Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Kitty Maynard.—Frontispiece.
"Do stand still a minute, can't you?"

KITTY MAYNARD;

OR,

"TO OBEY IS BETTER THAN SACRIFICE."

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"IRISH AMY," "READY WORK,"
ETC. ETC.

[Lucy Ellen Guernsey]

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION

1122 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

   No books are published by the AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION without the sanction of the Committee of Publication, consisting of fourteen members, from the following denominations of Christians, viz.: Baptist, Methodist, Congregational, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Lutheran, and Reformed Dutch. Not more than three of the members can be of the same denomination, and no book can be published to which any member of the Committee shall object.

CONTENTS.

——————

CHAPTER.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

KITTY MAYNARD.

—————————

CHAPTER I.

"WELL, Miss Kitty, so you are really going into the country, to stay with your aunt Sarah all summer? I expect you will get yourself tanned as brown as a butternut, and as freckled as a toad, running about the fields and woods without your bonnet, and very likely getting yourself poisoned with ivy or something. I suppose your mother knows best; but it does seem to me that it would have been much more sensible to send you to some good school, where you could be taken care of, than out into the country to run wild all day long. Do stand still a minute, can't you?"

All this, and more, was rapidly said by a tall, thin, prim-looking person,—about fifty, as nearly as could be guessed. She was fitting a white tunic upon a little girl about thirteen years old, and talking to her at the same time.

"I do stand still, Huldah," replied Kitty, rather pettishly,—"only you pull me about so. I do believe your own arms are made of cast iron, or you would have some feeling for other people's. As for going into the country, I am sure it will be a great deal pleasanter than going to boarding-school through all the pleasant weather. There are other things to be learned in the world besides lessons out of books."

Kitty made this last remark with quite an air, as if she thought she had said something which few could say as well, and wished to have the credit of it. It was not original with her, however, but was part of a conversation she had overheard between her father and mother the night before.

Huldah laughed good-naturedly.

"Well done, little Miss Consequence. But suppose you should find yourself going to school, after all?"

"What nonsense, Huldah! As if I should go to school out there! I don't believe there is any school, in the first place."

"I dare say there are plenty of them. There are district-schools all over the country."

"As if I should go to a district-school!" said Kitty, in a tone of the profoundest contempt. "I think I see myself going to one! I wonder what you think I should study?"

"Humph!" exclaimed Huldah, dryly. "I have known younger girls than you at a district-school,—better scholars than you are, too. I have known girls twelve years old who had been through the English grammar, and that is more than you can say,—with all your boasting."

Kitty looked a good deal displeased. "I don't believe I shall go to school, for all that," said she, after a moment's consideration. "I mean to ask mother about it." And being released from the penance (for so she considered it) of standing still, she was running off, when Huldah called her back:—

"I thought you were going to hem these frills for me. Didn't you promise to do so if I would mend your stockings for you?"

"Well," said Kitty, "I will. Give them to me, and I will do them now."

Huldah was proceeding to give her some instructions, but Kitty interrupted her:—"Dear me! I know how to hem, I hope. Let me have them,—do!"

And snatching the cloth, she was soon busily at work, trying to make her fingers fly as fast as Huldah's much more experienced ones.

Kitty Maynard was the only daughter of a merchant in one of the smaller cities of New York. Her mother was a very lovely and excellent woman, but she had no very great force of character, and she had been an invalid almost ever since Kitty was born. For the last four or five years especially, she had been so ill as to be confined to her bed most of the time; so that she had been obliged to leave her little girl very much to the care of others. Mr. Maynard was deeply engaged in his business, and spent almost all his time (when not in his counting-room) by the side of his wife's sick-bed, where Kitty could not always be allowed to come; so that, though he was very fond of his daughter, he knew in reality very little about her.

As Mrs. Maynard's increasing illness kept him more and more at home, however, he could not help seeing that Kitty had some pretty serious faults, and that she greatly needed a firm hand and watchful eye over her. And this led him to propose (when it was decided that the family must be broken up for the summer) that Kitty should be sent to his sister in the country, in whose judgment and kindness he had great confidence.

Kitty was delighted with the idea of a whole summer in the country. She had several times spent a few days at her aunt Sarah's, and she thought nothing could be more charming. She felt a little disappointed, at first, when she found that Huldah was not going with her. But she soon reconciled herself to the idea, and even thought she should enjoy having the care of her own clothes for a little while.

Huldah had lived with Mrs. Maynard ever since Kitty was born. She had taken care of her from her infancy, and often said she could not love her more if she were her own child. She was a most excellent person in her way,—honest, conscientious and kind-hearted,—and no doubt she intended to do exactly her duty by Kitty. But it was naturally difficult for her to exercise much authority over the child, and perhaps she made this an excuse for not trying to use any.

Even Huldah, however, had come to see that Kitty was growing a great girl, and needed some more decided rule than her own, to make her do what she ought and refrain from doing what she ought not to do. She hoped Kitty might be sent to boarding-school; and she did not entirely approve of her being delivered over to Mrs. Evelyn, of whom she felt, perhaps, some little jealousy. She had ventured to express her opinion pretty plainly. But Mr. Maynard was a very decided man when he once made up his mind, and there was nothing to be done but to make the best of it.

Kitty sewed busily for some time, talking all the while, and asking Huldah many questions of her own life in the country, of which she was never weary of hearing. Huldah, on her part, liked to recall her early days, when the country was new. And she was just finishing her favourite story of the bear in the corn, when she interrupted herself with,—

"But let me look at your work, Kitty."

"No, no! I am doing it right. Go on. 'And so—'"

"And so I set down my pails, and ran up to the house as hard as I could go, thinking that the bear was after me. It was quite a ways from the house to the barn. And when I got there, I was so out of breath and all, that I dropped right down on the floor and fainted away. But I won't tell you another word till you let me see your work."

Kitty brought it, rather unwillingly.

"But you have not done it as I told you. See how you have puckered it up! That won't do at all. And, besides, you have soiled it so that it will have to be washed. Why didn't you wash your hands first, as I told you?"

"My hands were not dirty," replied Kitty, very much vexed; "and I am sure I did the hem as well as I knew how."

"You did not do it as I told you," returned Huldah. "I said you should pin it down as you went along and match every stripe."

"I cannot sew with my work pinned down," said Kitty. "And I should think you needn't scold so, when I was trying my best to help you. I cannot do any more than I can."

"You might do as you were told," replied Huldah, "and then you would not make mistakes. But that is always the trouble with you: you know so much that nobody can ever tell you any thing."

"Very well, Huldah," said Kitty, walking to the door with great dignity; "I shall not try to help you again in a hurry: you may depend upon that. That is all the thanks I ever get for doing any thing for you."

"I think you might at least pick out what you have done wrong," said Huldah. "It will take me three times as long to rip it and do it over as it would have done to hem it myself."

"If I should pick it out, you would be sure to say I had done it wrong in some way. I am going up to mother."

So saying, she closed the door and went up-stairs to her mother's room, feeling very much abused indeed,—as she always did when any one found fault with her.

"Mother," said she, as she entered, "'must' I go to school in the country?"

"That will be just as Aunt Sarah thinks best, my dear," replied her mother, who was sitting up in bed. "I shall leave you entirely to her management. And I hope you will be a very good girl and do all she tells you, so that I may hear good accounts of you."

"How long shall I stay there, mother?"

"I do not know, my dear. It will depend on circumstances. You will stay till I come home, at any rate,—if I ever do. And if I should be taken away from you, you will have to look to Aunt Sarah to supply my place."

"What makes you say that, mother? I wish you would not talk so. You are not worse, are you?"

"I am not so well this year as I was last, Kitty. Don't you remember how I used sometimes to walk down-stairs and into the garden last spring? I cannot do that now."

"But you will get better, mother; I am sure you will. Dr. Moore said he should not wonder if you were to come home from this journey quite well and strong. Oh, please don't talk so!" And Kitty burst into tears.

"Hush, Kitty! You must not cry," said Mrs. Maynard,—her own voice trembling. "I want to say some things to you very much; and if you are not quiet, I shall have to send you away."

Kitty bit her lip and tried to suppress her sobs, and Mrs. Maynard continued:—

"You will find many things at Aunt Sarah's very different from what you have been used to at home. You know she keeps only one servant, and you will have to do many things for yourself,—such as putting and keeping your own room in order, and taking care of your own clothes. And I hope, too, you will try to help Aunt Sarah all you can. You have many things to learn, which she will be better able to teach you than I have been. And I hope, Kitty, you will show a teachable spirit, without which it is impossible to learn any thing. You are quite apt to say, 'Oh, I know!' when any one tries to instruct you; and so you make a great many blunders that you need not."

Kitty thought of the frills, and she made an effort to turn the conversation:—

"But about my going to school, mother. Do you think there will be any use in it?"

"Why not there as well as here?"

"But what should I study there? I suppose they don't teach any thing but geography and arithmetic and such things."

"And those are the very branches that you need to attend to, my daughter. You are behindhand in both of them,—to say nothing of grammar. You have read a good deal for a girl of your age, it is true," she continued, "and some books, I fear, which you would have done better to let alone. But you must not think you are forward in your education upon that account, or that you are naturally studious because you like to read. When I was at your age, I could do almost any sum in the rule-of-three, and parse any English sentence."

Kitty looked very discontented. "Mother thinks I don't know any thing," was her reflection. "I don't see why she should."

"But, mother," she continued, "Josephine Powers says that the children at district-schools read through their noses, and say 'hain't' and 'ain't,' and wear calico sunbonnets dropped down over their faces, and carry their dinners to school in little tin pails—"

"That will do, Kitty," interrupted Mrs. Maynard. "If Josephine found children in a district-school, or in any school whatever, using more awkward and unladylike expressions than she does herself, she has been unfortunate indeed. As to their carrying their dinners in tin pails, or wearing calico sunbonnets, I do not see any great harm in that. There will be nothing to hinder your taking yours in a basket, and wearing a straw hat, just as you do at home. I am sorry to see you taking up such foolish prejudices. Your father, Kitty, never went to any but a district-school, nor did I, except that I was two years at a country academy, which, I presume, Miss Josephine would consider equally ungenteel. Pray, put all, such ideas out of your head at once. And if your aunt thinks it best for you to attend school, make up your mind to derive all the advantage you can from it. But I cannot talk to you any more just now. I hope—I have some hope—that I may come back from this journey so much better as to be able to take more care of you than I have ever done. And if I should never return, Kitty, you must strive to be a comfort to your father and supply my place to him. Do you say your prayers every day, Kitty?"

"Yes, mother,—almost every day,—when I don't forget."

"But you must not forget, my dear. What would become of you if your heavenly Father should forget you even for one moment?"

"Sometimes I am in such a hurry, mother, for fear I shall be late at breakfast," Kitty began,—ever ready to justify herself, and forgetting that it was her own fault if she was ever hurried. She was always called in time, but she was sadly apt to turn over and take another nap when Huldah went out of the room.

"You must not be hurried," said Mrs. Maynard, leaning back as if she were very tired. "I cannot say any more now: only remember, Kitty, if I should not be able to talk to you again,—remember that you never omit your prayers, night or morning, whatever your hurry may be."

Kitty went slowly away, feeling very serious indeed. Her mother had been sick so long that she began to think it a matter of course to see her pale and suffering and the household affairs going on without her. But to-day she seemed for the first time to realize that a great change might be hanging over her,—that she might soon be left without any mother!

She went up-stairs to her own quiet room, and shutting the door, she kneeled down by the bedside and said the prayers she had forgotten in the morning. Then she went down to look for Huldah, whom she found sewing busily.

"Can I help you, Huldah?" she asked.

"No, thank you, Miss Kitty," returned Huldah, rather dryly: "your help costs rather more than it comes to. I have been more than half an hour picking out your hem and doing it over. People's assistance is not worth much when they are so wise that they cannot be told any thing."

"Very well, Huldah," replied Kitty, proudly. "I shall never trouble you by helping you again, you may depend." And she walked very haughtily out of the room, thinking to herself, "That's all the use it ever is for me to try to do any thing. Mother says I ought to be obliging, but I don't see how I can be when people won't be obliged."

A few days more completed the preparations for Kitty's departure. And one pleasant evening in the beginning of June, she found herself in the pretty little room which Aunt Sarah had always been accustomed to call hers when she visited the farm.

Mrs. Evelyn was a widow, and lived about a mile from the little village of Barton upon a beautiful farm which she managed all herself,—for her two sons were married, and lived at the West upon farms of their own. Her only surviving daughter was also married, and lived in a large town some twenty miles off. She had quite a family of little ones, some of whom were almost always at their grandmother's. Mrs. Evelyn was still a very pretty woman. Her hair was gray, and there were some wrinkles about her forehead, but her still fresh complexion, her fine teeth, her beautiful soft eyes, and, above all, the lovely expression of her face, made every one look at her with pleasure. She had seen a good deal of trouble in one way and another, besides the loss of her husband and two of their children, but nothing had ever been able to depress permanently her cheerful spirits or make her forgetful of her duties to others.

Except her mother, Kitty loved her aunt Sarah better than any one else in the world, while at the same time, she stood a little in awe of her. In the few days at a time which she had more than once spent at the farm, she had discovered that her aunt was not a person to be trifled with. She could not be set at open defiance, like Huldah, nor could her authority be evaded, as her father's sometimes was. If she gave a command, that command was to be executed, sooner or later. And it was decidedly the most comfortable policy to obey at once. For Kitty had discovered that, though Aunt Sarah was extremely indulgent, she could upon occasion be very stern.

But Kitty liked to be with persons whom she could heartily respect; and she did respect her aunt Sarah. It was therefore with no particular misgiving that she found herself left under her charge for a whole summer. Her room was a very pleasant one, though rather small and plainly furnished. Her window had nice green blinds and white curtains, and commanded a beautiful prospect of fields and woods. A plain dark set of bookshelves, hung against the wall, served very nicely to hold the dozen or two of volumes selected by Kitty from her large juvenile library, and a little writing-table accommodated her pretty new workbox and writing-desk,—both parting presents from her mother. There was a convenient closet for her dresses, and drawers for her other clothes, and upon the bureau stood a curious little old-fashioned China bowl filled with flowers.

"There!" said Kitty to herself, as she put the last book into its place. "That looks something like." She turned as she spoke, and saw Mrs. Evelyn standing at the door. "Don't you think my room looks pretty, Aunt Sarah?" she asked.

"Very pretty," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "You seem to have every thing in nice order. I hope you may keep it so."

"Oh, yes!" said Kitty, confidently: "I mean to put things to rights every morning and never leave any thing out of its place."

"Have you been used to take care of your own things, Kitty?"

"Yes, aunt,—that is, almost always. Huldah put my room in order sometimes, and she always made the bed. She said I was not strong enough."

"You are a pretty stout girl for one of your age, too," remarked her aunt. "I should think you might be able to make up a single bed."

"I know I could, but Huldah never thinks I can do any thing. She is the greatest old fuss-maker that ever lived."

"That is not a very proper way to speak of her," said Mrs. Evelyn, gravely. "Huldah has shown you more kindness than you can ever repay. And I do not know what your mother would have done without her."

"Well, I know she is good, aunt, but she does make such a fuss about every thing; and no one wants to be made a baby of forever. She acts as if I were no more than five years old."

"You shall not be made a baby of, in that respect, any longer, my dear. I shall expect you to take all the care of your own room, and you will have an opportunity of showing how skilful you are in such matters."

"And may I fix it just as I want to, aunt?"

"I do not know about that, but I will promise not to interfere with your arrangements unless I see some very good reason to do so. Now, if you have finished, you may wash your hands and come down to tea."

Kitty slept soundly all night in her little white bed, and did not wake until her aunt came to call her in the morning.

"You will have just about time to dress comfortably before breakfast," said she, as Kitty sat up and rubbed her eyes. "Another morning I shall call you earlier, but I thought you must be tired with your journey. And next week we will try to begin our regular duties: but you will want a little time to become accustomed to your new home."

The day was spent very pleasantly in renewing her acquaintance with the farm, the barns and orchards, in helping her aunt about various little matters, and in writing to her mother,—which was to be a regular Saturday's duty. The next day was Sunday; and they went to church in the carriage, arriving earlier than most of the people that lived in the village.

Kitty, as it happened, had never been to church in Barton before; and she saw so many things which were new to her that she had very little attention to spare for the service. There was no organ in the choir, and the little melodeon which did duty in its place was only used to accompany the psalms and hymns. The singing was not at all like what Kitty had been accustomed to, and she thought it very strange that all the congregation should join in it. The clergyman did not read like their own minister, and his sermon was much shorter; and Kitty thought it remarkable that he should be so sunburnt,—"sunburnt as a farmer," as she said.

In Sunday-school she found still greater matter for comment. A great many of the children were very oddly dressed, though she could not but own that,—take them together,—they looked very neat and comfortable. Two or three of the girls in her aunt's class wore calico dresses and very thick shoes, and one of them had a necklace of large glass beads. She could not but allow that their lessons had been well learned; and it was with some feeling of mortification that she heard questions, which she could not answer, readily replied to by one of the youngest and plainest-looking girls in the class.

As soon as they were seated in the carriage, her tongue was unloosed. "What a funny-looking bonnet that lady wore who spoke to you coming out of the church, aunt! I should think she must have had it ever since she was married; and her dress had a long point, like a bird's bill. I am sure she must be the mother of that girl in your class with the blue glass beads and green calico frock."

"The one who answered the question that you missed, I suppose you mean?" said her aunt, dryly.

"I had not studied it," returned Kitty, rather annoyed. "If I had, I should have answered the questions, of course. I think you must have queer milliners here, aunt," she continued, after a little pause: "I saw one woman with something upon her bonnet like a little asparagus-bed; and another had a blue bonnet lined with pink, and green flowers inside. I never saw so many queer-looking figures together."

"You seem to have made an active use of your eyes," said Aunt Sarah: "whether it was a very good way of employing them in service-time, I should very much doubt."

"I cannot help seeing what is before my eyes," said Kitty, rather pertly.

"Were all these things before your eyes, Kitty?" asked Mrs. Evelyn. "I did not see any of them; and I rather think if your eyes had been where they should have been, and your attention given to proper objects, you would not have seen them either. Don't you know how to find the places?"

"Of course I do," replied Kitty, a good deal offended at the question: "I have known that ever since I was six years old,"—the date to which Kitty referred all her knowledge and experience.

"I did not observe that you looked for them, however," replied her aunt. "Perhaps, if you give your attention to them this afternoon, you will be less disturbed by the bonnets of the congregation."

Kitty pouted all the rest of the way home. But her aunt seemed to trouble herself very little about it, and she forgot her ill-humour herself as soon as she saw that it was not noticed.

The evening service commenced at five o'clock, and Aunt Sarah advised her to spend part of the interval upon her Sunday-school lesson. Kitty was quite willing to do so, for she had been considerably mortified at missing several questions which the rest of the class seemed to consider very easy, and she meant to show herself on the next Sunday in such a way as should make the girls forget her first failure, in admiration of her acquirements.

She was much more attentive at evening service than she had been in the morning. And her aunt perceived that she at least understood the service, whether she appreciated it or not.

The evening was spent in reading to her aunt, and in hearing from her stories of her younger days, when the country was new and the nearest place of worship was eight miles off.

The next morning Kitty was up almost with the sun, and had put her room in nice order before her aunt came to call her,—for which she received due praise. After breakfast, she dusted the parlours and arranged bouquets of flowers in the vases. And then her aunt found various little matters to do about house, which kept her till dinner-time. The school which she was to attend did not begin till the next Monday, and the week passed off without any adventure worth relating at length.

"I wonder if any eggs have been brought in to-day," said her aunt, on Thursday morning.

"Shall I go out to the barn and see it there are any?" asked Kitty,—ever ready to offer her services.

"You may, if you please," replied her aunt; "only ask Harvey to show you where the nests are, so that you need not make any mistake. And don't disturb the hens that are sitting."

"I won't," said Kitty, tying on her bonnet and running out to the barn.

"I don't see what is the use of my asking Harvey," she said to herself. "I cannot bear him. He laughed at my big straw hat, and said that my dress looked like a balloon. I know where the nests are as well as he does."

So saying, she set diligently about her errand, and very soon returned with her basket quite full of eggs. Her aunt had been called into the parlour to see some company. So she put her eggs all together into the vessel where they were usually kept, and set herself about something else. The ladies stayed so long that Mrs. Evelyn had no time left for her cooking, and concluded to put it off till afternoon.

