she soon learned to love it. And she moreover learned from Elsie the surprising fact that it is possible to knit and read at the same time. By the same competent professor she was initiated into the art and mystery of using a knitting-sheath, and found, as will every one else who has the patience to learn, the great advantage of that product of the wisdom of our ancestors.

But Hetty has passed through a great sorrow since then, which has perhaps done more than any thing else could to steady her character. Cecy—poor little patient suffering Cecy—has passed away to that land whereof the inhabitants shall no more say, "I am sick."

A little before the holidays, she appeared more than commonly weak and languid. And though she suffered less pain than usual, she complained that every thing tired her and that it hurt her to sit up.

On Christmas-day she appeared much brighter,—was carried to her usual place on the sofa, and enjoyed the day even more than common. As she was going to bed, she said to her mother,—

"Will you finish my socks to-morrow, mother? I am afraid I cannot knit any more just now; and you know the soldiers will want them very much this cold weather."

Mrs. Laurens promised, and Cecy was content.

She rested but little during the night, but towards morning dropped into a quiet slumber. Her mother, who had left her for a few minutes, was struck, on returning, with the altered expression of her face, and, rousing Peter, sent him at once for the doctor.

But before he arrived, all was over! There was no struggle, and, apparently, no pain; and it may be doubted whether the little girl was conscious of any change till she gazed upon the glories of heaven!

After the first agony of parting, Mrs. Laurens could not but be relieved that the long suffering was over. She had always been haunted by the apprehension that she should die first, and leave Cecy to the care of strangers; but now that danger was past. The dear child was at peace. Her short and weary pilgrimage had been made as easy and as happy as the sad circumstances permitted. Nothing had been spared which could give her a pleasure or soften a pain; and almost to the last day of her life she had enjoyed the happiness of using her little strength for the good of others. Mrs. Laurens was able sincerely and thankfully, though with many tears, to say, "Thy will be done!"

To Henrietta the stroke was a heavy one. She had always loved her sister dearly,—more than she herself knew; but she could not help remembering that of late she had often been unkind to her. She had even been ashamed of her, and wished she might be sent away; and she had been jealous of her mother's love towards her. What would she not have given if all this had not been done!—but it was too late. The door was shut. That which was crooked could not be made straight, and that which was wanting could never be supplied in this world. Henrietta was made bitterly to feel that the sting of death is sin; and she wept for her sister as one who could not be comforted.

The day before the funeral, Mrs. Laurens was very unwell, and kept her bed entirely. Henrietta was sitting alone in her own room, knitting mechanically, and thinking over and over again all that had passed in the course of the last few months,—when there was a gentle knock at the door, and Minny entered.

Henrietta and Minny had had very little to do with each other of late. There had been, at Elsie's earnest request, a show of reconciliation. The girls had shaken hands, begged each other's pardon, and even exchanged kisses, and they did not refuse to speak when they met. But the intercourse was too suggestive of past trouble and disgrace to be pleasant to either of them.

Minny had kept her word, and tried hard to be a better girl; and certainly there was a manifest improvement. She no longer cheated at lessons and exercises; she told fewer great stories, and ceased to gossip about her own and her mother's friends. And every one noticed how much more quiet she was in school. But it was up-hill work. She had so long accustomed herself to evade her lessons in every possible way that she found it difficult to form habits of application. Her memory would not go without its accustomed crutches, and she often had the mortification of failing after she had taken a great deal of honest pains.

It was vexatious to lose her place in the class, to be marked imperfect, and, worst of all, to have Miss Armitage say, at the end of the week,—

"You have a great many imperfect marks, Minny. I am afraid you are growing very careless."

When in fact, she had never worked so hard in her life.

Moreover, she found it very difficult always to tell the truth. The exaggeration, the false statement or downright falsehood, would slip from her lips almost unawares. All this was very discouraging, and she had nearly come to the conclusion that Elsie was right in telling her that she was beginning at the wrong end.

Henrietta looked surprised, and somewhat indignant, as Minny opened the door.

But Minny gave her no time to speak. She came straight up to her, and, throwing her arms round her neck, she burst into tears, exclaiming,—

"Oh, Hetty, I am so sorry about Cecy! I am so sorry I spoke so about her, and would give any thing in the world to take it all back! Oh, dear Hetty, won't you forgive me?"

Henrietta's rising anger and distrust vanished like frost before the sun. She returned Minny's embrace, and they wept together.

"Peter said you were here, and told me to come right up," said Minny, after they had composed themselves a little. "I have wanted to see you so much,—you can't think! I should have come as soon as I heard she was dead, but mother wouldn't let me. She thought you would rather be alone. But I felt so badly, she told me I might come to-day. See what I have brought!" She uncovered the carefully wrapped up basket she carried, and showed Henrietta that it was filled with rare and beautiful flowers.