"What a fine parcel of eggs you have found, Kitty!" she said, as she collected together the materials for her cake. "I hope they are all fresh ones."

"Oh, yes; I know they are," returned Kitty, confidently; "some of them were quite warm. I think it is good fun to hunt eggs," she continued; "they look so pretty and white lying in the nest."

"I used to think so at your age," replied Mrs. Evelyn, "but I have grown rather too stout to be climbing into hay-lofts or creeping into corn-bins, or else I dare say I should enjoy it as well as ever. But, Kitty, these eggs are not fresh: they have been set on some time," she continued, as she broke two or three, one after the other. "Where did you get them?"

"In the barn," replied Kitty,—beginning to feel rather confused.

"Did you ask Harvey to show you where to look, as I told you?"

Before she had time to reply, Harvey himself entered. He was a big, good-natured "hired boy," about eighteen or nineteen, very much disposed to be good friends with the little city miss. But she had taken offence at him because he had laughed at her big straw hat, and would not speak to him if she could help it.

"Somebody has broken up my speckled hen's nest," said he, as he entered. "Her eggs are all gone, and she is making the greatest fuss in the world. Who could have done it?"

"Where did you get the eggs you brought in this morning, Kitty?" asked her aunt,—at once seeing through the whole mystery.

Kitty coloured deeply. "I got them under the manger," she replied, trying to speak quite indifferently.

"All in one nest?" asked Harvey.

Kitty did not reply.

"So much for not doing as you were told!" said Mrs. Evelyn, in a tone of displeasure. "If you had asked Harvey, as I bade you, you would not have made such a mistake. Now you have spoiled all Harvey's nice Dorking eggs, which he took so much pains to bring all the way from the city that he might have some nice fowls to give to his mother,—and my cake besides; for I see that some of the egg has fallen into the sugar, so that I will have to throw it all away. People that cannot be told any thing are always doing mischief and making themselves ridiculous."

"It won't do to set Miss Kitty to hunting hens' nests,—that's clear," said Harvey, who was naturally annoyed at the loss of his chickens. "I should think any one would have known that so many eggs together could not all be fresh."

"They were all warm," said Kitty.

"So much the worse," replied Harvey. "Did you suppose twelve or fifteen hens were all going to lay at once in the same nest? But never mind, Kitty," he added, good-naturedly, as he saw that Kitty was just ready to cry: "you will know better next time. And I dare say I can get some more eggs somewhere. Come out to the barn with me, and I will show you the right place, and we will see if we cannot have some cake without any chickens in it! They are very nice roasted, you know; but they don't beat up well in the batter."

Kitty turned and went out of the kitchen, shutting the door after her with very unnecessary violence. She did not come down when the tea-bell was rung, and Mrs. Evelyn, going to look for her, found her crying violently. If Huldah had found her in such a state, she would have spared no pains in comforting and coaxing her, but Mrs. Evelyn thought differently.

"Come, Kitty," she said. "This is all nonsense. You should have obeyed, and then you would not have done the mischief. But there is no use in crying about it now. Wipe your eyes and come down to tea."

Aunt Sarah spoke as though she meant to be obeyed, and Kitty followed her, sullenly enough. She hardly spoke during the meal, and rejected with contempt all Harvey's good-natured attempts at a reconciliation. She seemed to consider herself the aggrieved party entirely. And though he tried in several ways to show that he wished to be good friends again, she treated him with great dignity, and never spoke to him if she could possibly avoid it.

CHAPTER II.

MRS. EVELYN had decided that it was best for Kitty to go to school, a good deal to the young lady's annoyance,—partly because she had looked forward to a summer of play, and partly because it hurt her dignity to think of going to a common country school-house. She found some comfort, however, in the idea that she should probably be a person of considerable consequence. She had very little doubt that she should be the best scholar in the school, and even made some serious resolutions against being proud of her superiority in this and other respects. She fully intended to be very kind to the other children and help them as much as she could. And by the aid of these and similar reflections, she quite reconciled herself to the idea, which had at first been so distasteful to her.

Mrs. Evelyn began to see that in taking charge of Kitty she had undertaken a pretty serious task, but she was a woman of great patience and discernment. She saw that almost all Kitty's faults arose from her overweening idea of her own importance, and that she would have to be thoroughly humbled before there could be much hope of her permanent improvement. But she knew that it would be necessary to proceed with great care and gentleness, lest the little girl should become entirely discouraged. Mrs. Evelyn had a high opinion of Miss Watson, the teacher of the school; and she thought it would be much better for Kitty to be with other girls of her own age, with whom she might compare herself and her attainments.

When Sunday came, Kitty was much more attentive in church than she had been before. Harvey knew how to use his book quite as well as Kitty did, but he was fond of the little girl, as he was of every child, and indeed, every animal that came near him, and was, moreover, somewhat amused with the air with which she took the book out of his hand and gave him her own, pointing at the same time to the proper place. And he did not resent, as Kitty herself would have done, the imputation that he did not understand the service.

Whether Kitty profited by the service or not, she certainly behaved with great propriety, and had the satisfaction of saying her Sunday-school lesson so perfectly that she hoped quite to overcome any unfavourable impression she had made the Sunday before. In the general exercise, her voice quite led the girls. And she was not at all displeased when the superintendent called upon her to stand up and recite the lesson by herself. Another little girl in her aunt's class also recited it by herself, and acquitted herself very laudably, though she did not speak quite so distinctly as Kitty. She was rather a pretty child, about Kitty's own age, and her name was Sylvia Grey.

"Did I say my lesson well, aunt?" asked Kitty, as they were going home in the carriage.

"Very well indeed," replied her aunt. "I was glad to hear you speak so distinctly."

"I do not think the lessons are hard," continued Kitty. "I am sure it was no trouble at all for me to learn mine."

"I think they are rather too easy for girls of your age," said Mrs. Evelyn; "and I am thinking of changing the books for more advanced ones. But, Kitty, is it exactly correct to say that it was 'no trouble at all' for you to learn your lessons? I think you laboured over them a good while, and, if I am not mistaken, you came to me for answers to several of the questions."

"Oh, well, of course it is 'some' trouble to learn any lesson, if it is ever so easy," replied Kitty.

"Then why should you say it was none?" asked Mrs. Evelyn. "Try to say always exactly what you mean."

"Harvey has got a class, hasn't he?" recommenced Kitty, after a short silence.

"Yes: he has taught for more than a year, and seems to get on very nicely."

"It is funny, though, that he should be a teacher. I should not think he would know enough."

"Harvey is an excellent Bible-scholar," remarked Mrs. Evelyn. "He has been in Sunday-school ever since he could talk; and better still, he is a very earnest and sincere Christian. He does a great deal towards supporting his mother and sister, and is always ready to help any one who needs his assistance."

"He has put up a swing for me in the carriage-house," said Kitty. "He swung me ever so long yesterday, and he says he will make me a spring-board. I suppose he wants to make amends to me."

"For what?" asked Mrs. Evelyn, smiling.

"Why, for teasing me so about my hat, and about the eggs."

"I should say that the indebtedness was the other way, there," replied her aunt, "and that you were the one to make amends. I do not think Harvey was in the least to blame in the matter. What are you going to do for him in return for spoiling all his nice chickens?"

Kitty looked a good deal puzzled and annoyed at this view of the case.

"I am sure I did not mean to spoil them, aunt," she said, with something of the air of an injured person.

"I suppose not. No one in their senses would be so foolish as to bring in eggs for cake which had been under the hen for ten days. But that does not alter the case, so long as you spoiled them. If Harvey had meddled with your bird-cage and let your Java sparrows fly away by accident, would you not think that he ought to pay for them, or, at least, say that he was sorry? I think you would hardly feel yourself called upon to make amends to him, even if you had said a good deal more about it than Harvey did about the loss of his eggs."

This was a view which had not occurred to Kitty. And she felt somewhat disturbed by the idea that it was she who had been forgiven and Harvey who had been forbearing and magnanimous.

"Well, aunt, what do you think I ought to do about it?" she asked, after a little reflection. "Shall I pay him for the chickens?"

"I would at least offer to do so."

"I don't know what they were worth," said Kitty.

"He paid two shillings a dozen for the eggs, and there were fifteen of them," said Mrs. Evelyn. "How much does that make?"

"Two-and-sixpence," said Kitty, after calculating a little.

"Have you as much money as that?"

"Oh, yes, aunt! I have five dollars that my father gave me, besides some change."

"Then I think I would at least offer to pay him. Two-and-sixpence is not much to you; but, whether much or little, you should always be prompt in paying your just debts."

"Well," said Kitty, "I will. I do think he is a good-natured boy; and, after all, if it had been my nest, I know I should have said more about it than he did."

Mrs. Evelyn could not suppress a smile at Kitty's condescending tone. But she was glad to see that, once convinced of her error, she was willing to make amends. In fact, this was almost always the case with Kitty, when her eyes were fairly opened to her faults. The trouble was to make her see them.

Kitty Maynard.
Kitty and Harvey in the barn-yard.

The next morning she was up early. And as soon as she had finished putting her room in order, she took her little shopping-bag in her hand and went out to find Harvey. He was neither in the barn nor in the stable, though she heard him whistling somewhere. And going through to the back-door, which was open, she saw him milking a brindled cow, while the others stood round, waiting their turns.

"Is that you, Harvey?" she called. "Come here: I want to speak to you."

"I can't get up just now," said Harvey. "You come here."

"I am afraid of the cows," said Kitty, shrinking back.

"Oh, nonsense! What will they do to you? Why should they touch you any more than they do me? Come, and I will teach you to milk. I am going to milk old Strawberries-and-Cream, and she is a gentle creature. Come: I will engage that they sha'n't hurt you."

Finally Kitty conquered her timidity, and went over to Harvey, who was about to milk a beautiful red and white cow, to which he had given the somewhat fanciful name of "Strawberries-and-Cream."

"But, Harvey," said she, argumentatively, "cows do hook people sometimes, because I have read about it in the newspapers."

"People get killed in a great many ways sometimes," replied Harvey. "I read the other day of a man who was choked to death by a piece of beefsteak. I suppose, however, you would not hesitate to eat beefsteak upon that account? But come; I thought you were going to learn to milk."

"If you won't laugh at me," said Kitty, doubtfully.

"I shall not make any promises," returned Harvey. "I laugh very easy sometimes. But suppose I should: what harm would that do you?"

"None: only it is not very pleasant," said Kitty.

"That is as a body may think. I don't mind it."

"Because nobody ever laughs at you, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes, they do, very often, because I am such an awkward, green sort of fellow. One day, when I was in the city, I wanted to get mother some snuff, so I went into the first store I came to and asked for it. But as it happened, they kept only books and papers. And when I asked the clerk for a shilling's-worth of the best snuff, he laughed out in my face."

"And didn't you care for that?"

"No: what was the use? There was nothing disgraceful in asking for snuff in a bookstore, was there?"

"I don't know. I should have been mortified to death if I had made such a mistake. How did you come to do it?"

"Why, you know, they keep all sorts of things in country-stores, and I thought they might do so in the city just as well. The next place I went into was a dry-goods store. I used my eyes this time, and saw nothing lying about but silks and such things. So I asked a gentleman who was standing there if he could tell me where I could get some snuff. And he sent me to the door and showed me where to go. I thought he was much more polite than the other fellow, though he was not dressed half so fine, and did not put on any grand airs.

"But come; sit down,—not that side:—always sit with your right hand towards the cow's head. I have observed that in pictures they almost always put the milkmaid on the wrong side of the cow. Gently, now: it will cramp your hands at first."

Cramp them it did, sadly. But Kitty persevered, and to her great satisfaction, was able, before the lesson was over, to send a very satisfactory stream of milk into the pail.

"There!" said Harvey. "You can say that you have learned one useful thing this week already. I would not try any more now: it will make your hands lame. I guess breakfast is almost ready, too."

Kitty turned to go in, and had got as far as the barn-door when she came skipping back:—"Oh, Harvey! I almost forgot the very thing I came out for. I want to pay you for your chickens,—the nest that I spoiled."

"Never mind that," said Harvey, colouring a little: "I don't want you to pay for them. It was only an accident, and you will know better next time."

"It was my accident, however," persisted Kitty: "and indeed, Harvey, I would much rather pay."

Harvey reflected a moment. He did not want to take the money, but he saw that Kitty was very anxious to get rid of the obligation, and that her sense of justice, once moved, made her feel uneasy till it was paid off.

"I'll tell you what I will do, Kitty," he said, presently. "They are collecting subscriptions for our new parish library; and I want to give something. The eggs were worth about three shillings. And when Miss Watson comes around, you may give her that much for me, if you choose."

"Well," said Kitty, "that will be very nice. I mean to give something for myself, too."

She now turned and went into the house, feeling very much relieved at having the matter off her mind, and quite proud of her exploit in the milking-affair. She gave an account of the whole matter to her aunt, who was much pleased, for two reasons,—first, that Kitty had overcome her pride and owned herself in the wrong, and secondly, that Harvey had shown so much generosity and delicacy in the way he had received her advances.

Harvey was indeed a great favourite with Mrs. Evelyn. He had lived with her several years, making the most of his opportunities and steadily improving in knowledge and character, and she prophesied that he would turn out a very useful man.

"What shall I wear to school, aunt?" asked Kitty, after breakfast.

"Just what you have on," was Mrs. Evelyn's reply. "Only you had better brush your hair and put on a clean apron."

Kitty looked doubtfully at the pretty French calico dress and white apron. "Cannot I wear my blue muslin dress, aunt? I think this hardly looks fit."

"Why not? It is clean, is it not? I think it is much more suitable than the delicate muslin," her aunt continued, seeing Kitty still hesitated. "You will want to go out and play with the other girls in recess, and your thin dress would be very likely to suffer."

"Do all the girls wear calico frocks, aunt?"

"Really, my dear, I cannot say," replied Mrs. Evelyn, gravely. "I should think, perhaps, that some of them might even wear gingham. But I do not like to speak positively upon such an important point. I am inclined to think, however, that you will find shilling and ten-cent calicoes the most fashionable material. But go and get your books and your hat, and by that time I will be ready."

"You are not going to wear your sunbonnet, are you, aunt?" exclaimed Kitty, as she came down with her books in her hands and met her aunt in the hall.

"Why, yes; I believe so. Don't you think it is a pretty one?"

"Pretty for a sunbonnet," replied Kitty. "But I should not like to wear it through the street in the city."

"Nor I; but, as we are going by a cross-road where we shall meet nobody except perhaps two or three cows, I think it will answer."

Kitty agreed that it might do for the cows, though she thought within herself that she should hardly be willing to wear it, or to carry the gingham parasol, even if there were nobody to see her. It was nearly a quarter of a mile from the farm-gate to the school-house, and the walk was a very pleasant one, being closely shaded by elm and maple trees, large and small, which lined the sides of the road. About half-way, a large brook crossed the road under a pretty rustic bridge, and on its bank lay some large brown stones, partly covered with moss, and conveniently disposed for seats. Kitty decided that this would be a nice place to stop and rest on her way home.

The school-house itself was prettier than country school-houses often are. It was built of stone, and shaded by large butternut and chestnut trees, and the yard was nicely fenced in and divided by a high partition into separate play-grounds for the boys and girls. The furniture of the school-room was of the very plainest description, and a good deal the worse for wear. A stained table and one arm-chair stood upon a platform, behind which was a blackboard, and a high shelf, on which were a large ink-bottle, some books and a pile of writing-paper. One long deal desk, with a shelf underneath it for books, ran round the outside of the room, and before it stood plain wooden chairs for the older scholars. About a dozen older girls, from twelve to sixteen, occupied these seats, while an equal number of small boys and girls sat upon two benches in the middle of the room. There were no large boys.

Miss Watson was hearing a class as they entered. But she put down her book and came forward to meet them, while all the children rose and stood up for a moment.

Kitty glanced round disdainfully at the bare walls and pine benches, and then at Miss Watson herself. She was a tall, thin lady,—about forty, Kitty thought,—very plainly and rather primly dressed, with her hair, which was just beginning to turn gray, put up in curious little round curls.

"I shall not like her," was Kitty's silent decision; "and yet I rather think I shall, too. But I wonder why she wears those funny little prim curls? She would look so much younger and better if she would dress like other people."

She replied with great politeness to Miss Watson's kind greeting, and then listened attentively to what her aunt was saying, though a little confused by the consciousness that all the girls were looking at her.

"Kitty will study geography and grammar. And if you have a class in Colburn's Arithmetic, I should like to have her go into it," said Mrs. Evelyn. "Of course, she will write copies every day; and I think that, together with reading and spelling, will fill up her time sufficiently for the present, as I do not wish her to have any lessons out of school."

"The older girls write compositions," said Miss Watson. "I presume you will wish to have her do the same?"

"Certainly," replied Mrs. Evelyn; and, having thus arranged matters, she took her leave.

"Where would you like to sit, my dear?" asked Miss Watson.

Kitty looked around and selected a seat by the window, from which she could look abroad over the fields and catch a glimpse of her aunt's house peeping through the trees. The seat next her own had a pile of books neatly arranged upon it, but the owner of them had not yet appeared. Kitty arranged her own books according to her fancy, mentally contrasting her present seat with the black-walnut desk and cane-bottomed chairs to which she had been accustomed at Miss Burlingame's, and wondering what Josephine Powers would say to finding herself in such a school-room!

Miss Watson appointed her a lesson in geography; and she set about it with all proper diligence, fully determined to astonish her companions and win the commendation of her teacher by her superior recitation. She was a good deal annoyed at her aunt's choice of studies for her. Arithmetic,—Colburn's, above all,—geography and grammar seemed very commonplace and uninteresting to a young lady who had commenced French and studied "Watts on the Mind;" and as to the copies and spelling, the very idea was an affront. She determined to write to her mother about it. And in the mean time, she would show Miss Watson and the girls that such studies were nothing to her.

However, as she opened her book and ran her eye over the questions, she began to be aware that, in order to make the distinguished figure she intended, it would be necessary for her to begin studying at once, as she did not know the answers to half of them. She had not been once through the lesson, when a little girl came quietly in, and slipping into the seat next to her, began taking out her books at once, as if she were in a hurry to make up for lost time.

"You are late this morning, Sylvia," remarked Miss Watson.

"Yes, ma'am. Mother is quite sick this morning, and I could not get away."

Kitty peeped over the edge of her book and recognised the face of Sylvia Grey, the little girl who had recited so well in Sunday-school. She was about Kitty's own age, but pale and thin, and her features wore a peculiarly subdued and gentle expression. She was very plainly dressed, and her dark calico frock was mended in several places; but in spite of this and of the freckles which injured her complexion, Kitty thought there was something very pleasing about her, and felt glad that she was to have her for a neighbour.

The geography-class was called up before Kitty had time to go over her lesson more than once, but she made out very well. Her next exercise was in "Colburn's Arithmetic," which did not come till after recess, so she had plenty of time to study. But Kitty took up the book and looked over the lesson with utter contempt, deciding that it would not be worth her while to spend much time upon it: accordingly, she spent the interval before recess in arranging and re-arranging her books and in gazing out of the window.

At recess, Sylvia did not go out, but remained busily engaged with her arithmetic, and Kitty at first felt rather awkward. But by-and-by, one of the oldest girls in the school, whom Kitty had observed looking very curiously at her, came up and accosted her:—

"You are Mrs. Evelyn's niece, are you not?" she asked, politely enough.

"Yes," replied Kitty. And then feeling as though she had answered very shortly, she added, "I am spending the summer with her."

"I should think you would find it very dull after the city," said her new acquaintance, whose name she found was Selina Henshaw. "There is such a noise and bustle there, and so much that is interesting and exciting going on all the time."

"There is very little noise where we live," replied Kitty. "Carroll Street is almost as quiet as this road is. But don't you think there are some interesting things here too?"

"Why, I don't know," said Selina. "It is all pretty much alike, 'take' the year round, except that sometimes it is winter and sometimes summer. Haying and harvest and ploughing and sowing, and making butter and cheese, all come right over and over. There is not much variety in that. I suppose you wont to school in the city?"

"Yes," replied Kitty; "I went to Miss Burlingame's school."

"Is not that a very fashionable school?" asked Selina.