"Almost all these are from my own plants," she continued. "I cut off every white and purple flower I had,—rosebuds and camellias and heliotropes and all,—only mother gave me the tuberoses and the apple geraniums, because, she said, they were so sweet. And I want—" but she could not control her voice,—"I want, if your mother is willing, to have them all put with her. You don't know how much I felt as though I wanted to do something for you; and this was all I could think of."

"Come and see her," said Henrietta, pressing her friend's hand. "You don't know how lovely she looks, even in death. Madam Wentworth is down-stairs, and she will take care of the flowers. Oh, she has been so good!"

The two girls went down together to the drawing-room, where the little body lay. Thu face was very little changed. Cecy had always been pale in life; but all the old look of pain and weariness was gone.

"There was no other thought express'd
 But long disquiet merged in rest."

The girls looked a while in silence.

"You were not downright unkind to her, as I was," said Hetty. "Oh, what would I not give now, if I never had made her cry!"

"Do not waste your strength in vain regrets, my dear children," said Madam Wentworth. "The dear child is now beyond our care, and all her troubles are as though they had never been. But let this hour teach you a lesson for all the future. Try to treat all your friends as you will wish you had treated them when they have left the world. I am glad to see you feel this so much. I hope it is a good sign."

"Indeed, I do try to be a better girl," sobbed Minny; "but it is very hard."

"You must not be discouraged," said Madam Wentworth, kindly. "The habits of a life are not to be broken up in a day or a month. But do you try the right way? You know you can do nothing of yourself."

"Elsie told me that," replied Minny, in a low voice, "and I have tried lately; but I think I do more wrong things than ever."

"Perhaps you see wrong where you never thought of it before," said Madam Wentworth. "Is not that it? I think you will find it so, if you examine yourself closely. But do not be discouraged. Watch and pray. You are sure to succeed at last."

"How good she is!" said Minnie, as she went away. "I wonder if one could ever be like her? I was wishing the other day that I was poor; but money don't seem to have spoiled her."

"No, indeed," replied Henrietta. "And, Minny, look at the Stanley girls. Where did you ever see better or more lady-like girls than they are?"

"Some of the girls say that Letty is proud," said Minny.

"That's just because she never will gossip with them," replied Hetty.

"I really believe it is running after fashion and fashionable company that spoils people more than money," said Minny. "Do you know, Hetty, that poor, funny old woman came to church again yesterday, and I asked her into our pew. Of course, it wasn't any thing to boast of; but it seemed, somehow, like making amends. How we did act that day!—But I was the worst. Did your mother find you out?"

"Oh, I told her," replied Henrietta. "I couldn't be happy with such a thing on my mind, you know. So, when I told her all the rest, I couldn't keep that back, you know. And, oh, how glad I was to get rid of it!"

"That makes me think," said Minny. "Sometimes I feel as though I ought to tell Miss Armitage about those compositions."

"I would," said Hetty. "I told her about mine, and the dates and all."

"Wasn't she very angry?" asked Minny.

"Yes, at first she was, and she took away ever so many of my credits; but she was very kind afterwards: so I was glad I had the courage to confess my faults."

"But I hate to lose all my credits," said Minny; "especially as I have got so few lately."

"Yes; but then, you know, Minny, they are not ours,—not honestly ours. It is like taking something that don't belong to one."

Minny gave a deep sigh. "Well, I suppose it is. I will think about it, any way. Good-by, Hetty. I wish I could do something to help you."

"You have," said Hetty. "I feel a great deal better than I did before you came. I am so glad we are all friends again!"

Minny did think about it, and came to the right conclusion. It was hard to give up the credits,—harder still to see that Miss Armitage watched and distrusted her at the very time she was trying her best to be honest. But Minny is learning to be influenced by higher motives than when she began. She is learning to love truth and goodness for their own sake and for the sake of the Author of all truth. She is regaining her place in the school,—honestly this time, and by her own exertions,—and she cannot help seeing that the girls begin to trust and to respect her.

"Oh, it is only one of Minny's stories!" is a phrase now seldom or never heard, even from Sarah Stone.

Elsie and Hetty are very fond of her, too. And, altogether, she finds herself happier than ever before in her life. She cannot resist the pleasure of now and then treating herself and her friends to caramels and chocolate-drops. But many a dime and quarter which used to go to the confectioner is now dropped into a box hidden in her drawer and marked, "For the sick soldiers." The existence of this box, and that of a superb cushion which she is embroidering for our old friend Corporal, and which is intended as a surprise for Hetty on her birthday, are Minny's only two remaining "great secrets."

THE END.