"Oh, yes," replied Kitty, eagerly; "and so different from this! We have walnut desks and cane-bottomed chairs, and there is a carpet on the floor, and a piano; and then we have four teachers. There are a hundred young ladies up-stairs sometimes, besides the little girls in the lower room."

"And what did you study when you were there?" said Selina.

Kitty ran over a list of books, the contents of which, if she had mastered them thoroughly, would certainly have made her a very good scholar for her age.

"I should not think you would care about coming to school here. I don't see what you expect to learn. Why don't your aunt send you to school in the village? There is a school there, kept by Mrs. Smith, where they study some of those things, I know; and I am going to ask mother to send me there after vacation. But I suppose Mrs. Evelyn, like every one else, thinks that there is nobody like Miss Watson. I do not see any thing so wonderful about her, for my part."

"I am sure her curls are wonderful," said Kitty, laughing. "At least, I never saw any like them before. But she seems very good-natured, I think."

"Wait till you know," said Selina, with a significant glance. "For my part, I should not care if she only treated every one alike. But I do think it is too provoking to see a teacher so partial."

"Who is she partial to?" asked Kitty.

"Oh, she has two or three favourites, but I think Sylvia Grey is the principal one,—that girl with the freckles that sits next to you. She never can do any thing wrong, in Miss Watson's eyes."

"She is in our class in Sunday-school," remarked Kitty; "and Aunt Sarah thinks she is a very good girl. Perhaps that is the reason Miss Watson is partial to her."

"Wait till you see," said Selina. "If any other girl had come in as late as she did this morning, they would have heard enough about it. But not one word did Miss Watson say, except to ask what had kept her."

"Well, she said her mother was worse: that was excuse enough."

"Oh, yes; that is the excuse for every thing. I believe her mother might be as well as any one, if she had any ambition. I should think she would be ashamed to lie abed half the time and let her girls work for her as they do. Anne Grey does over bonnets and takes in sewing to get along; and they have hard work to do that, sometimes, I expect. Then there is Myra Clark: she is another of Miss Watson's favourites. Miss Watson gives her drawing-lessons, because, she says, Myra has so much talent!"

"Can Miss Watson draw?" asked Kitty. "I wish she would give me lessons. I have always wanted to learn; and mother said I might, if I had an opportunity."

"I dare say she would," said Selina. "She likes to have drawing scholars. It sounds much grander than teaching geography and arithmetic. By-the-by, have you learned your Colburn?"

"I only just looked at it," said Kitty. "It seemed to be so easy, I thought I should not have to study it much."

"Some of it is hard enough, I can tell you. I don't believe that you will get along at all if you have not studied it. But you will be at the foot anyway: so it won't matter."

"But I should not like to miss," said Kitty, rather alarmed. "I wish I had studied it. I wonder if I should have time now?"

"It comes directly after recess, so I don't believe you will. There is the bell ringing now. Come; we must hurry in, or Miss Watson will scold. She always does, if we stay out a single minute."

The arithmetic-class was called. And Kitty waited, in some trepidation, till the question came to her,—

"Nineteen is how many times five?"

After a little hesitation, she answered, "Three times."

"Is that right?" asked Miss Watson. "How much is three times five?"

"Fifteen," was the answer.

"And how many does it take to make nineteen?"

"Four."

"Well, then, nineteen is how many times five?"

But, having missed the preliminary steps of the lesson, Kitty was still puzzled. And the question passed to the head, when Sylvia answered it correctly. Kitty missed almost every question that came to her, and at the end of the lesson was still at the foot of the class. She was very much mortified when Miss Watson said to her,—

"I shall excuse you this time, Kitty, because you are a new scholar. But hereafter, I shall expect you to study your lesson before you come to the class."

She was so much occupied in thinking about it, that when they came to spell (which was soon after) she missed a word which she knew perfectly well, and a little girl only ten years old, who had been at the head the day before, went above her.

Kitty cried with shame and vexation as she was going home. And, as usual, she was disposed to throw the blame upon anybody but herself. Miss Watson did not give her any time in the spelling-class; she did not wait for her half as long as she did for some of the others; and, as for the arithmetic, Miss Watson ought to have told her how hard it was.

She was determined, however, not to let her aunt know that she had missed. And when Mrs. Evelyn asked her how she liked the school, she answered, carelessly, that she "liked it very well so far."

In the afternoon, things went better. She studied her grammar-lesson faithfully, and succeeded not only in keeping her place, but in going up three places. There was one thing in which she excelled: she read better than any girl in the school; and Miss Watson commended her highly, and held her up as an example to the rest of the school. She praised her writing, too, which was very neat and legible, and thus smoothed the ruffled plumes of her vanity,—so that she went home quite satisfied with the school, herself and her teacher.

Myra Clark and Sylvia Grey stayed after school to draw, and Kitty thought she should like to draw too, and determined to ask her aunt about it. She was walking slowly homeward, when she was joined by Selina.

"Well, how do you think you shall like the school?" was her first question.

"I think I shall like it very well when I get used to it," replied Kitty,—"especially if aunt will let me take drawing-lessons."

"I should not think you would want to do that," said Selina, looking rather annoyed. "Miss Watson is very strict with the girls, and I don't believe that you would like Myra and Sylvia very much,—Silver Grey the little girls call her. Not but that she is a good little thing enough, but she is so precise and tiresome; and—only think—Myra lived out in the village last winter, like any common hired girl!"

"Did she?" asked Kitty, in surprise. "She does not look at all like a servant."

"She certainly did," replied Selina, positively. "She lived at Mrs. Stewart's, and did her work, for I heard Mrs. Stewart tell mother that Myra was the only girl she ever had that she felt it really safe to leave the baby with. And besides that, she opened the door one day when mother and I called there! Mother laughed when she heard that Miss Watson was teaching her drawing, and said it would be more sensible to give her lessons in cooking. I dare say Sylvia would work out too, only her mother cannot spare her; and so Miss Watson is educating her for a teacher.

"If I were you, Kitty, I would let it alone. I am sure you can learn to draw easily enough any time, you are so quick; and you don't want to spend all your time studying while you are in the country. You can have a drawing-master when you go home, I dare say; and you will soon learn more than Miss Watson knows. I don't believe she draws so very well, after all."

Whatever Selina's motive was, she had touched Kitty's weak point and gained her purpose. Kitty said nothing about the drawing-lessons when she went home.

The next day, she was careful to study her arithmetic-lesson beforehand, and did not miss once in that or any other class, besides going up two places in spelling. The week passed away quietly, with no very important events, and Kitty began to think she should enjoy going to school very much, after all. She had struck up a violent intimacy with Selina Henshaw; and they walked to and from school together, played together in recess, used each other's books and pencils, and met every morning with as many kisses as if they had been parted for years.

Selina had brought about an exchange of seats with the girl who sat on the other side of Kitty, and now shared the same desk with her friend,—not much, it must be confessed, to the advantage of her lessons, for Selina was in inveterate whisperer, and Kitty was only too ready to be led away by her bad example.

Miss Watson was considerably annoyed, but she reflected that Selina's friendships were not apt to be of long duration, and the evil would probably cure itself before long.

"Aunt," said Kitty, on Saturday, "may I go over and spend the afternoon with Selina? She asked me."

"I have no objections," said Mrs. Evelyn, "provided you are careful not to get into any mischief, and are sure to come home before dark."

"I will," promised Kitty.

And away she went rejoicing, to spend the afternoon with her friend. They passed it very pleasantly, as Kitty thought, rambling over the fields and in the woods, gathering flowers, and wading in the brook with their shoes and stockings off. At last, Selina proposed that, as they were so near, they should go over and see Sylvia Grey.

"She lives in that little bit of a red house under the hill. Isn't it a funny little place?"

"I think it is very pretty," said Kitty: "but what a long way she has to go to school! I wonder she can come as regularly as she does, I am sure."

"Well, Sylvia is very persevering, I will say that for her," said Selina; "and, besides, she is anxious to get a good education, so that she can be a teacher herself by-and-by. I heard Anne tell mother that she did not mean to have Sylvia sew for a living, as 'she' had been obliged to do. Isn't it ridiculous?"

Kitty could not see the absurdity, but she laughed because her friend did. And they proceeded together across the fields, Selina entertaining her companion with anecdotes of the absurd pride of the Greys, who would get along any way rather than ask for any thing, though every one knew that they had hard work to get through the winter.

"And do you believe, Kitty, that when Mrs. Stewart sent them a load of wood, Anne insisted on doing sewing for Mrs. Stewart to pay for it. And when Mrs. Stewart would not let her do that, she worked a beautiful handkerchief on some grass linen she had—some that was given to her mother before she was married, I believe—and sent it to Mrs. Stewart as a present! Now, that is just a sample of them. For my part, I don't believe in such pride. I think it is sinful."

Indeed, Selina had no pride which prevented her receiving presents to any amount, as Kitty well knew; for she had already begged two of her books, besides availing herself largely of Kitty's liberal supply of writing-paper, pencils, &c.

They entered Mrs. Grey's little front yard, filled to overflowing with aim sorts of flowers, common and rare, and saw Sylvia very busy weeding a border, with her head so closely bent over her work that she did not see her visitors till Kitty playfully clapped her hands over her eyes, saying,—

"Guess whose fingers are all these!"

"Kitty Maynard's," replied Sylvia, joyously: "I know the voice. I wondered whether you were ever coming to see me."

"And somebody else," said Kitty. "Here is Selina, too."

Kitty could not help thinking that Sylvia was not quite so glad to see Selina, but she welcomed her with all due kindness.

"Come into the house and rest yourselves," she said, leading the way into the front room and placing chairs for them. "I am sure you must be tired with such a long walk, especially as you are not used to walking."

"'I' am used to it," said Kitty. "I walk a great deal farther than this when I am at home. I think people walk much more in the city than you do in the country."

"Of course they do," said Selina; "because there is so much more to see that they do not think of the distance."

"More to see in the city?" repeated Sylvia, doubtfully.

"Why, yes, of course,—the shops, and people, and all. In the country there is nothing to be seen but fields and trees and rocks; and it is stupid work to walk, isn't it, Kitty?"

"I don't think so," replied Kitty. "It is a great deal pleasanter to walk on the grass than on the pavements. And I would rather go to school by the cross-road than down Euston Street, where there is nothing to be seen but high brick houses. And I think cows are a great deal prettier than milk-carts, though I am afraid of them."

Sylvia laughed merrily, but Selina drew herself up as if she was rather offended, and changed the subject by asking how Mrs. Grey was.

"She is about the same," said Sylvia, her bright look vanishing as she spoke. "I do not think she has felt as well for three or four days. I will go and tell her that you are here, for I am sure she would like to see you, Kitty, if she feels able to talk. I told her about you, and she says she used to know your mother when she was a little girl, and went to school with her."

Sylvia was gone some time, and Selina amused herself by making sarcastic comments upon the room and its furniture.

"See the darns in the carpet, Kitty," she whispered; "I wonder if I could count them. I suppose they would not use a rag carpet for the world,—they are so genteel. And look at that waiter stuck up behind the table. I thought people generally kept such things in pantries; didn't you? Did you ever see such a quantity of books? I wonder where they got them all. I should think people as poor as they are might get along without taking two or three papers."

Kitty laughed, though rather faintly. She thought the room looked very pretty, in spite of darned carpet and green paper shades. And she instinctively felt that it was very ill-bred in Selina to make such comments in a house where she had been received with so much kindness.

Sylvia returned presently, and led the way into the next room, where they found Mrs. Grey sitting up in a large rocking-chair. She was very neatly dressed in a pretty calico wrapper and plain cap, and looked very nice and ladylike. It might be in the invalid dress and plain cap, but Kitty thought at once that Mrs. Grey resembled her mother, and felt attached to her directly.

"I hope you are better to-day," she said, as Mrs. Grey kissed her. "Sylvia said yesterday that you were not as well."

"I am better, thank you, my dear. This has been a trying week both for me and the girls, but I hope the worst is over by this time."

"I suppose you don't know much about sickness, Miss Kitty?" observed Anne Grey, who was sitting by the window, busily employed in binding shoes.

"Oh, yes!" replied Kitty. "My mother is sick all the time. She had not been out of her room in five months when she went away. I do hope she will be better when she comes back. It is so much pleasanter when she is able to be down-stairs. Sylvia says you used to know my mother, ma'am," she continued, turning to Mrs. Grey.

"Yes: we went to school together for two or three years, and were great friends. Healthy, romping girls we were,—full of life and fun, and always projecting and carrying out some wild scheme or other."

"Oh, please tell me about them!" said Kitty, eagerly. "I do love to hear such stories; and mother is hardly ever strong enough to tell me."

"I am not very well able to talk this afternoon, my dear," replied Mrs. Grey, kindly. "But if you will come over some other time, I will see what I can do to amuse you. Sylvia shall tell you some day when I feel pretty well, and you must come home with her and stay to tea."

Kitty accepted the invitation with great pleasure. And being reminded by Selina that they must get home in time for tea, they took their leave, after Sylvia had gathered a pretty bouquet for each of them, and Anne had given Kitty some fine young snapdragon-plants for her own garden. She offered Selina some, but that young lady refused them, with ill-concealed disdain, observing that they had plenty of flowers at home.

"What a wonderful present!" she remarked, contemptuously, as they were walking towards home. "If I were you, Kitty, I would throw them away and not be bothered with them. I am sure I won't carry these rubbishy flowers all the way home: we have got enough of our own."

And she gave them a toss into the brook, but Kitty rescued them.

"Don't throw them away! Give them to me, if you don't want them. I think it was very kind in Anne and Sylvia. What a lovely woman Mrs. Grey is!"

"Lovely, indeed!" said Selina. "Her skin is as wrinkled as a frozen apple. I hope you think Sylvia is lovely, too, with her face all over freckles?"

"I think she is very pleasant," replied Kitty, resolutely; "and she has very sweet manners. I am sure she was as polite to us as anybody could be; and I mean to ask aunt to let me go and see her again very soon."

"Very well, Kitty," said Selina, colouring deeply. "If you like Sylvia Grey so much better than you do me, you may take her for your friend and leave me alone. I never thought you would act so."

And she burst into tears and sobbed violently,—much to Kitty's amazement as well as distress, for she could not imagine what she had said to produce such an outburst.

"What are you crying about?" she asked.

"I thought you loved me, and were going to be my friend forever," Selina continued, still sobbing. "I'm sure you said you would. I never liked anybody so much as I did you, and I never thought you would forsake me for Sylvia Grey. I wish I was dead, I do; for nobody ever loves me as well as I do them!" And the disconsolate damsel sat down on a log and wept fresh torrents of tears.

"But I haven't deserted you, Selina," said Kitty, much disturbed. "Cannot I like two people at once? Of course I do not like Sylvia as much as I do you, but you need not be jealous of her coming to see me. Come: don't cry any more."

"I can't help being jealous," said Selina, the shower of tears subsiding a little: "it is in my very nature; and if I love any one, I don't want them to care for any one else. Nobody loves me as well as I do them, and I suppose that is the reason."

"Oh, Selina!—Your mother?"

"Mother don't love me much," said Selina. "If she did, she would not find so much fault with me. She cares a great deal more for Mary than she does for me; and so does aunt, and everybody—"

"You should not say so," interrupted Kitty. "It is not right to speak so of your mother."

"And you too," continued Selina, again bursting into tears at this reproof. "You think I am the worst girl in the world because I want to have my mother love me. But I shall always love you, Kitty, whatever you—"

The remainder of the sentence was lost in sobs.

Kitty endeavoured to soothe her friend's wounded sensibilities by new protestations of affection.

And Selina at last wiped her eyes and allowed herself to be comforted.

"I know I am very foolish," she said, kissing Kitty; "but I love you so much, and you are so superior to any friend I ever had, that I could not bear to think of your liking any one better than you do me."

Kitty felt very much flattered by all these proofs of affection and admiration, though she could not help thinking it would be rather inconvenient to have them often repeated. The girls walked home with their arms round each other's necks, and exchanged numberless kisses at parting, Selina declaring that she could not forgive herself for thinking Kitty would ever desert her for such a child as Sylvia Grey. She tried to extort from her a promise that she would not accept Mrs. Grey's invitation, but in this she did not succeed. Kitty loved her mother better than anybody else in the world; and the mere idea that she and Mrs. Grey had been girls together was enough to attract her to the latter.

When she got home, she described her visit to Sylvia, and asked her aunt's permission to accept her mother's invitation.

"I shall be very glad to have you go and see Sylvia," said Mrs. Evelyn. "She is one of the loveliest girls I know; and you can gain nothing but good from her. But, Kitty, remember another time that, if I give you permission to go to one place, you must not go to another without coming home and asking first."

"Selina wanted to go," said Kitty.

"Yes, I know; and I do not blame you this time, but take care not to do it again."

"But, aunt, what difference does it make whether I am at Mrs. Henshaw's or Mrs. Grey's, so long as you said I might go out?"

"Because, my dear, I choose to know where you are."

"I don't see what harm I could get into round here," persisted Kitty. "It is not like being in the city; and even there, mother was not nearly so particular as you are, Aunt Sarah."

"I am not at leisure to argue the point, even if I thought it best to do so," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "But now that you know what my wishes are, I expect that you will be guided by them."

Kitty pouted, but just now her curiosity was too strong to allow of her indulging in a fit of obstinate silence, as she might have done at another time.

"Has Mrs. Grey ever been rich, aunt?" she inquired.

"What made you think of that?" asked Mrs. Evelyn, in return.

"I don't know. There is something about them that makes me feel as if they might some time have been better off: they are so—"

"Refined?" said Mrs. Evelyn, as Kitty hesitated. "Is that what you mean?"

"Yes, aunt;—so different from poor people, generally, that work for a living."

"I suspect you have not been in the way of knowing much about people that work for a living," remarked Mrs. Evelyn. "But to answer your question. The Greys have never been rich, though they were at one time comparatively well off. Mrs. Grey was the only daughter of a school-master who was for many years at the head of Barton Academy, and she received an excellent education. She married Mr. Grey when they were both quite young, and for a while they were very prosperous. But his health failed entirely, his mind became affected, and the whole burden of the family-support came upon Mrs. Grey.

"Mr. Grey died soon after Sylvia was born; and about four years after, a distant relative left Mrs. Grey this little place of twenty-five acres and about six hundred dollars in money. It was a most timely provision; for between hard work and the effects of a severe fever, Mrs. Grey's health failed about that time, and she became a confirmed invalid. They rent their land, which brings them in something, but they are often much straitened: and I do not know what would become of them but for the industry and good management of Anne and Sylvia."

"Selina says they have so much pride," observed Kitty. "She says they cannot bear to be helped by anybody."

"They have too much self-respect to accept of assistance so long as they can do without it," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "I have never found them at all unwilling to accept of neighbourly services when they needed them. If you believe all Selina's tales, Kitty, you will have a poor opinion of your neighbours."

"You don't like Selina, aunt?" said Kitty.

"I never have said that I did not like her," said Mrs. Evelyn, smiling. "I think Selina has considerable capabilities, and that her impulses are often very good, but she is quite undisciplined, and has no principle."

"I think that is rather hard, aunt," said Kitty, indignantly, "to say she has no principle!"

"Understand me, Kitty. I did not say that she has bad principles: that is quite another thing. What I mean to say is that she acts entirely from impulse, and has no settled rule of duty to guide her actions. She does not do things because they are right, or leave them undone because they are wrong, but acts just as she feels at the moment, however that may happen to be. Especially, she gives altogether too much license to her tongue, particularly in talking about her elders, as I dare say you have found out by this time."

Kitty could not deny this, remembering what Selina had said about Mrs. Watson and Mrs. Grey, and even about her own mother.

"But don't you think, aunt," she persisted, "that people ought always to say what they think?"

"Not always, by any means," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "In the first place, we ought not to cherish unkind thoughts of or towards our neighbours; and in the second place, if we have such thoughts, we have no right to injure others, or make them uncomfortable, by clothing them in words. If we cannot control our unamiable tempers, we can at least keep them to ourselves."

Kitty went away, thinking that her aunt was very unjust to Selina, and that she understood her friend much better; whereas, she did not understand her at all. And so ended her first week at school.

CHAPTER III.

SELINA and Kitty met with unabated affection on Monday morning, and greeted each other with kisses upon kisses. Selina did not look very well pleased, however, when they were walking together in recess and Kitty invited Sylvia to join them. She had in her hand a story-book of her own which Selina had just brought home, and Sylvia asked what it was.

"It is the 'Parent's Assistant,'" replied Kitty,—"one of my very pet books. Don't you want to take it? There are three other volumes besides this, and you may take them all as soon as Selina has done with them."

Sylvia's eyes sparkled, and she smiled in her sudden way, which made her usually grave, sad face really beautiful. "I am 'very' much obliged to you, Kitty," she said, earnestly. "You don't know how I love to get hold of a new book,—though I don't have a great deal of time to read. I know all our Sunday-school books almost by heart, and I have read all my own books again and again."

"You may take any of mine you like," said Kitty,—who, with all her faults, had a hearty generosity about her, which loved to make people happy. "I have got a good many here, and plenty more in the city."

Sylvia was evidently very much pleased, though she said but little; while Selina seemed to feel rather unpleasantly, though she gave no other signs of it than colouring and withdrawing her arm from Kitty's rather suddenly.

Presently Sylvia went into the house, and Selina said, pettishly, "What did you ask her to walk with us for? I had ever so many things I wanted to say to you."

"Well, you can say them now," replied Kitty.

"They are all gone out of my head now," said Selina.

"They could not be very important:—that is one comfort," said Kitty, laughing. "But come, don't be cross, Selina. Tell me what you are going to write for a composition. Oh, dear! How I wish we did not have to write! I do hate it! Don't you?"

"No," replied Selina, "I love it dearly; and if you will never tell, Kitty, I will tell you something."

Kitty gave the required promise, and Selina continued, mysteriously:—

"I was out in our garden one day, and Miss Watson was talking to mother in the parlour. I had a notion that they were talking about me, so I went softly and stood under the window, and I heard Miss Watson say, 'Selina excels in composition: she is by far the best writer in the school.' I wanted to hear more, but mother moved just then, and I was afraid she would come to the window and see me. But I actually heard her say that."

"Perhaps she did not mean you,—" an undefined feeling of displeasure prompted Kitty to say.

"Who could she mean? There has never been any other Selina in the school. And besides, she always keeps my composition to the last, as she does all the good ones. I used to like to write well enough before that, but I have cared a great deal more about it since,—only it is a bother having to write on just such a day. That is just one of Miss Watson's old-maidenish ways."

Kitty was spared the necessity of any reply by the ringing of the bell, and the two friends went into the house.

There was certainly no reason why Kitty should feel hurt because Selina had been declared the best writer in the school: nevertheless, she did feel almost as much injured as though, she herself had been pronounced the worst. And she inwardly determined that she should hold that place no longer. Kitty had never been fond of writing compositions. She had often contrived to get excused from the duty at the school she had attended heretofore, and she had come to school this morning dreading the task before her. But her feelings had undergone a sudden revolution, and she only thought of eclipsing Selina. She did not feel quite sure of being able to do so, as Miss Watson herself had pronounced Selina the best writer in the school. But she determined at least to try, and began at once to turn over different subjects in her mind, wishing to select something which would be at the same time effective and easy.

She was not very long in deciding. She had just been reading a story of the struggles and adventures of some Poles in England; and she determined that her subject should be "The Soliloquy of a Polish Exile." She made her hero describe, in what she thought thrilling language, the beauties and advantages of the land he had been obliged to leave,—among which she enumerated orange-trees and vineyards, (for her ideas of the geography and climate of Poland were extremely vague;) and then she proceeded to state the difficulties and misfortunes with which the Pole was surrounded on landing upon the shores of America, winding up with the magnanimous declaration that, as the path of glory was no longer open to him, he would devote himself to an humble but useful calling,—that of teaching the youth of his adopted country. The composition being finished, she copied it with much care upon a nice sheet of note-paper, and handed it to Miss Watson with a feeling of extraordinary satisfaction.

The compositions were always read on Friday afternoon, at which time the girls were accustomed to select pieces to read or recite. There was generally more or less company present upon these occasions; and all—even the little children—felt a desire to appear well, and gain some mark of approbation from Miss Watson and from the little audience of school-mates and friends.

Kitty dressed herself very nicely for the occasion, and she felt, as she walked beside her aunt, whom she had persuaded to accompany her, that she should at least have the satisfaction of looking pretty. She was to read a dialogue with Selina, and as to the result of that, there was no fear, for she knew herself to be the best reader in school. But she could not help, in spite of herself, having some misgivings in regard to the composition, and she began to wish that she had chosen a less ambitious subject. However, there was no help for it now, and she could only hope for the best.

The reading went off very creditably, and then came the compositions. Selina's was really very good indeed. It was a description of the adventures and misadventures of a party of pleasure-seekers upon a picnic excursion, and was written not only correctly, but with great liveliness and spirit. Selina had a good deal of talent, to begin with; and she had from a little child been in the habit of writing letters.

Kitty's heart sank within her as she heard; and she only wished she could get possession of her own and prevent it from being read at all. Her cheeks flushed as Miss Watson commenced it, and she did not at first look up from her work. But glancing around after a moment, she saw a smile upon the face of more than one of the listeners at what she intended for a most pathetic passage. Miss Watson herself seemed amused as she came to the "oranges" and "vineyards." And as she read the conclusion, Selina and one or two of the other girls laughed aloud.

Poor Kitty! Her cheeks burned, her head throbbed, and she wished herself a thousand miles off. She would have cried heartily if she had been alone, but pride forbade such a display of feeling: so she worked away at her flounce, attempting, with but indifferent success, to look entirely unconcerned, while her heart was filled almost to bursting with anger and mortification.

She walked quietly home with her aunt when school was out, never alluding to her composition, but talking busily of other matters. She retired soon after tea, on the plea that her head ached, (as indeed it did); and when she found herself alone in her little room up-stairs, she gave way to her pent-up feelings in a tempest of tears and sobs.

"I never will write another composition! I declare, I never will! And I will never speak to Selina again. The good-for-nothing, deceitful thing, to laugh at me! I should think she would be ashamed to be glad because I was mortified—" forgetting that she had all the week been looking forward with pleasure to eclipsing her friend.

She cried till she was tired out, and then went to bed,—her very last thought being one of anger against Selina, who, after all, had done nothing so very bad. True, it was not very kind to laugh, but Kitty might have remembered how often she had laughed with her at the peculiarities and mistakes of her school-fellows. Kitty might have learned a useful lesson from the events of the afternoon, if she had chosen to profit by them; but she preferred to regard herself as a much injured person, and went to sleep thinking only of how she might humble Selina and exalt herself in the eyes of her teacher and her school-fellows.

When Kitty awoke the next morning, she had so far forgotten the events of the day before as to feel very good-natured again. She was busy all the morning, first in writing to her mother, then in mending her clothes,—a task which she did not find so pleasant as she had anticipated,—and then in assisting her aunt by putting the china-closet in order.

In the course of the latter employment, her vanity received another severe shock. Mrs. Evelyn described to her exactly the order in which she wished the cups, &c. arranged, and then went about something else. But coming back at the end of half an hour, she found this order almost exactly reversed. Huldah, in such a case, would have thanked Kitty and taken an opportunity to alter the arrangement unobserved. But this was not Mrs. Evelyn's way.

Kitty Maynard.
"Oh! Kitty, what have you done?"

"This will not do, Kitty," she said. "You have not set them at all as I told you."

"I know it," replied Kitty. "I think they look prettier so."

"However that may be, I prefer the old plan. So please to set them as I showed you."

"But it is so tiresome to be doing things always the same way!" persisted Kitty. "What is the use of having such a stereotyped way of doing every thing?" (For Kitty, as we have seen before, was fond of using a hard word now and then.)

"The use is that I may be able to find them at once when I want them,—which would not be the case if you were to leave them as they now are. It is not convenient to be obliged to hunt for things in the dark, or when one is in a hurry."

"You don't like variety, aunt?" said Kitty.

"Not in china-closets, at least," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "You need not do it unless you wish to, Kitty," she continued, seeing that Kitty looked dissatisfied. "It was your own offer, you know. But if you undertake to help me, you must do it in my way, not in yours."

"How set in her way aunt is!" thought Kitty to herself, as she proceeded—rather discontentedly—to alter the arrangement. "The cups do not look half so pretty so. I don't see what difference it makes. I should think when I do it for her, she might let me have my own way. I would not be so old-maidenish for any thing!"

"Aunt," she called, presently, "may I wash this blue sugar-bowl? It is all over sticky."

"I am afraid you will break it," her aunt replied, from the other room. "I would rather you did not."

"What nonsense!" said Kitty to herself. "As if I should break it! I won't break it, aunt," she continued, aloud. "It is dreadfully dirty,—not fit to be seen."

Mrs. Evelyn had gone into the kitchen, and did not hear her.

"I mean to wash it, anyway," she said to herself. And procuring some hot water, she set herself to work, rubbing and scrubbing with no gentle hand. She had not observed that the sugar-bowl was cracked. And as she gave a very energetic rub to remove some obstinate particles of sugar, to her great consternation it came apart in her hand, breaking into three or four pieces.

At this moment, Mrs. Evelyn entered.

"Oh, Kitty!" she exclaimed. "What have you done? You have broken my dear mother's bowl!" And the tears stood in her eyes as she took the pieces in her hand to examine them. "How could you do so?" she continued. "Did I not tell you not to wash it?"

"It was very dirty, and I thought it needed cleaning," replied Kitty, always angry at a reproof, however much she might deserve it. "I am sure I did not break it on purpose."

"You should have let it alone, as I bade you, and then it would have been safe. You will do some great piece of mischief yet, Kitty, in your vanity and self-sufficiency, unless you correct yourself in time. I wonder you cannot see that you do not know so much more than all the rest of the world put together. You may leave the things just as they are, and I will finish them," she continued. "And I want you to understand this:—that henceforth you are to do as I say, whatever you in your wisdom may think of my directions."

Kitty went away, feeling very much dissatisfied,—not with herself, but with her aunt and all the rest of the world.

"I should like for once to live with some one who did not think me a fool," she said to herself when she got out of hearing; for Kitty had an inveterate habit of talking to herself when she was displeased. "I should think Aunt Sarah would be ashamed to scold so about an old sugar-bowl,—just as if I broke it on purpose! She says I am so conceited, and it is no such thing. I am not so much worse than every one else in the world, but they all think I am, and I wish I was dead, so I do,"—she continued, bursting into tears,—"and then I should be out of the way!"

When Kitty was called to dinner, she appeared with a very melancholy face and an expression of martyrdom all over her, of which Mrs. Evelyn took no sort of notice. She had recovered her own rarely-disturbed equanimity by this time, and it was not her way to return to offences that had been once settled and disposed of. She had been all the week planning an excursion for this Saturday afternoon, and she now told Harvey to have the carriage ready by two o'clock.

"We can call for Sylvia on our way," she said to Kitty, "and then drive down to the lake-shore and spend the afternoon on the beach. We can take our little copper teakettle and make our tea out of doors. And Sylvia, who has been there before, will show you where to find those beautiful polished pebbles that you admire so much."

"Aunt wants to make amends to me for being so unjust this morning," was Kitty's reflection, "but I am not going to be brought round so."

She returned a mournful "Very well, aunt," to the proposal, and continued to eat her dinner in silence.

She had fully determined not to taste of any thing, but this was a resolution that Kitty never could keep, though she had made it a great many times: somehow, her appetite always would get the better of her temper.

She could not help giving way a little when she saw the basket of provisions packed, and with the teakettle stowed away under the front seat of the carriage. And by the time they had taken in Sylvia and were on their way to the lake, she had quite forgotten that she had been a martyr, and was as merry as ever. She even bowed to Selina, whom they met on the way, with great magnanimity, thinking, at the same time, how provoked Selina would be when she saw Sylvia riding in her aunt's carriage.

The afternoon was very pleasantly spent upon the lake-shore. Mrs. Evelyn sat upon a rock in the shade and read or walked on the sand, while the girls ran races with each other and with the white caps which were coming in before a brisk breeze, wrote their names and drew pictures upon the wet sand and watched to see the waves wash them out, hunted for shells and pebbles, and amused themselves in a thousand ways.

When the sun began to decline, Harvey collected some dry wood to boil the teakettle, which was suspended upon a cross-stick, "exactly like a gypsy's kettle in a picture," Kitty declared. The cakes and biscuits were spread out upon a smooth stone, and the little girls thought that neither tea nor cakes had ever tasted so good. To crown all, Harvey borrowed a boat of a fisherman and rowed them out a couple of miles upon the lake,—a pleasure which Kitty had never enjoyed before.

Nothing could be pleasanter than the ride home in the cool dewy twilight. And by the time they arrived, Kitty had almost forgotten that any thing had ever gone wrong in the world. She was so tired and sleepy that she went directly to bed without looking at her Bible, though she had promised her mother to read a few verses at least every day. And though she said her prayers, she paid very little attention to their meaning.

If she had, she would hardly have dared to say, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," while she could not think of Selina and her insulting laugh without clenching her hands and biting her lips. As to confessing herself a sinner in any but very general terms, it was what she had never yet done,—for the simple reason that she had never felt herself to be one.

Sunday passed much as usual. But on Monday morning, Kitty awoke with a heavy weight on her heart. It was composition-day again: and what should she write? Should she consent tamely to give the palm to Selina, and confess herself only second best? That was not in Kitty's nature, but how to help herself she did not exactly see. How much she regretted her laziness in writing heretofore!—Laziness which, as she thought, alone prevented her from excelling her friend, for the idea was not admitted for a moment that she was naturally inferior to Selina in talent.

"Miss Burlingame ought to have made me write, at any rate," she said to herself.

"She had no business to excuse me. But it did not make so much difference there, where there were so many grown-up young ladies that no one paid much attention to us little girls. It is very different here, where every one knows what every one does. I wish that composition had been burned up before it was read!" And tears of mortification again came to her eyes as she thought of the unfortunate Polish exile.

She went to school early, wishing for some time to study before nine o'clock, and having, in her agitation, forgotten to bring her books home on Friday. She was busily engaged over her mental arithmetic,—which she was beginning to like very much, for she had a natural talent for figures,—and in the intricacies of "twenty-four, three-ninths of how many times twelve?" and similar problems, had almost forgotten that it was composition-day, when she heard two or three laughing voices under the window.

"I wonder if we shall have any more of the Polish exile to-day?" said one, which she recognised at once as Selina's. "I hope so: he is very amusing,—especially when he is describing his desolated feelings, poor man!" And she repeated, in mock-heroic tones, some passages from the unlucky composition.

"For shame, Selina!" said Sylvia's soft tones, more than usually exalted. "I think you have said enough about that."

"Oh, no!" returned Selina, still laughing. "It will bear a good deal more yet."

"Wasn't it a queer mistake, though, to talk of oranges and vineyards in Poland?" said one of the other girls. "I knew better than that, though I never went to school in the city."

"Oh, that is out of the question, Jane," replied Selina. "We, who never went to Miss Burlingame, are not supposed to know any thing. It is impossible to learn in schools where the young ladies don't have black-walnut desks and cane-bottomed chairs, and a carpet on the floor."

"Well, Selina," said Sylvia, "I don't pretend to understand you, but I think I should be ashamed to profess such a warm friendship for anybody, and even receive presents from them, and then go on about them behind their back as you have been going on about Kitty."

"So should I!" said Jane. "I don't think it is half fair; and if I had thought a moment, I would not have said what I did."

"Pshaw!" returned Selina. "You are always so extra good, Silver Grey. What harm does it do her, so long as she don't know it?"

"She may find it out," said Sylvia.

"Yes, especially if you go and tell her," retorted Selina.

"I am no tell-tale, Selina Henshaw, as you know very well. But if 'she' does not know it, 'you' do; and I should not think you would feel very pleasantly to go on borrowing books of her and using her ink and her nice white slate-pencils, knowing how you have laughed at her."

"Besides, she is a stranger," observed Jane, "and she certainly is very good-natured. How good she is to the little ones! I think you are right, Sylvia; and I, for one, won't laugh at her again, whatever she writes. She is smart about other things, if not about that. How nicely she gets on in arithmetic!"

By this time the girls had reached the school-room door, which was shut, and were standing in the entry, taking off their bonnets.

Selina opened the door first; and her consternation may be imagined when she saw Kitty sitting at her desk by the open window. She knew at once that the whole conversation must have been overheard; and she determined to put a bold face upon the matter as the only way of getting out of the scrape.

"Why, good-morning, Kitty. Who ever thought of finding you here so early?"

Kitty vouchsafed no answer, but kept on diligently studying.

"Come, now," continued Selina, coaxingly; "don't be angry just for a joke. You are welcome to say as much about me, any time."

"You needn't try to turn it off in that way," said Kitty, in a voice which she meant should be perfectly calm, but which trembled with anger. "I heard every word you said. I understand now just how much your friendship is worth, Miss Henshaw, and I am very glad I do. You will not deceive me again in a hurry."

She turned again to her book and slate,—though her hand trembled so that she could hardly hold the pencil.

"Listeners never hear any good of themselves," said Selina. "I should be ashamed to hide in the school-room to hear what the girls said about me."

"I didn't hide," returned Kitty. "I came to study my lesson, as I had a perfect right to do. But I am not going to dispute with you," she continued, in a dignified manner: "I have found you out; and I am glad of it. I shall never try to have a friend again as long as I live. I forgive you, Selina, and I don't wish you any harm, but I don't want any more to do with you."

"Very good, Miss Maynard; it is a bargain," returned Selina. "I told you the other day I didn't believe you loved me, and now I know it. I can find friends, I hope, without being obliged to the condescension of a pert little city miss who don't know—"

"Girls, girls, pray don't!" interrupted Sylvia. "Pray, don't quarrel in this way! Miss Watson will be here presently; and what will she say? Come, kiss and be friends! Selina did not mean to wound your feelings, Kitty, I am sure. She only spoke from thoughtlessness. Selina, do speak pleasantly: you know you were the first one to blame. Pray, do be friends again: it is so dreadful to quarrel."

"Come, Kitty, forgive and forget," said Selina, who really did feel ashamed of herself when she thought of what she had said, and offering her hand at the same time. "Let bygones be bygones, and fair play for the future. I am sorry I said so much, and I won't laugh at you again." She offered to kiss Kitty as she spoke, but Kitty turned away.

"Oh, for shame, Kitty!" exclaimed Sylvia and Jane together.

And Sylvia added, "When Selina says she is sorry, what more do you want? Come, kiss and be friends,—that's a dear girl."

"I forgive you, Selina," said Kitty, coldly, still turning away, "but I don't want to kiss you, and I won't. I can forgive, but I cannot forget; and I shall never feel the same towards you again."

"That is a great way of forgiving," said Jane. "I suppose you won't forgive me, either?"

"I don't care any thing about you," answered Kitty. "You never pretended to be my friend, as Selina did. I don't get angry with people that I don't care about."

"That's consoling, at any rate," said Jane, significantly.

But here the entrance of some of the little girls, and presently of Miss Watson, put an end to the conversation.

To do Selina justice, she really was very sorry for what had occurred. She had no very deep feelings, and no fixed principles of right whatever. But she was, after all, a good-natured girl, and really fond of Kitty, though her acute and ill-governed sense of the ludicrous had led her to laugh at the unfortunate composition. She would have been very glad to have Kitty forget the ill-natured words and go on as they had done before. But "that which is crooked cannot be made straight," said a very wise man. Her words unspoken had been in her own power, but once uttered, they passed beyond it, and she could neither recall them nor efface their effect.

When I was quite a little girl—so small as to wear the shortest of frocks and sleeves—I was once amusing myself with a small bow and arrow, in the use of which I had acquired such skill that I could hit a fly across the room. I had tried various marks with success, when I saw on the wall a very pretty picture of a dove, which I valued highly. And the thought flashed across me to try if I could hit the bird's eye. No sooner thought than done! The arrow flew from the bow, and the instant it sped, I would have given a great deal to recall it. But it was too late then. The arrow went straight through the dove's head, and the picture was spoiled. I have often thought of that unlucky shot when I have been tempted into making speeches which I wished unuttered the moment they left my lips.

Just so with Selina. The arrow, shot with no particularly mischievous intent, had reached its mark, and made a wound which all her pains could not heal. She tried again in recess to win Kitty over, but in vain: the proffered bunch of early cherries was coldly refused. And when she urged her to go and play, the only answer she received was, "I wish, Selina, that you would just let me alone."

Kitty flattered herself that her conduct was very dignified and prompted by a just resentment. She thought her feelings were deeply wounded; while her vanity was much the greater sufferer of the two.

In the arithmetic-class, she found a little comfort; for she went up, not only above Selina, (which was no great feat, as Selina was not quick at figures), but even above Sylvia and Myra, to the very top of the class, and maintained her position to the end of the lesson. This success might have put her in a better humour, but it did not have that effect.

And when Selina came as usual to walk home with her, she withdrew herself, saying, proudly, "I can walk by myself, thank you, Miss Henshaw. I am not dependent upon your society."

"Very well, Kitty," said Selina. "Have it your own way: I have done all that I am going to do to make up and be friends."

"I am glad to hear it," said Kitty. "I hope, then, you will let me alone."

Selina walked away, saying to herself that she had done all which could possibly be expected of her, and that Kitty might come round when she got ready, if at all: she was not going to coax her any more.

Kitty had turned into the lane which led up to Mrs. Evelyn's farm, when she heard some one calling her, and looked round. It was Sylvia, her face flushed with running.

"Oh, Kitty," she said, as she panted for breath, "I was afraid I should not catch you. I want you to ask your aunt if you may come home with me after school and stay to tea. Mother feels very comfortable to-day, and she will be glad to see you."

Kitty did not feel much like visiting, but she accepted the invitation,—partly, perhaps, because she thought it would annoy Selina to see her intimate with Sylvia.

Mrs. Evelyn gave a cordial permission when Kitty asked her, and added, "I shall be glad to have you see a great deal of both Sylvia and Anne. Is Selina going?"

"I don't know," said Kitty,—adding, partly aside, "if she is, I am not."

Mrs. Evelyn overheard her. "How is this, Kitty? I hope you and Selina have not quarrelled?"

"We have not quarrelled, aunt. But I shall never have any more to do with her."

"But why not? What has she done?"

Kitty went over the events of the morning, exaggerating (perhaps unconsciously) Selina's offences. Mrs. Evelyn listened with great attention.

"That was very unkind in Selina, certainly," she said, after Kitty had concluded, "and I do not wonder that you were hurt. But did she make no apology?"

"Oh, yes; she wanted to make up directly, as soon as she found out that I had heard her, but I was not to be brought round so. So I just told her that I forgave her, but I did not want any more to do with her. She came again after school and wanted to walk home with me, but I wouldn't."

Mrs. Evelyn looked grave. "Then you did very wrong, Kitty, and showed a much worse spirit than Selina did,—though I do not mean to defend her."

"Why, aunt, you would not have me go on being as intimate as ever with any one who had treated me so?"

"I am not very fond of these violent intimacies at any time," said Mrs. Evelyn. "They are rather apt to lead girls into mischief, and almost always end in a quarrel, sooner or later. But this has nothing to do with the present matter. I do not see how you can imagine that you have forgiven Selina when you would not even walk with her. Take care, Kitty! You know not what manner of spirit you are of, nor where it may lead you. I advise you to show Selina that you really have forgiven her, by speaking pleasantly when you meet this afternoon, and, if possible, by doing her some little favour, or, better still, by accepting some kindness from her. Quarrels are sad things; and it is much better to end them in time."

"A likely story," said Kitty to herself, as she went up-stairs, "that I should ask favours of Selina Henshaw! I believe aunt would not do it herself if she were in my place. I would not ask her for any thing, to save my life. I think it was enough to say that I forgave her, without humbling myself to let her walk over me."

But it was composition-day again, and poor Kitty's mind was in no condition for the exercise. In vain did she ponder her task, and bite the end of her pen, the ideas would not flow, and at recess she had not written one line. She went to Miss Watson and begged to be excused, but Miss Watson was inexorable when she found that Kitty had no better reason than that she could think of nothing to say.

"You can surely write something, Kitty. Take some subject that you know all about. For instance, give a description of the church you attend in town, or your school-house, or of some place where you have been, or write a little story. You must write something," she added, seeing that Kitty still lingered. "I cannot excuse one more than another."

Kitty went back to her desk and succeeded in writing "a little story," which she finished just as the bell rung for the close of school. She was not at all satisfied with it, but there was no help for that now.

She stayed through the drawing-class to wait for Sylvia, and Miss Watson lent her paper and pencil and gave her a little drawing to copy, in which she succeeded quite well. True, the lines of the gate were not exactly perpendicular, and the pail in the foreground was of rather an unusual shape for a pail,—being oval instead of round. But Miss Watson said it was very well for the first attempt, and Kitty herself saw no fault in it. She remembered her first conversation with Selina, and determined to ask her aunt to let her commence drawing-lessons without delay. She communicated her resolution to Sylvia as they were walking homeward.

"That will be very nice," said Sylvia; "and I am sure you will like it. I wondered you did not begin when you first came to school. Three or four of the girls have commenced, but they all get discouraged as soon as they come to where it is a little hard, and stop before they learn enough to be of any use to them."

"I should have begun when I first came," said Kitty, "but Selina persuaded me out of it. I believe she did not want me to do any thing which she could not."

"She began once," said Sylvia, "but she soon got tired of it, because she did not get on quite so fast as she expected. I believe she thought she could begin to sketch from nature directly. And when she found she had to take a great deal of pains even to make a straight line, she thought it was not worth while. Selina likes things that she can do quickly."

Here was a capital opportunity of eclipsing her rival; and Kitty determined to begin drawing to-morrow. She only wished that she had done so at first.

"Is it really true, Sylvia," she asked, "that Myra Clarke worked out as a servant last winter? Selina said she did."

"Yes. Miss Watson was away last winter, and Myra went to the academy in the village, and worked for her board at Mrs. Stewart's. She is going to be a teacher, and means to take a school this fall: so she had no time to lose."

"Selina did not say any thing about that," said Kitty. "She only said Myra worked for Mrs. Stewart, without telling why. But is not Mr. Stewart very rich? I should think he might have given Myra her board without her working for it."

"Myra would not have liked that," observed Sylvia. "She has very independent feelings; and she has always been used to work, so that it was no hardship for her. She will make an excellent teacher, Miss Watson thinks; and she has a school engaged already. I hope I shall do as well."

"Do you like the idea of teaching, Sylvia?" asked Kitty.

"Yes, very well: only I am afraid I shall have to leave mother. If I can get a school so near that I can board at home, I shall not mind."

"But you could earn so much more if you had a situation in the city," said Kitty. "Augusta Barnes had a salary of four hundred dollars the first year."

"I suppose she was very accomplished," said Sylvia. "But I know that teachers do get more in the city, and perhaps I may have to go away, at any rate. But I don't mean to fret about it beforehand," she continued, lightly. "It will be three whole years first, and I don't mean to borrow trouble at such long interest. Let us run a race to that stump, Kitty. One—two —three!" and off she ran.

Kitty's ill-humour began to give way under Sylvia's exuberant spirits, and she found herself forgetting her grievances for as much as two minutes at a time. She passed a very pleasant afternoon, playing and working with Sylvia in the garden, and listening to Mrs. Grey's tales of her own and her mother's school-days.

At tea-time, Anne set the table in the room where they were sitting, and made some nice light biscuits, to which the girls did ample justice, as well as to the honey, the currants and the soft gingerbread. Kitty thought she had never spent a more agreeable afternoon. And she said, as she parted with Sylvia at the little bridge, "I like you a great deal better than I did Selina."

"I wish you would not feel so towards Selina," said Sylvia, looking rather annoyed than pleased by the compliment.

"It is easy to talk, Sylvia," replied Kitty, very gravely, "but if she had treated you as she has me, you would feel just as I do. Now, honestly, wouldn't you?"

"No," said Sylvia, "not if she had told me she was sorry and tried to make up, as she did with you this morning. And, besides, Kitty, I am sure it is not right. 'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,' you know the Bible says."

"But I am not angry, Sylvia," rejoined Kitty. "I told her this morning that I forgave her, but I didn't want to have any thing more to do with her. I 'have' forgiven, but I don't forget, and shall not in a hurry. That is not being angry."

Sylvia shook her head. She did not see the difference, but she was rather averse to an argument, and besides, it was late: so the two girls parted with a kiss, and each of them went upon her own way.

Kitty chose to take a short cut through the barn and barnyard, having conquered her fear of cows so far as her aunt's herd was concerned, though she was still disposed to regard all others as dangerous wild beasts. She found Harvey milking.

"Why, Harvey, how late you are!" she said, as she came near.

"Yes: I have been down in the village, and have only just got home. And then I had to go after the cows."

"How did that black cow happen to have only one horn?" asked Kitty.

"All owing to her vanity, Kitty," replied Harvey, gravely.

"I did not know cows had any vanity," said Kitty, with a laugh.

"Oh, yes! They are very much like human beings in most of their ways. Vanity is Bonny's great fault; for in other respects she is a very good cow."

"But how did her vanity make her break her horn?"

"Why, just in this way. She had always been mistress in her own pasture, and would be; for every cow that came, she would try titles with, and she almost always beat. But one day we got a new cow—that old red one by the fence—that was more than a match for Bonny both in size and strength. She was peaceably disposed enough, but Bonny couldn't let her alone, but kept following her round and plaguing her to make her fight. Finally, Old Red got her spunk up, and one day she pitched at Bonny and broke off her horn. So you see it was all because of her vanity. If she had only been willing to allow that Old Red was the biggest, she might have saved herself a bad headache, and been a two-horned cow to this day."

Kitty looked rather grave at the conclusion to the story.

"After all, Harvey," said she, "do you think vanity is such a great sin?"

"I never can see as much difference as some folks do between big sins and little ones," was Harvey's reply. "But as to vanity, it is about as apt to lead to great sins as any thing I know,—not to mention that it very often makes people ridiculous."

Kitty coloured. Perhaps she remembered the hen's nest.

"But, Harvey," she continued, "it is not vanity that leads people to wish to excel other people, is it?"

"What is it?" asked Harvey.

"Pride, I suppose."

"And do you think there is nothing wrong in that?"

"Why, I don't know. A great many good people are proud. But, tell me, do you really think it is wrong to wish to do things better than other people?"

"Such as what, for instance?" asked Harvey.

"Why, such as wanting to write a better composition, or do a better exercise, than any other girl in the school."

"I do not think it is wrong, to wish to do the very best you possibly can in any thing," said Harvey. "We ought to do that, whatever we are about, if we mean to make much progress. But as to doing better than any one, that is another thing. I think it is, perhaps, better to leave that out of the question, seeing that it is apt to lead to a great deal of unhappiness and bad feeling."

"How?" asked Kitty.

"Why, if you write the best composition you can because it is right to do so and you want to please your teacher,—not to mention some other motives that might come in,—you will not be at all troubled or disturbed because another girl has a better one. But if you write only that you may have the pleasure of beating your school-fellows and making them envious of your great talents, then the fact that some one has, after all, done better than yourself will cause you a great deal of trouble; and you will be just as likely as not to have very unkind and bitter feelings,—to say nothing of any thing worse."

Kitty's cheek flushed again, for the answer touched her very nearly. But she laughed it off, and turned to go into the house, saying, in a light tone,—

"You and Aunt Sarah are just fit to live together: you are always making a fuss about such little things."

"Take care, Kitty!" said Harvey, gravely. "'He that despiseth little things shall fall by little and little.'"

When Kitty went in, she found her aunt looking out for her.

"You came the wrong way, Kitty," she said, pleasantly. "I have been down to the gate to see if I could see you."

"I came through the barnyard," replied Kitty, "and I have been talking to Harvey."

"You and Harvey have struck up a great friendship," said Mrs. Evelyn. "You seem to like him better than you did at first."

"Yes," replied Kitty: "I think he is very pleasant, only he is so queer about some things."

"What do you mean by queer?" asked her aunt.

Kitty was not prepared with an answer, so she tried to change the subject.

"May I take drawing-lessons, aunt? Mother always said I might if I had a good opportunity. And Miss Watson is teaching Sylvia and Myra Clarke."

"But you did not answer my question," persisted Mrs. Evelyn, smiling. "What do you mean by Harvey's being queer?"

"Why, I don't know; only—so particular and all—"

Kitty paused, in some confusion.

"I would not use words of which I did not understand the meaning," said Mrs. Evelyn. "But we will talk of that another time. As to the drawing-lessons, I am quite willing to have you begin, if Miss Watson likes to teach you, and if you think you can have steadiness enough to persevere; for learning to draw is not play, I can tell you."

"Did you ever try, aunt?"

"Yes: I took lessons of a very good master,—a foreigner,—and learned to sketch quite passably, besides painting sundry pictures in water-colours. If you have any curiosity to see how I succeeded, you may go up into the front room and look behind the wardrobe, where you will find a portfolio containing most of my efforts in that line."

Kitty quickly availed herself of the desired permission, and brought down the old-fashioned portfolio, which she spread out upon the table, and then settled herself with great satisfaction to examine the contents. They were mostly landscapes and figures, some in colours, others in India ink. Kitty thought them beautiful.

"What makes you keep them shut up in this dingy old thing?" she asked. "Why don't you have some of them framed and hung up in the parlour, and put the rest into a pretty portfolio, so that people can look at them?"

"I think they are hardly worth it, Kitty," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "I thought them great achievements when I did them. But since I have seen really good pictures, they look very differently to me. But, if you admire them, you may keep the portfolio in your own room, if you will be careful not to lose or injure any of them."

"If you do not think them worth any thing, what makes you so careful of them, aunt?" asked Kitty, mischievously.

Mrs. Evelyn smiled rather sadly.

"Because they are memorials of a very happy time in my life, my dear. I did them the year before I was married, which was one of the pleasantest I ever spent."

"Were you engaged then?" asked Kitty, who loved any thing that promised a story.

"Oh, yes. I was engaged for four years before I was married; and for three years of the time, I never saw your uncle at all. He was away at the West, trading in furs and doing business for the Government among the Indians. And sometimes I did not hear from him for two or three months at a time."

"That was very romantic," said Kitty.

"Not very romantic in the experience," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "You would not think it very agreeable if you were not to hear from your mother in that length of time, especially if she were away, you did not know where, among savage Indians and all sorts of lawless people,—not to mention wild animals, fevers and all other perils of the wilderness."

"Oh, no! But that is different," said Kitty.

"Very different," said Mrs. Evelyn, smiling.

"And when he came home, then you were married?" continued the inquisitive little girl.

"Not immediately. He was building this house and putting the farm in order,—for it was a wild place when he bought it, and that took a good while. But we were married at last; and very happy we were to find ourselves settled in our own house."

"And you have lived right here ever since.'"

"Yes: I have never been away more than a few weeks at a time; and I was always glad to come back."

"Well, aunt," said Kitty, gravely, "I am glad you like it, I am sure, but I should not. I do not mean that it is not very pleasant to come and stay with you. But I should not like to live here year in and year out, doing the same things over and over, with no variety and no amusements,—nothing but working and reading and gardening and going to church. I could not be happy in such a life, I know."

"You would have to learn several things, I admit," said Mrs. Evelyn.

Kitty was immediately anxious to find out what those things were, but Mrs. Evelyn would not tell her.

"If I should, you would not believe me; and they are things which no one can teach you. You must study them out for yourself. And now you had better go to bed, my love, or you will not feel much like getting up in the morning."

CHAPTER IV.

THREE or four weeks passed away, during which nothing very particular occurred, either in school or at home. There was now an open and acknowledged rivalry established between Kitty and Selina, which extended to all their pursuits. In one respect, perhaps, it had its advantages; for the girls never studied so hard in their lives as they did now, and the improvement in scholarship was very plainly to be seen.

It was only in arithmetic, and perhaps in history, that Kitty could flatter herself that she gained any decided advantages. She had an excellent memory; and even emulation could not overcome Selina's dislike of arithmetic so far as to make her bestow sufficient study upon the really difficult lessons. In grammar, and especially in parsing, Selina had decidedly the best of it. She also persuaded her mother to let her begin drawing-lessons again. And much to Kitty's annoyance, she succeeded quite as well as Kitty herself, and sometimes even better, thus meeting her upon the very ground where she had supposed herself perfectly safe.

But it was in composition that Kitty suffered most. She could not deny the great superiority which became more manifest every day, as Selina began to take more and more pains with her exercises. And every Friday brought her a fresh pang of wounded vanity, and generally a fit of passionate tears as soon as she was alone.

The girls had so far made up their quarrel that they spoke to each other when they met, and now and then walked home together. And when Mrs. Evelyn invited Mrs. Henshaw and her daughter to tea, Kitty constrained herself to treat Selina with all due cordiality, asking her up into her own room and displaying her books and other treasures for her amusement. Selina spied the portfolio containing Mrs. Evelyn's drawings, and asked to look at them, and Kitty spread them all out upon the bed.

"I think it would be very nice to copy some of them for drawing-lessons, Kitty," said Selina. "They are much prettier than the drawing-cards Miss Watson gives us. Do you suppose your aunt would lend them to us?"

"I dare say she would," replied Kitty. "At any rate, I can ask her."

She tripped down-stairs, and presently returned.

"Aunt says we may each take one, if we will be careful of them. Let us lay them out and select what we want. You may choose first."

After some consideration, Selina selected a pretty little pencil-sketch of a thatched cottage, with a well and an old stone wall. Kitty was much more ambitious, as usual, and decided upon rather a wide scene of a river and bridge, with trees and a group of cattle,—nothing which would have presented any difficulty to a practised hand, but altogether too elaborate for an artist of three weeks' standing. Selina remarked it.

"You will never be able to make that look like any thing, Kitty. It is a great deal too hard for a beginner. I thought mine was quite as difficult as I wanted to undertake. But it is not half the work of that one."

Kitty smiled in conscious superiority. "I don't think it is too hard," said she. "You are always looking out for easy things, Selina."

This was partly the case, and was perhaps one reason why Selina's undertakings were apt to succeed so much better than Kitty's; that is, she formed a tolerably just estimate of her own powers, and was careful not to engage in any task to which she felt herself unequal, while Kitty could hardly ever be brought to acknowledge that any thing was beyond her.

When the girls showed their selections to Miss Watson, she pronounced the same opinion which Selina had given, and advised Kitty to exchange her landscape for something easier. But Kitty was, as usual, firm in her own opinion. The consequence was that Selina's sketch was soon finished, and pronounced very successful by Miss Watson; while Kitty, having laboured a week upon hers, finally one day rubbed a bole in the paper in a fit of impatience, and was obliged to give it up, after all.

"What a pity!" said Selina. "After it was almost done, too! Cannot you mend it?"

"No," replied Kitty; "and if I could, I would not. You are welcome to your triumph, Selina, and I hope it will do you a great deal of good."

"It will do me neither good nor hurt; for I don't care any thing about it," returned Selina, carelessly. "I told you when you chose it that it was too hard for you, and advised you to change it. I should hardly have done that if I had been so anxious to triumph as you seem to think."

This was very true, but it did not improve Kitty's humour to be told of it. All her pleasure in drawing-lessons was gone, and she would have been glad to give them up altogether, but Mrs. Evelyn would not hear of it. She thought the desire proceeded from discouragement at undertaking a task too hard for her,—an accident to which young artists are very subject,—and kindly tried to reassure her.

"It is very natural that you should feel so, my dear, but it would be foolish to give up for one failure. I will select something for you more suitable to your attainments. And when you have made a really pretty picture, you will get over this feeling of discouragement. I am sure you will feel mortified to tell Miss Watson that you are going to leave off only for one mistake."

Without perhaps intending it, Mrs. Evelyn had touched the right string. "What would Selina say if she were to stop now?"

She went back to her lessons with renewed energy, and was rewarded by hearing her next effort highly commended by Miss Watson, Selina's being criticized at the same time. She darted a glance of triumph at her former friend, but Selina only smiled.

"You will soon draw as well as your aunt, or as her teacher, Kitty," she observed, carelessly. "He was a Polish exile, you know." And she cast a sly glance at one of the other girls.

Miss Watson, who had forgotten all about Kitty's first composition, and who, moreover, was not so quick-sighted but that many things went on under her eyes of which she had no idea, was astonished to see Kitty's face glow with a crimson flush, while she threw at Selina a glance of absolute hatred and defiance.

"What is the matter, Kitty? What makes you look so angry?" she asked, in surprise.

"It is nothing, ma'am,—only a joke, and Kitty is not angry," said Selina, more quick-witted than Kitty, and willing to prevent an explosion. "Come, Kitty, don't be vexed again," she said, after Miss Watson had gone. "It was only in fun, but I won't tease you any more about it. Oh, don't cry," she continued, really sorry for what she had said, as she saw the tears,—those provoking tears, which would come whenever Kitty was angry. "I am sorry I spoke so: it was very foolish."

But Kitty refused to be comforted. She walked home alone, brooding over this new affront, and all the other insults, real and fancied, which she had received from Selina, till a feeling of real hatred took possession of her, and she felt as though she would give any thing in the world to be revenged.

"But I will manage it some way," she said, aloud. "I will have a better composition than she does, if I die for it."

And she suddenly paused, for a thought flashed across her mind,—a thought which she would have rejected with scorn two months before, but which seemed to show a ready way for the accomplishment of her purpose. She did make some feeble efforts to put it away, but they were neither very firm nor very honest. And the very next day, some new success or affront of Selina's fixed the evil seed in her heart, where it flourished and grew day by day. What sort of fruit it bore, we shall see by-and-by.

"Kitty, would you like to go to town to-morrow?" said Mrs. Evelyn, a few days afterwards.

"I should be very glad to go, aunt," replied Kitty. "I want to go to our house and get some of my books and things, and I should like to go and see Miss Burlingame. Are you going?"

"No, but Harvey is, and you may go with him,—if you can be up early enough; for he will set out by six o'clock."

"Will he take the carriage, aunt?" asked Kitty, doubtfully.

Mrs. Evelyn laughed. "No, Kitty: we don't send butter to market in the carriage. He is going to take the spring-wagon, which is very easy to ride in, and, I hope, sufficiently good-looking to save your pride. However, you may do just as you please about it. It will probably be the last opportunity you will have for some time, as we shall be busy harvesting for the next fortnight."

Kitty was not long in making up her mind, and the next morning found her ready to set out as Harvey came round to the door.

Three jars of butter rather disturbed her sensibilities, but she reflected that they should arrive very early and probably dispose of their load before anybody would see them,—anybody, in this case, meaning anybody that Kitty Maynard knew. The air was cool and delightful, the sun partly obscured by clouds, and every thing was in the dewy freshness and beauty of early morning.

Harvey was a very entertaining companion, and did all in his power to make the ride pleasant to his young friend.

"Harvey," said Kitty, during their ride, "what do you mean to be when you are grown-up?"

"Why, Kitty, I think I am pretty well grown-up now: don't you? I hope I shall not grow any more, unless cloth gets cheaper."

"Yes, you are tall enough,—nobody can deny that: but you know that is not what I mean."

"Well, Kitty, I think I shall be a farmer."

"I wouldn't," said Kitty, with decision.

"Why not?" asked Harvey.

"Oh, because it is such a stupid life, and it is so hard. Farmers never have time for any thing, only just work, work, from morning to night and from one year's end to another!"

"That is a great mistake of yours, Kitty. Farmers have as much time to read and study and improve themselves as any people in the world who have to work for a living, if they choose to use it. You have only been in the country during the busy season. Think of the long winter evenings."

"I think they must be awfully dull," said Kitty.

"I never find them so. There are always a dozen things that I want to read and study. Last winter I studied astronomy, and every clear night, Mrs. Evelyn used to go out with me and help me trace the constellations. And I read all through the 'History of England' 'loud' to her. Next winter, if I live, I mean to study chemistry, or perhaps geology. I will venture to say that is more than your father finds time for."

"What is the use of your learning all these things if you are to be only a farmer?" asked Kitty. "You will not do your work any better for knowing all about history and stars and rocks."

"Asking your pardon, Kitty, I do not believe that. My notion is, that the more things a man exercises his mind upon, the better he can do any one thing that he undertakes. And, besides, I think that ploughing and mowing would get to be very dull work after a while, if I had nothing else to think about."

"But would you not rather be something else if you could,—a lawyer, for instance?"

"No, indeed! Not I!" said Harvey, with emphasis. "I should die in a year,—to be shut up in a little seven-by-nine room, with dust and old papers, and hardly breathing fresh air from one week's end to another. I love to be out in the open fields and under the sky, where I can look around me and see something of God's works, which are much better worth looking at than man's, in my estimation. I am like that man in your 'Scotch History': 'I would rather hear the bird sing than the mouse squeak.'

"And, besides, I like to hear my own voice now and then. And what would your fine city-people say if I should begin to sing and shout in the streets as I do out in the pasture sometimes?"

Kitty laughed at the idea. "Well, Harvey, I don't know but the country is best for you, and as long as you mean to live there, I am glad you like it. But I should not."

"Oh, you would get used to it after a while, and wonder how you could bear to live anywhere else. But now tell me where I shall leave you and where I shall find you. You know we must start for home again by a little after two. Can you be ready by that time?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Kitty,—"Easily. You may leave me at our house, I think, Harvey; and I will come back there when I get through. The will save you any trouble in looking for me."

"That is a very good plan," said Harvey: "only be sure you are there in time. But how will you get in?"

"Our wash-woman lives in the basement, and keeps the keys. I want to get some of my books and things."

Kitty was accordingly left at the house in Carroll Street. She could not but acknowledge that it looked very warm and "tucked up," as she expressed it, after the wide view to which she had been accustomed. The parlours, too, seemed very desolate, with the furniture all covered up, the chandelier in a brown linen bag, and all the books and ornaments put away; and her mother's room was so forlorn that she sat down and cried a little.

"Oh, I do hope she will be better when she comes home!" she said to herself. "How I do want to see her!"

And then the reflection crossed her mind, "What would mother say if she knew what I was thinking of doing?"

She started up almost as if something had stung her, and went into her own room to select her books, almost making up her mind to abandon the plan she had formed. How much trouble and disgrace she would have saved herself if she had only listened to these suggestions of her good conscience! But evil purposes, so long nourished as Kitty's had been, are not so easily put away; and the thought of composition-day so near at hand again revived her half-abandoned purpose.

"Pshaw!" she said to herself. "There is no harm in it. I am not going to use them now, but only to read them and learn how to write. Miss Burlingame used to tell us to pay attention to the compositions of the older young ladies, that we might improve."

She then went to work to collect her books together, and having packed such as she wanted in a carpet-bag, she brought them down-stairs, and then set out to pay her visits.

She went first to the store where Mr. Burgess, her father's partner, gave her a hearty welcome; for he had no family of his own, and was very fond of Kitty. He went out with her to a bookstore, where they had often been together before, and bought her three or four new books, besides a nice drawing-case, containing pencils, India-rubber and penknife. Then they called at a confectioner's, where Kitty had some ice-cream and sponge-cake, besides a huge packet of candy to carry home. And then, giving her a bright little gold dollar to spend as she pleased, Mr. Burgess returned to his counting-house.

Kitty did some errands for her aunt, and then bought several things,—a pretty sewing-bird for her aunt, a book for Sylvia and a nice inkstand for Harvey, who she knew wanted one. She directed that all her parcels should be sent to her father's house, and then went to visit Miss Burlingame. On her way, she met her former playmate and school-fellow Josephine Powers.

"Kitty Maynard, I declare!" said Josephine, stopping her. "Where have you been this age?"

"I am staying with my aunt in the country," replied Kitty, "and only came in for a few hours. I am going back at two."

"Don't you find it awfully dull?" asked Josephine. "I think I should die in a week. What 'do' you find to employ yourself with from morning till night?"

"Oh, I am busy enough. I do a good many things for aunt; and besides, I go to school."

Josephine indulged in a not very refined laugh.

"You don't say you go to a district-school? That must be delightful! I hope you have learned to make your manners when any one goes by?"

"It is not a district-school, exactly," said Kitty, colouring with anger and false shame. "Miss Watson, the teacher, is very accomplished, and I am taking drawing-lessons of her. I have been buying some paper and pencils to-day."

"Well, if that isn't queer! Going into the country to take drawing-lessons! And what else do you study?"

"Oh, I am only reviewing in other things, except history."

"And are there any genteel girls in the school?"

"They are all nice girls enough, especially Sylvia Grey. I like her the best of any one; and her family is really genteel, though they are not rich. On the whole, I like it almost as well as Miss Burlingame's. And, by-the-by, Josephine, do you know whether she is at home? I want to see her."

"She is, I know, for I saw her yesterday. But what in the world do you want to see her for? She is the last person I should want to visit: I see enough of her in school. Come, don't go there: come home with me, and let us have some fun!"

But Kitty was not to be diverted from her purpose. And bidding Josephine good-by as they came to the gate, she inquired for Miss Burlingame, and was admitted to her presence.

It may be proper to say that she was a thin, upright little lady, rather precise in her manners and dress; and some of her pupils considered her very exact, and sometimes out of humour. Withal, she was an accomplished scholar, a conscientious Christian, and possessed one of the warmest and truest hearts that ever belonged to a woman. It was almost always observed that Miss Burlingame's "good scholars," especially those who had been long with her and had left the institution with credit, valued her friendship in afterlife, and constantly spoke of her with affection and respect. It was, for the most part, only the incorrigible idlers and mischief-makers (two characters almost invariably united) and their too partial friends, who treated her with disrespect in school and spoke disparagingly of her out of it.

Kitty had always maintained a pretty good character both as to scholarship and demeanour. And she was fond of Miss Burlingame,—who, on her part, felt much interest in the all but motherless child, and did all in her power to supply, so far as a teacher could do so, the want of that maternal care of which Kitty was unavoidably deprived.

She now received her with great kindness, and asked her many questions about her school and her employments; to all of which Kitty returned rather constrained answers, though she tried to appear at her ease.

"Miss Burlingame," said she, as she rose to take her leave, after rather a short stay, "will you let me take the Academy keys a little while? I want to look for something that I left in the school-room."

Miss Burlingame made no objection, but handed her the keys, with an injunction to be careful of them and return them before she left town. "I shall be out; but you may give them to the girls: and be sure to lock both doors."

Kitty promised to be careful, and proceeded to the school-house. She felt a guilty sensation as she applied the key to the lock, and still more as she closed the door behind her and found herself alone in the large empty building. She looked into the drawing-room and the wardrobe, and spent a few minutes in the library, running over the names of the books which she had seen a thousand times. But the striking of the church-clock warned her that she had not much time to lose, and she hastened up-stairs. The room looked desolate, with its rows of desks and empty chairs all turned round with their fronts towards Miss Burlingame's table, which stood in its usual place, with the chair behind it, the little bell, the Bible and the dictionary, just as usual.

Kitty felt as though some one must be sitting in the chair; and she unconsciously went round the outside of the room instead of across the middle of the floor, just as she would have done if Miss Burlingame were present. She looked into her own desk, and then tried the closet-door. It was locked.

"Dear me!—How provoking!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't I think to ask her for the key to the closet? Now my trouble will all be for nothing! I may as well go back again, for I shall not get what I wanted. How stupid I was!"

She was half-way down-stairs when a sudden thought struck her, and she turned back and opened the table-drawer. There lay the key she was in search of, and she snatched it hastily and applied it to the lock. It turned easily enough; yet something seemed to hold the door back from opening, or her hand trembled, for it shook in her grasp. She thought she heard some one down-stairs, and she imagined that Miss Burlingame had come to see what she was about. She stood still and listened. It was only a footstep on the pavement outside, echoing through the empty building.

"Pshaw!" said she to herself. "What a fool I am to be so afraid!"

Fool enough, Kitty, but not for being afraid. However, she hesitated no longer, but opened the door and entered the spacious closet, which was almost filled up with old school-books which had been left behind by successive generations of scholars. With these, Kitty had nothing to do. She went straight to a large box which stood in one corner, and began to remove the bundles of papers with which it was filled up. While doing so, she paused more than once to listen, for she still fancied that she heard some one about the building.

Finally, without waiting to take them all out, she thrust her hand down to the very bottom, and pulled out a large bundle, yellow and stained with dust. A paper wrapped round them bore the date of eighteen hundred and —.

"That will do," she said. "They will never be missed. They may as well be in my drawer as lying here, doing no one any good for all these years. I wonder what is the use of keeping all these old things, just to take up room and feed the moths?"

Finally, she restored the rest of the papers and books to their former order, and wrapping up her prize in an old newspaper, she put the key in its place and hastened down-stairs. But as she reached the landing-place, she stopped suddenly, while her heart beat violently and the colour left her cheeks; for there certainly was some one in the library. Kitty was not generally a coward. She had often laughed at the girls for being afraid to stay alone in the school-house because it had been built on an old graveyard and there were foolish stories of skeletons having been found in digging out the cellar. She had declared that she should not be afraid to remain there all night, and had more than once, when playing hide-and-seek, hidden in the dreaded cellar itself. Yet now, at the sound of a light footstep in the library, all her courage left her: she felt as if she was choking to death, and she uttered an exclamation which she had hard work to prevent from becoming a shriek. She would rather have seen almost any one else than Miss Burlingame. And yet it was a real relief when that lady made her appearance at the library-door.

"Why, Kitty, how pale you are!" she exclaimed. "I am sorry I frightened you so. I was passing by, and thought I would save you the trouble of returning the key. You look as though you had seen a ghost."

"I was startled," replied Kitty, with some difficulty recovering her composure. "I did not hear you come in, and could not imagine who it could be."

"And so you thought of all the silly stories the girls tell about skeletons in the cellar below, I dare say," said Miss Burlingame, smiling. "But what have you there?"

"Only some old papers that I left in my desk," replied Kitty, who was in a hurry to get away. "But I must go, Miss Burlingame: I am afraid Harvey will be waiting for me."

Miss Burlingame kissed her and bade her good-by very kindly, hoping that she should see her again when school commenced in the fall. And Kitty proceeded on her way. She had gained her object, but she was far enough from being happy. Her conscience had not become so hardened but that the lies she had told tormented her sorely, and she more than once wished that she had let the papers alone. She almost resolved that she would throw them away without looking at them, as soon as she got home, and be contented to write just as well as she could, letting Selina gain the victory or not, as it happened.

But the revengeful and envious feelings which she had fed and nourished so long would not allow themselves to be conquered so easily. And they now brought up to her mind a picture of composition-day coming round again, her own composition read first, among those of the little girls, and Selina's reserved to the end, as it almost always was. Then came the thought how mortified Selina would look when she saw another composition coming after her own, and what the girls would say, and she no longer wished the deed undone, though conscience still continued, as it were, to pull her by the sleeve and whisper, "Think, Kitty! Think of what you have done, and of what you are going to do." But Kitty was resolved not to think.

Harvey was not waiting, as she feared he would be. But from some undefined reason, she did not sit down in the house, but taking her seat upon the steps in the shade, she opened one of her new books and tried to fix her attention upon it. She had partly succeeded in doing so, and was busily engaged in reading, when Harvey drove round the corner.

"So you were ready first?" said he. "Have you finished all your business?"

"Yes," replied Kitty, rising; "I have been waiting for you half an hour."

"I was detained longer than I expected to be," said Harvey. "I could not find the man that bought my butter, and had to wait at his store for him. But here I am, finally, and if you are ready, we will be off. Have you had a good time?" he continued, as they were finally seated in the wagon and on their way.

"Very good," replied Kitty,—"very, indeed; only I am tired, and it made me feel homesick to go over our house and find nobody there and the things all put away and covered up."

"I don't wonder," said Harvey, sympathizingly. "There is nothing more dismal than a house with nobody in it. But it will be all the pleasanter when your mother comes home strong and well and able to be about. She is a great deal better, isn't she?"

"Yes," replied Kitty. "The last letter said she had walked about a quarter of a mile without being the worse for it. Oh, I do want to see her so much!"

And here Kitty paused suddenly, for the thought would come back, "What would mother say if she knew what I have done to-day?"

Harvey saw that she was agitated, and thinking it was caused by the remembrance of her mother, he considerately turned away, and began to whistle and to talk to his horses, that she might have time to recover herself.

But Kitty was not silent long, for she did not like the company of her own thoughts. And Harvey had never seen her merrier than she was the rest of the way home.

Kitty had been intrusted by her aunt with a number of little commissions, which she had performed with much judgment. And the praises of Mrs. Evelyn, as well as the thanks bestowed upon her for her well-chosen presents, did a good deal towards restoring her self-complacency, and she almost forgot that she had any cause of self-reproach. Mrs. Evelyn had, moreover, an agreeable piece of news to communicate to her, which was that her grand-daughter, Annie Richmond, a child of five or six years old, was coming over the next Monday to stay several weeks.

This was pleasant intelligence to Kitty, who was fond of children, and with whom little Annie was an especial favourite. She went up-stairs to bed, singing and feeling very light-hearted. But as she opened the drawer to put away her parasol and mantle, the bundle of papers lay on the top, and seemed, she thought, to stare at her like an ugly reptile. She hastily thrust it out of sight among her clothes, and went to bed as soon as she could, to be tormented with a dream about Miss Burlingame's discovering what she had done, and sending a messenger after her, who turned out to be Selina Henshaw in disguise!

It was not till Sunday afternoon that Kitty had an opportunity of examining her treasures. They proved to be compositions written by the class leaving the school in eighteen hundred and —, which Kitty remembered she had often heard mentioned by Miss Burlingame as one of the best classes she ever had, and she rejoiced over her good fortune. Some of them, she found, would be of little use to her, as they were upon subjects which she did not understand; while most of them were quite simple.

There was one which she liked especially, entitled "The Last Night of the Old World," and purporting to be a soliloquy of the spirit who has it in charge to guide the earth in its orbit. It was not by any means the best in the parcel, being rather stilted, and what Harvey would have called "superflastic," in its style, but its fanciful conception, and perhaps its very faults, recommended it to Kitty, who thought it the finest she had ever read. She laid it carefully aside, and selecting a more commonplace one, she read it attentively over and over, till she thought she could at least write one very much like it. She could not yet make up her mind to steal a composition word for word,—though she herself would probably have been puzzled to explain the moral distinction between such a theft and what she contemplated.

Monday came as usual, and Kitty went to school in great good humour, feeling herself fully prepared for the dreaded ordeal of the afternoon. She wrote out the composition she had studied upon her slate, and then copied it upon paper, exactly as she had been accustomed to do. And Selina, who still sat next to her, was surprised to see how nimbly her fingers flew.

"You are in the humour of writing this afternoon, Kitty,"—she remarked, good-naturedly, at recess. "Your fingers run races over the slate."

"I wonder if she suspects any thing!" was Kitty's first thought. "But I am sure she does not." And she answered, pleasantly, "Yes, I feel in the mood for it, and it is much easier when one does. I like it better than I did."

"And you write better," said Selina. "I heard Miss Watson say you had improved."

"Selina is more generous than I," Kitty could not help thinking. "If Miss Watson had spoken so to me about her, I should not have told her." And, strange to say, she felt vexed that it was so,—not at herself, but at Selina for excelling her in good humour!

"Do you know what we girls are thinking of?" continued Selina. "We mean to have a picnic next Saturday afternoon, in Mr. Stewart's grove, back of our house. He has given us leave, and says he will send his man to put up a swing for us. Isn't he kind? We are all to bring our own provisions and have supper in the woods. Sylvia and I went to see you about it on Saturday, but you were away. Won't it be pleasant?"

"Charming!" replied Kitty. "Who first thought of it?"

"I did," replied Selina; "and then I told Sylvia, and we went down to see the grove, and picked out a place for the table. If we only have good weather, we shall have a delightful time."

"Where do you think of having the table?" asked Kitty.

"Up on the hill,—about half-way up, rather,—on that great flat stone."

"I think it would be pleasanter down by the brook," observed Kitty: "we could get water so much more easily; and it is pleasanter, too."

"But the ground is very apt to be damp down there," urged Selina; "and the mosquitos are always so thick: and, besides, you know, we shall not use the brook-water. Don't you remember that beautiful spring close by?"

"For all that, I think it would be pleasanter by the brook," persisted Kitty.

"Well," said Selina, "we shall see what the rest think. We are all going home that way, and then we can decide. But I know very well what they will say,—because we have had picnics there before."

Much to Kitty's annoyance, she found herself in a minority of one as to the table-question,—all the girls siding with Sylvia and Selina. On seeing the place, she was herself obliged to own that they were in the right, which rather increased her displeasure, and she was almost tempted to say that she would have nothing to do with it. But a moment's reflection showed her that she would only make herself ridiculous by such a course. She was a little comforted by being placed upon the committee of arrangements; and she determined to keep what remained of the parcel of confectionary she had brought home from the city, to grace the feast, besides sending for more if she had an opportunity.

But her stock of dainties was destined to receive an unexpected addition. When she arrived at home, she had the double pleasure of finding little Annie arrived, as pretty and affectionate as ever, and of receiving a large parcel from her father, which a neighbour had brought up from the village, containing, besides several new books and other pretty and useful presents, a goodly-sized box of French bonbons and sugarplums, the like of which Kitty was sure had never been seen in the neighbourhood of Barton village before. She hastily selected a handful of these sugarplums for Annie, and picking out two or three for herself, she put the rest carefully away, pleasing herself with the thought of displaying them at the picnic and sharing them with her companions; for Kitty was naturally generous when her vanity did not come in the way, and now that they both pulled in the same direction, she felt a double pleasure in giving.

Annie found Kitty a very pleasant companion, not only this evening, but all the week through. She was a docile, merry little thing, very gentle, and always ready to give up her own will to any one else: so, when Kitty insisted upon dressing her doll in pink instead of blue, Annie acquiesced, and liked it just as well, though blue was her favourite colour. And she was always ready to build her block houses and set her little tea things just as Kitty prescribed. Nobody could be kinder or more generous than Kitty when she was allowed to have her own way exactly: so they got on very nicely, Annie thinking Kitty almost perfection, and Kitty calling and believing Annie the best little creature in the world.

Mrs. Evelyn was glad to see them harmonize so; and as she was quite busy, she left them very much to themselves, contenting herself with putting in a word now and then when she thought Kitty was growing too dictatorial.

Kitty had all she liked about her,—a pleasant companion, plenty of new books, and her mother's health improving rapidly: she surely ought to have been very happy. She might have been so, but for one thing.

Some one says that a man might have all the worldly goods and advantages to make life agreeable, and yet, if he were compelled always to wear a little sharp nail in his shoe, his life would be a burden to him.

The little nail in Kitty's shoe was the sense of her sin. Sometimes she would hardly feel it for a good while, but it was still there, and upon some sudden movement of her own or another, would send a sharp pang through her whole system. She might have pulled it out and thrown it away, but her pride would not let her do that: so she wore it on and suffered the consequences. Poor Kitty!

CHAPTER V.

DURING the following week the picnic was the grand subject of discussion throughout the school. At Kitty's suggestion, the plan had been extended so as to take in the little ones, who were highly delighted at the prospect and very anxious to add their share to the entertainment. The Friday before was dry and clear, without being too warm, and every thing promised well for the feast,—of which the girls' heads were so full that they could think and talk of nothing else.

It may be supposed that the lessons suffered somewhat in consequence, but Miss Watson remembered her own young days, and was very indulgent, reflecting that picnics did not come every Saturday. She had been very active in forwarding the preparations with advice and assistance, and had promised to look in upon them some time during the afternoon.

Even the picnic, however, could not put the affair of the composition out of Kitty's mind, and she went to school with an anxious heart on Friday afternoon. When Miss Watson took the bundle of compositions out of her desk, her hand shook so that she could hardly hold the needle; and it was only after the lapse of some minutes that she ventured to glance in that direction, when she recognised the pale-yellow paper and gilt edges of her own manuscript at the very bottom of the pile. Her heart bounded with delight for one moment; and then she became conscious of a pang of mortification, more sickening than any she had ever felt, as she reflected that, after all, it was not her own composition which had attained that honour: in reality, she was no more equal to Selina than she had ever been. She was so occupied with this thought that she hardly listened either to Selina's or the composition she had presented as her own. And she was only aroused by Miss Watson's saying,—

"That is the best composition you have ever written, Kitty. You have improved very much."

Kitty coloured till the crimson spread over her neck and arms, but she did not speak; neither did she cast the expected glance of triumph at Selina, who, vexed at the praises bestowed upon her rival, said, pettishly,—

"If we all had as much help at home as Kitty does, Miss Watson, perhaps we might improve too."

"You may ask my aunt about that, Miss Watson," Kitty replied, quietly. "She has never seen one of my compositions till it was finished."

"I have no wish to ask your aunt, Kitty," said Miss Watson. "I do not in the least suspect you of trying to impose upon me. I am sorry, Selina, to see you manifest such a spirit. Are you unwilling to have any one praised but yourself?"

Selina tossed her head, and murmured something about partiality, of which Miss Watson took no notice, while Kitty found it difficult to conceal her exultation. She had carried her point more completely than she had expected, and she felt very good-natured in consequence.

And when the committee of arrangements remained after school to talk over their plans, she was really polite to Selina, and deferred to her opinions to a degree that made the other girls open their eyes in surprise. But Selina was not to be won. She had seen Kitty take from her an honor which had always been hers, and she had, moreover, sustained a public reproof; and she was determined that both should be revenged.

The morning of Saturday was bright and beautiful,—as fine a day as could be desired. All the baskets were sent to Mrs. Henshaw's, as that was the nearest to the place of meeting; and here the committee of arrangements were assembled to look over the stores, in order that there might be no deficiency in any important article at the last moment. Many were the criticisms, favourable and unfavourable, pronounced upon the contents of the baskets.

"Look at Jane Peter's biscuits," said Selina. "It is a pity she had not made them a little larger: we might have used them for seats. What is in that other napkin, Sylvia? Oh, gingerbread, of course! I do believe all the ginger in Barton town has been used up this week. Take care of that napkin, Sylvia, it is such a valuable one. It looks as if it had been made of an old sheet. What have you brought?"

Sylvia opened her basket and displayed a tempting assortment of round and heart and crescent shaped cakes, delicately baked and frosted.

"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Kitty. "Did Anne make them?"

"I made them myself," said Sylvia, rather proudly. "I do all the baking now; and mother says I can make as good bread as Anne can. But you have not shown us yours yet, Selina."

Selina had reserved hers to the last; and she now opened a closet-door in the room where they were sitting, and displayed two large frosted loaves, beautifully decorated with coloured sugarplums and crowned each with a sugar dove. The girls uttered exclamations of delight.

"These are the most beautiful of all," said one of them.

"Wait till you see what Kitty has brought," said Selina, who had taken an opportunity of lifting Kitty's basket, and judged from the weight that there could not be much in it. "I dare say she will eclipse all the rest."

"Aunt is baking some sponge-cake," said Kitty, modestly, "but it was not done, and Harvey will bring it this afternoon. I have not brought much in my basket,—only some candy and things that my father sent me."

She uncovered her basket as she spoke, and emptied the packages together in a pile. The girls looked on in silence as the many-coloured gilded and silvered bonbons rolled over the table. They had never seen any thing of the kind before, and did not know what they were.

"What are they, Kitty?" asked Sylvia.

"Bonbons, child! French sugarplums!" replied Kitty, in conscious superiority. "Did you never see any before? They are the best in the world, and cost—I don't know how much. My father sent them to me from New York, and I kept them for the picnic because I thought they would look so pretty on the table. I have got my aunt's silver basket to put them in."

"I am sure it is very good in you," said Harriet Ashton, one of the committee. "If they had been mine, I don't believe I should have been so generous as to give them to everybody."

"Nor I," said Mary Henshaw. "I should have kept them for myself and my most particular friends."

"Everybody is not so stingy as you are, Mary," observed Selina, vexed at the praises bestowed upon Kitty's liberality, and still more that her cakes should be eclipsed by the novel glories of the bonbons. "But I, for one, shall not dare to eat any of them. These French sweetmeats are very unwholesome. I read in the paper, only the other day, of a girl who was very sick and died in consequence of eating some burnt almonds."

"Nonsense!" replied Kitty. "I have eaten hundreds of them, and of burnt almonds too, without either dying or being sick. My cousin, Mrs. Frank Cassell, gave a party last winter; and she had thirty dollars' worth of bonbons—only much prettier than these—on the supper-table. I have got some of them somewhere."

"Thirty dollars' worth of candy!" repeated Sylvia, in amazement.

"Oh, that's nothing!" said Kitty. "I knew of another party—"

"Well, never mind the parties now," interrupted Selina. "I think we had better put the things away and get ready ourselves. You know we shall have to be on the ground first of anybody, to set the table and see to things. They will all be safe here, and Tom is going to carry them over for us when we go. Did you ever see such a fuss as Kitty made about her sugarplums?" she said to Sylvia after the rest had gone. "One would think that nobody else had ever heard of such a thing."

"I am sure it was very kind in her to keep them for the picnic," said Sylvia.

"Oh, you think every thing she does is just right. You will find out some day that she is not more perfect than anybody else."

"I don't suppose she is perfect," said Sylvia, laughing. "I never knew a single perfect person in my life, though I know two that I think come pretty near it,—mother and Mrs. Evelyn. But I do think it was generous in Kitty, and I think she is liberal in most things."

Selina curled her lip, but made no answer, and the girls separated to dress.

By two o'clock they were all on the ground, and busily occupied in arranging the feast, which was spread upon a large flat rock, conveniently situated for the purpose under the shade of a splendid chestnut-tree now in full bloom. Kitty's bonbons and Selina's cakes occupied the place of honour in the middle of the table. And the other less pretending dishes were grouped round them, space being left for a large pitcher of lemonade which Selina was preparing.

At last, after much altering and arranging, the thing was declared perfect, and the girls gathered round to see the effect.

"Isn't it pretty?" said Sylvia. "I hope Miss Watson will be here soon. She said she would come before the others, so as to see the table before it was touched. Oh, here she comes up the hill. Take care, Selina; your pitcher is too full. You will spill it if you are not careful."

"Don't be alarmed," said Selina. "I know what I am about."

Either from accident or design, she slightly tilted the full pitcher as she spoke, and its contents flowed in a stream directly into Kitty's basket of candy. The pretty blue and red papers turned yellow as the acid liquid touched them; and their beauty was gone.

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed several of the girls. "Now they are all spoiled! And they were the prettiest things we had. How clumsy you were, Selina!"

"Clumsy, indeed!" exclaimed Kitty, almost choking with rage. "She did it on purpose! She was provoked because my dish was the prettiest, and took that way to revenge herself,—the mean—"

But her angry feelings could not be controlled. She burst into tears and sobbed almost hysterically.

Selina looked on in silence.

"Oh, don't say so, Kitty!" said Sylvia, much distressed. "I am sure she did not mean to spoil them: did you, Selina?"

"If Kitty thinks so, she is welcome to her opinion," said Selina, coldly. "She judges me by herself, I suppose. She knows she would do any thing in the world to injure me, and she naturally thinks I would do the same by her."

"You have always tried to injure me ever since I knew you," returned Kitty, through her sobs. "I hate you, Selina Henshaw,—that I do!"

"Very well, Kitty Maynard; there is no love lost between us. If you hate me, I despise you: so it is about even."

"Girls, girls!" remonstrated Myra. "How dare you speak so? Do hush! Miss Watson is coming; and what will she say?"

Miss Watson arrived at this moment, and was naturally much amazed at the scene which presented itself,—Kitty leaning against a tree in a violent fit of weeping, Selina pale with rage, while Sylvia and Harriet Ashton were doing their best to repair the damage by taking the contents of the inundated dish out upon clean plates and drying them.

"Why, what is the matter?" she asked. "Kitty crying! Have you hurt yourself, my dear?"

"Selina—" said Kitty, but her voice failed, and she cried more violently than ever.

Harriet undertook to explain. "Selina tipped over some lemonade into Kitty's basket of sugarplums and spoiled them, and Kitty thinks she did it on purpose."

"She did, I know!" exclaimed Kitty. "She cannot deny it."

"I 'shall' not deny it, at any rate," said Selina. "If Kitty thinks I am such a girl as that, I shall not take any pains to make her think otherwise."

"You are both of you greatly in the wrong," said Miss Watson, with severity. "I am very much grieved and surprised to see such a spirit manifested among my pupils, and especially between Selina and Kitty, who I thought were such good friends. I am sure, Selina, you did not mean to injure Kitty?"

Selina was silent. But at last, she said again, "I am not going to defend myself, Miss Watson."

"And you, Kitty, how can you allow yourself to indulge such feelings towards your friend? How would you like it if she should bring such a charge against you? Your own favourite playfellow, too: for shame!"

"Miss Watson means very well, but she certainly is not very quick-sighted," said Harriet Ashton to Sylvia, as they stood apart from the rest, busied over the luckless sugarplums. "If she were, she would have seen that Kitty and Selina have done nothing but try to spite each other ever since the second week that Kitty came to school."

"I know it," said Sylvia. "I wish they could make up their minds to be good friends again."

Meantime, Miss Watson was trying, without much success, to bring about a reconciliation between her pupils. Kitty still persisted in thinking and saying that the mischief had been done purposely by Selina because she was jealous, but declared that she was willing to forgive her if she would confess it and say she was sorry.

Selina replied that she wished for no forgiveness from Kitty, who was welcome to think what she pleased about her; neither would she say that the affair was an accident. The truth was, Selina had not intended to injure the bonbons, but only to startle Kitty with the idea that they would be spoiled, and thus to extort from her some of those hasty and extravagant exclamations which were always at her tongue's end and at which the rest of the girls would be sure to laugh. She was as sorry as any one at the result of her mischievous manœuvre, and at first she would gladly have said so. But Kitty's violent accusation had aroused her own always ready temper, and she determined not to try to justify herself, whatever happened.

Miss Watson finally let the matter drop, and went away feeling very much grieved and displeased both with Kitty and Selina.

Then the girls tried their peace-making powers, but with as little success. Kitty still said she would forgive Selina if Selina would say she was sorry and own that she did it on purpose. Selina would not say any such thing, but declared she would not spoil everybody's comfort by staying where she was suspected and disliked, so she tied on her bonnet and was going home.

But this, the girls would not allow. Nobody knew so many games or could play them so well as Selina. She was the life of the party, and could not be spared on any account. She was finally persuaded to remain, and a kind of truce was patched up between the contending parties, so that, if they did not speak, they at least let each other alone.

When they came to the feast, Selina would not taste of Kitty's candy, and Kitty, in return, would not eat any of Selina's cake. Ample justice, however, was done to both dainties, and Kitty was a little comforted by the unanimous declaration of the girls that they had never tasted such nice candy in their lives. She generously divided among them all that was left after the feast was concluded, reserving a handful for Annie Richmond, whose enjoyment of the day had been marred only by the discomfort of her dear friend Kitty.

The party separated about sunset, all thoroughly tired, and rejoicing that to-morrow was not a school-day. Kitty and Sylvia walked home together in silence, leading Annie between them and apparently occupied with her own thoughts. After a little while, Sylvia said,—

"It would all have gone off nicely but for that unlucky accident of Selina's. I do not see how she came to do such a thing: she is generally so careful."

"Accident!" repeated Kitty, scornfully.

"Yes," replied Sylvia, firmly: "I do believe it was an accident, Kitty. Selina has her faults, I know, like the rest of us, but I shall never be convinced that she would do such a thing as that on purpose."

"Why didn't she say it was an accident then?" demanded Kitty.

"She was angry at the way you spoke, in the first place."

"Then I suppose you think the fault was all mine, and that I ought not to have said any thing at all?" said Kitty, her colour rising again.

"No: I don't think the fault was all yours, but I do wish you had not spoken quite so hastily. You would not have liked it yourself. If I had done it, or Harriet Ashton, you never would have thought of accusing us of wishing to spoil your dish: and why should you accuse Selina?"

"Because she is always jealous of me, and likes to mortify me in every way she can. She always tries to get above me in arithmetic and parsing; and if she succeeds, she always looks so triumphant. And she has never left off teasing me about that composition."

"As to getting above you, we all try to do that with one another. I am sure you do as much as anybody; and as for the composition, if you did not get so angry every time, she would soon leave it off. She only does it for mischief; and as soon as she saw that you did not care any thing about it, she would let it drop. The girls often do so by one another, you know. I do not think it is quite right, but they do not mean any harm by it."

"They never do so by you," interrupted Kitty.

"They used to," replied Sylvia, "till they found I only laughed; and then they left it off. They used to call me 'Silver Grey,' just as Selina does now sometimes, and as they call Selina 'Miss Handsaw.' It is all in fun."

"I don't like such fun," said Kitty.

"Nor I," replied Sylvia, "but it is not worth while to mind it."

"You may talk as much as you please, Sylvia," said Kitty, with emphasis, "and take Selina's part to the end of time, but I shall never believe that she did not spoil those sugarplums on purpose. If she had said she was sorry, I would have forgiven her. But as it is, I never will, as long as I live and breathe."

Sylvia was silent for a few moments, and then said, gravely,—

"I don't want to offend you, Kitty, but I should like to ask you one question. Do you ever say your prayers?"

"Of course I do," replied Kitty,—"every night and morning."

"And do you say the Lord's Prayer?"

"Why, yes, to be sure. What made you think of that?"

"Only I don't see how you can say, 'forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us,' so long as you feel so towards Selina."

"Well, then," said Kitty, trying to laugh it off; "I will say some other prayer."

Sylvia looked still more grave.

"What good will that do, so long as He has said, 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive your trespasses'? Oh, Kitty, it is very wrong, I am sure, and very dangerous. Think if you should die suddenly. Do try to feel differently."

"It is of no use to talk, Sylvia," said Kitty, more impressed than she cared to acknowledge by her companion's words and earnest manner. "You mean well, I know, and I am not angry with you, but you do not understand my disposition. I cannot help the way I feel. I don't believe any one can—"

"If we cannot help what we feel," interposed Sylvia, "why does the Bible say we shall be called to account for our feelings?"

"I don't believe they can," continued Kitty, disregarding the interruption. "I could not forgive Selina if I wanted to; and I would not if I could. You mean well, but there is no use in our talking any more about it: we shall never agree. Annie, dear, you are tired, I know," she continued, as if she wished to turn the course of the conversation. "Let us make an arm-chair, Sylvia, and carry her the rest of the way."

Sylvia sighed, but she thought she had said enough, and more than enough. And she wondered, as she thought of it afterwards, that Kitty had not been offended.

"She never gets angry at what I say," she said to herself. "I wonder what is the reason."

One reason might perhaps have been found in Sylvia's manner of speaking, which was always kind and ladylike even when she used the plainest language. But there was another still more influential reason. Sylvia and Kitty were not in any sense rivals. There was no comparison between them in the matter of scholarship; for Sylvia was not naturally so quick as her friend. She learned slowly and with much labor; and her mother's continued illness, joined to the straitened circumstances of the family, often kept her out of school for weeks at a time: so that, though she was six months older than Kitty, she was at least a year behind her in attainments. Thus she never came into violent collision with Kitty's vanity, as Selina did perpetually.

If Sylvia had intimated that Kitty drew or wrote badly, Kitty's temper would have been up in a moment. But it did not disturb her at all to have Sylvia tell her in plain terms that she was proud and unforgiving: she knew as much before, and rather prided herself upon the fact, having, like many other people, a fancy that these traits indicated strength of character,—a sad mistake, let who will make it.

Whether there really was any unwholesome quality in the sugarplums, as Selina had declared, or whether Annie only ate too many of them, we cannot pretend to say. But certain it is that the little girl was taken very ill in the night,—so ill that Harvey was roused up and sent in all haste after the doctor, and Kitty was summoned to assist in taking care of her. She continued to suffer very much for five or six hours, but at the end of that time she was relieved, and about noon she sank into a comfortable sleep.

Mrs. Evelyn had a severe headache, and Kitty tried to persuade her to go and lie down, promising to take the very best care of Annie.

Mrs. Evelyn hesitated; but finally she said,—

"Very well, my dear. I will lie down if you will call me the moment she wakes, as I must give her her medicine."

"Why cannot I give it to her, aunt?" asked Kitty.

"You could, I suppose, but I would rather do it myself."

"Where is it?" asked Kitty.

"It is on the mantel-piece," said Mrs. Evelyn, "but I do not wish to have you give it to her, Kitty. I must see how she is before she takes it. Just wake me as soon as she rouses up, and I will attend to it. I hope she may have a good long sleep."

Mrs. Evelyn went up-stairs, and Kitty was left alone, feeling very much hurt that her aunt should not think her capable of such a simple thing as giving a child a dose of medicine.

"I really think she might have trusted me," she said, talking to herself, as usual. "I am sure I have fixed mother's medicine dozens of times. Aunt talks about my being vain, but I am sure I am not half so much so as she is, for she thinks nobody can do any thing but herself. If she thinks I am so vain, I wonder what she would say to Selina? How hatefully she acted yesterday! Sylvia may say what she pleases, but I know she did it on purpose."

Such was the current of her reflections during the hour that Annie continued to sleep, and it may be imagined that their effect was not very salutary. It was, in fact, very easy at any time for Kitty to persuade herself that she was a persecuted child, and all but a martyr; and she felt especially like it this afternoon.

In about an hour, Annie began to move restlessly, and at last, opened her eyes. She smiled as she saw Kitty, but seemed bewildered, as though she hardly knew where she was.

"Is that you, Kitty?" she asked. "What is the matter?"

"Hush, Annie dear! You must not talk," replied Kitty, with imperative authority. "You have been very sick, but I hope you are better now."

"Where is grandmamma?" asked Annie.

"She has a bad headache, and has gone to lie down," Kitty replied.

She looked towards the mantel-piece as she spoke, and, seeing a cup containing some medicine, she gave it to Annie, saying, "Take your medicine, and go to sleep again, like a dear good girl, and you will feel better in the morning."

Annie swallowed the medicine with her accustomed docility, but made up a terrible face. "Oh, how bad that is! So strong and bitter!"

Kitty began to sing. She was a little frightened at what she had done, but was assured by seeing Annie fall asleep again directly. She lay much more quietly than before, and seemed to sleep very soundly; for when a blind in the room slammed violently with the rising wind, Annie did not even start.

The noise awakened Mrs. Evelyn, who was presently heard coming softly down-stairs. She entered before Kitty had quite made up her mind what to say.

"Has not Annie waked up yet?" she asked.

"She has been awake," said Kitty, "and I gave her her medicine. She went right to sleep again, and has not stirred since."

Mrs. Evelyn looked at the little girl, (who now began to breathe very heavily), felt her pulse, and then glanced at the mantel-piece, where Kitty had replaced the empty cup. Kitty was startled to see her countenance change so suddenly.

"What 'did' you give her?" she asked, sternly.

"You said her medicine was on the mantel-piece," Kitty began.

But Mrs. Evelyn interrupted her:—

"Did you give her what was in the cup?"

Kitty assented silently, for she began to be frightened.

"Tell Harvey to take the horse and go after the doctor just as quick as he can, and stop at Miss Watson's and send her up here. You have given the child an enormous dose of laudanum!"

Kitty turned pale and sick. "Will she die, aunt?" she asked, in a whisper.

"I don't know: I am afraid so. Don't stop to talk, but do as I bid you."

Harvey was on his way in a few moments, and Kitty returned to the sick-room.

Mrs. Evelyn was sitting by the open window, holding Annie upright in her lap and bathing her face with cold water.

But the child showed no sign of consciousness.

"Run and got me the vinegar, Kitty," said Mrs. Evelyn, hastily.

Kitty brought it with almost the quickness of thought. And then, running up-stairs to her own room, she brought down a bottle of strong aromatic vinegar, which had been given her in a box of perfumes, and put it into her aunt's hand without speaking. It was so strong as almost to take Mrs. Evelyn's breath away, but it had no effect upon Annie. Kitty ran hither and thither, bringing every thing that her aunt suggested, but saying not a word.

At last, after what seemed to be an age, the doctor arrived. And at the end of an hour, Annie was restored to consciousness,—though she did not seem to know any one. It was nearly morning before the doctor thought her out of imminent danger; and even then, he directed that she should be watched every moment, and desired that he might instantly be sent for if she relapsed into unconsciousness again.

Kitty crept away to bed, unnoticed, after the doctor took his departure,—her self-important spirit for the time entirely subdued. She had not spoken one word since the catastrophe, except in answer to a question. But she made herself extremely useful in running up and down stairs to bring things that were needed. She had not felt tired or sleepy under the influence of the excitement. But now that the imminent danger was over, she felt as if she must drop down on the stairs. She put down her candle when she got to her room, and throwing herself upon the bed, she tried to think over what had happened: but she could not control her thoughts, nor even remember distinctly. And when Mrs. Evelyn came up, about nine, she found her niece asleep on the outside of the bed with her clothes on. Kitty started up in terror as her aunt bent over her.

"Annie?" she asked, in terror,—expecting she hardly knew what.

"She is better," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "She is out of all danger now, I think. She knows every thing perfectly, and has asked for you."

"May I go and see her, aunt?" asked Kitty, starting up.

"Not yet. She is very nervous, and must be kept perfectly still. And now, Kitty, I want to talk to you about this. How did you come to give Annie the laudanum? Did you not understand me to say that I would give her the medicine myself?"

"Yes, aunt. But you had been lying down such a little while that I did not want to disturb you, and you said the medicine was on the mantel-piece: so I thought that was it."

"But I should think any one who had never seen a dose of medicine would have known better: why, the cup was a quarter full! It is almost a miracle that the child is alive at this moment."

Mrs. Evelyn paused, but Kitty did not answer, except by tears.

"But that, though very foolish," continued Mrs. Evelyn, "was only an error in judgment, and not of so much importance as your disobedience. I do not wish to seem unkind to you, Kitty, but I wish you to see the evil just as it is. It is, as I told you the other day, that you would do some great mischief by your vanity and self-sufficiency. Such children as you are not expected to have a correct judgment about a great many matters; and therefore they are always safe in obedience to their elders. I know what you thought. I have heard you say to yourself more than once, 'Aunt thinks I do not know any thing.' I think there are many things which you know, but there are many more which you do not, and the knowledge in which you are especially deficient is that of your own defects."

"I am sure I did not mean any harm," sobbed Kitty. "I did not mean to hurt Annie."

"That you would not have hurt her for the world I can easily believe," said Mrs. Evelyn. "That you did not mean any thing wrong is not so certain. You meant to disobey my positive orders; and you certainly knew that was wrong."

"I thought you wanted to sleep," replied Kitty.

"What you thought does not signify at all. You knew what you were told to do and not to do, and you should have abided by it. If you had, you would have saved us all—yourself included—a very anxious night and a great deal of unhappiness, and poor little Annie might have been at play to-day as usual, instead of being very sick,—as she is, and will no doubt remain so for some time. I have sent Harvey after her mother, and she will probably be here to-night."

"Will Cousin Anne know about it?" asked May, feeling as though she would rather do any thing than face the child's mother. "Must I see her if she comes? Oh, Aunt Sarah, I wish you would let me go back to the city! I cannot bear to stay here! Oh, do let me go away somewhere!" she continued, clinging to her aunt's hand. "Let me go to Mrs. Grey's, or anywhere, so that I need not see Cousin Anne."

Mrs. Evelyn sat down on the bed and put her arms round Kitty, who was terribly excited and shook as if she had an ague-fit.

"Listen to me, Kitty, my dear. You shall go away if you wish, but I want you to hear what I have to say, and then you shall decide for yourself. Try and compose yourself first, for you are not in a fit state for any thing."

She paused till Kitty had in some measure checked her sobs, and then continued:—

"You know that neither Anne nor myself are very well able to run up and down stairs; and probably there will be a great deal of it to be done. You may make yourself very useful in this way, as well as by sitting with Annie and diverting her when she is a little better. I shall not be afraid to trust you, for I do not believe you will disobey me again."

"I never will, aunt: never,—never!" exclaimed Kitty, vehemently.

"I hope not. You have certainly had a severe lesson. Now, as I said, you may go away a few days if you really wish it. But, I think upon reflection you will feel that you would rather remain where you will have it in your power to make some atonement for the trouble you have caused, and be of use to poor Annie: would you not?"

"Yes, aunt," said Kitty, in a subdued voice; "if you will trust me."

"I shall not be afraid to trust you once more," said Mrs. Evelyn, kissing her. "And now lie down comfortably and try to get a good sleep, for I am sure you must be tired out. I will lie down by you and try to rest too, for Anne Grey is taking care of Annie, and I can hardly keep my own eyes open."

"How did the laudanum come to be in the cup?" asked Kitty, opening her eyes after her aunt thought her fast asleep.

"I turned it out to wet a cloth with," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "But dismiss it all from your mind for the present, Kitty, and try to rest; for there will be enough to do, I can promise you."

Although Kitty had decided to remain, she felt it to be a hard trial, especially when Mrs. Richmond arrived and she had to go down and see her, knowing that she had been told the whole story. She trembled so excessively that she could hardly stand as she opened the door. But Mrs. Richmond kissed her as affectionately as ever, and said not one word of reproach; nor did her aunt again allude to the subject.

At the end of three days, Annie began to improve rapidly. And in the course of a week after, she was playing about the house again as merry as ever, and more than ever attached to Kitty, who had waited upon her from morning till night, and would have done so from night till morning if she had been permitted. She was unwearied in inventing amusements for her as soon as she was able to be amused. She had no idea of the cause of her illness.

Mrs. Evelyn had particularly desired that she might not be informed.

And Kitty's heart smote her more than once when Annie threw her little arms round her neck, repeating her favourite phrase of endearment,—"You are such a dear, good girl, Kitty!"

"I wish you would not say that, Annie," she said, one day. "I am not such a good girl as you think; and if you knew me better, you would not say so."

Annie looked puzzled, but evidently set the words down to the account of her cousin's modesty.

"But I do think you are, Kitty. You have never been any thing but good to me ever since I knew you."

Kitty felt as though she could hardly bear this from one whom she had so deeply, though unintentionally, injured. But she remembered that her aunt had particularly desired that nothing should be said to Annie, and she wisely let the matter drop, and directed the child's attention to something else.

CHAPTER VI.

THE events which had followed the picnic had almost put school-affairs out of Kitty's head. But the next Monday, Mrs. Evelyn decided that it was best for her to begin school again. Kitty rather dreaded it, for she thought the girls would all know of her late misfortune, and might perhaps say something about it. But in this she was mistaken: not one of them made the least allusion to it.

On the contrary, they seemed disposed to be more kind than usual. More than one fine harvest-apple was laid on her desk while she was at her recitation. And at recess, she found them all ready to defer to her and to play the games that she liked best. Even Selina greeted her kindly, though rather distantly,—asked how Annie was, and throughout the whole day refrained from annoying her either by word or by deed.

Afternoon brought its usual task of composition, and Kitty dreaded it more than ever. She had not had time (even if she had felt the inclination) to study another composition. And having been out of the habit of writing for two or three weeks, she had lost almost all that she had gained by her former practice. Again her fingers lingered idly over the slate or employed themselves in tracing unmeaning characters; while Selina, at her side, produced and wrote down sentence after sentence with apparently little effort and with what appeared to Kitty marvellous rapidity.

The old envious feelings began to rise in her heart; and she made but feeble efforts to resist them. Should she give up the foremost place—which seemed doubly dear to her now that she had once enjoyed it—and sit down contentedly in a lower one, owning herself inferior to a country-girl who had never enjoyed one-half her advantages? What would Miss Watson think of her, especially after she had handed in one such good composition? She read over what she had written. It seemed tame and flat even to herself; and in an evil hour, she put aside the convictions that forced themselves upon her, and took her resolution to continue in the course she had begun.

She went to Miss Watson in recess and asked to be excused from writing, on the ground that she was tired and had a headache, promising to bring in a composition before Friday.

Miss Watson hesitated. "I do not grant many excuses, as you know, Kitty," she said, after a little consideration, "but I know you have had a great deal to fatigue you during the past week, and I think I will make an exception in your favour, provided you will promise to bring me a composition before Friday."

Kitty promised, and returned to her desk quite relieved. That night, she carefully fastened her door after she went up to bed, and selecting a composition from her bundle, she copied it neatly, omitting two or three sentences which she fancied sounded too old for her. She laid the copy carefully into her arithmetic, and then, fancying she heard her aunt stirring, she hastily undressed herself and crept into bed, without reading her Bible or saying her prayers. She had repeated these with great regularity ever since Annie had been sick, and now the omission made her rather uneasy. She thought she would say them in bed, but she was too tired, and at once fell asleep.

She kept the composition till Wednesday morning, and then handed it to Miss Watson, who praised her very much for her punctuality in fulfilling her promise, and spoke to her so kindly that Kitty's uneasy conscience was again aroused, and she wished the deception had not been attempted. But she persuaded herself that it was too late now, and she must let things take their course, promising herself that she would not do so again. She did not know (and yet she might have known by this time) how hard it is to stop short in a course of deception and imposture.

The composition was read and highly approved,—though once Miss Watson paused and said, "I rather think you must have left out something here, Kitty. There seems to be a want of connection."

Kitty coloured, but answered, with apparent frankness, "I dare say I might have done so, Miss Watson. I copied it in rather a hurry."

"Have you the original with you?" asked Miss Watson.

"No, ma'am: I wrote it on some scraps of paper, and threw them away."

Another lie: two lies off hand! Yet only the Sunday before Kitty had resolved that she would never tell another falsehood,—that she was going to begin in earnest to be a good girl. She had resolved, but had not prayed; and resolution without prayer is like a house of bricks without mortar: with the first wind that blows, down it comes.

The next Monday, Kitty had her composition ready when she went to school, and handed it to Miss Watson,—this time without even a blush. She had refused so often and so steadily to listen to the voice of conscience that it had become almost silent, except at rare intervals: yet she was not happy. She was in reality no more on an equality with Selina than she had ever been; and the fact that Miss Watson, and Selina herself, believed her to be so, did not stifle her feelings of mortification.

Moreover, she was in constant fear of detection. She had bestowed her bundle of papers in what she considered a secure place, and she had no reason to believe that any one even suspected their existence. Yet her aunt never came into her room, or even up-stairs, without her trembling lest her secret should be discovered. And if Miss Watson scrutinized her manuscript more closely than usual, or made any criticism upon it, Kitty felt sure it was because she suspected something wrong.

One day, when Harvey came up from the village and handed her a letter from Miss Burlingame, her hand trembled so much as she took it that he remarked it, and said to her, jokingly, "If you are so much startled by every letter you receive, Kitty, it is to be hoped that you have not many correspondents."

"Pshaw!" replied Kitty, hurrying away. "You are always fancying things, Harvey. Why should I be startled?"

Yet after she was safe in her own room, it was some time before she found courage to open the letter. It was a very kind one, full of pleasant chitchat and good advice, and containing not one word about the stolen papers.

"How foolish I am!" said Kitty. "As if she could possibly know any thing about it! I wish I had never touched them, I am sure," she added, with a sigh: "But there is no help for it now. Examination will be here in two weeks, and then there will be no more school: I must keep it up till then, and after that I will throw them in the fire and think no more about them."

As if not thinking about them could blot out the record of her sins in her own conscience, or in that higher record above, and cause it to be forgiven by Him to whom all thoughts are open and from whom no secrets are hid!

Examination, as Kitty said, was coming on in two weeks. The girls had all been occupied about their compositions, and several of them had showed their first copy to Miss Watson. But Kitty and Selina still kept theirs back, and said nothing of them to any one.

One day, as it drew near the time, Miss Watson said to them, in the drawing-class, "Are your compositions ready, girls? I have seen all but yours; and I wish to read them over before you copy them for the last time."

Selina produced hers from her portfolio, and handed it to Miss Watson.

"Is yours ready, Kitty?" asked the latter.

"No, ma'am,—not quite. I will bring it to-morrow or the next day."

"I hope, girls," said Miss Watson, gravely, "that whichever one gets the prize,—if either of you do get it,—the other will make up her mind not to feel angry or envious about it. I have sometimes been sorry that I ever began the practice of giving prizes."

"Is there to be a prize?" asked Kitty. "I did not know that."

"I forgot that you were away last week," replied Miss Watson. "Yes: I have offered a premium of a writing-case for the best composition, and a workbox for the best examination in Colburn's Arithmetic."

The drawing-lesson was now concluded, and Kitty walked slowly homewards, pondering very deeply upon something. Annie was waiting for her at the gate, as usual. But she soon excused herself, and going up to her room, she fastened her door and drew forth the bundle of papers from their place of concealment. Selecting one, after some consideration, she read it over carefully.

"It is just the thing," she said to herself. "It is so different from what any of the rest are likely to write. If it were not for the prize—I don't want that, I am sure, and I know Selina does. But I don't want to let her triumph over me, and I won't."

She thought a few minutes. "I know what I will do," she said to herself again. "Myra will not be examined in Colburn's Arithmetic; so I am quite sure of that prize, at any rate. Then, when it comes to the other, I will tell Miss Watson that I do not want both prizes, and I would rather she gave that one to Selina. That will make it all right."

And she actually felt pleased with her own generosity, forgetting that, even if she did cede the first prize to her rival, she would be only giving away what she had no right to possess and could not have obtained by any fair means.

She sat down to her desk and proceeded to make a copy of the composition she had selected, purposely erasing a word and making a blot here and there to make it appear like an original. In the midst of her labours, some one tried the door and startled her so that it was with difficulty she suppressed a scream. She retained presence of mind enough, however, to slip the old stained paper out of sight before she opened the door to her aunt, who was naturally surprised at her agitated appearance.

"Why, Kitty, what is the matter? What makes you look so flushed?" she asked.

"Do I?" said Kitty. "I was very busy writing, and you startled me, somehow. I am just finishing my examination-composition, so as to let Miss Watson see it to-morrow before I copy it."

"I am afraid you are working too hard with all this drawing and writing," said Mrs. Evelyn, stroking her head kindly. "I have noticed two or three times lately that you seemed nervous and startled. You must not make yourself sick over it. Had you not better leave it for the present and run out to play with Annie?"

"I would rather not," said Kitty, shrinking from the caress which she felt she did not deserve. "I have almost finished; and I am afraid I shall forget if I leave it."

"Very well," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "Do as you please: only do not get a headache over it."

Kitty promised to be careful, and returned to her work as soon as her aunt left the room. She finished her copy, looked it over and added a word here and there, and then put it and the original away in her desk. The name at the bottom caught her eye and struck her as rather a peculiar one,—Felicia Brandon.

"I wonder who Felicia Brandon was?" she said to herself. "I never heard of any one of that name in the city. At any rate, she can afford to lend me her composition for once. It is a pity that such a good one should be thrown away. Oh, dear, how I wish it was all over!" she added, drawing a deep sigh: "And then if any one ever catches me in such an affair again, they will know it. However, it is too late to stop now. I must carry it through. I am going out to play now, at any rate."

"Well, Kitty, are your labours finished?" said Harvey, as he met Kitty in the barnyard. "I heard you were deep in your composition."

"Yes," replied Kitty, gayly; "and I am glad of it, for I am sick of the sight of the old thing. And, by-the-by, Harvey," she added, struck with a sudden thought, "don't you want to hear it? I should like to know what you think of it."

"I am no great things of a critic," replied Harvey, evidently much flattered by the proposal, "but I will act to the best of my ability, and I should like to hear it very much. Suppose you bring it out here and read it to me while I fix the harness?"

Kitty ran into the house and soon appeared with the paper. Harvey had arranged a nice seat for her of some carriage-cushions, and it was with a feeling of some trepidation and considerable importance that she read the title:—"The Last Night of the Old World."

"That is a curious title," said Harvey. "But go ahead, Kitty."

Kitty obeyed and read to the end without any other interruption. When she had finished, she paused, expecting some remark.

But Harvey said nothing.

"Well, how do you like it?" she asked, after waiting a moment. "Do you think it will get the prize?"

"I can't say about getting the prize, because I do not know how well the others may write," said Harvey, "but I think this is first-rate. I don't see how you can make up such things, for my part."

"Then you think it will answer?" said Kitty, who really began to feel as if the composition were her own.

"I like it very much,—especially the last part," replied Harvey. "It is rather curious, though," he added, after a pause, "to think that all you say there is really coming to pass some time,—the end of the world, I mean."

"I hope I shall not live to see it, that's all!" said Kitty.

"That is a vain hope, Kitty; for you will live to see it as surely as you sit there."

"Why, Harvey, you don't believe these stories that people are telling about the comet, do you? Miss Watson says they are all nonsense."

"I don't know much about the comet, and I don't care much about it," said Harvey. "From all I can learn, I rather expect the comet would get the worst of it if we should come together. Neither do I think any man can tell when the end of the world shall come, for Scripture says, 'Of that day and that hour knoweth no man.' But nevertheless I believe that both you and I, and every one else in the world, will see it when it does come."

"But it may be a thousand years from now, or more," argued Kitty.

"Well, and don't you expect to be alive a thousand years from now? What does 'the life everlasting' mean?"

"Oh, I did not think of that," said Kitty. "I was thinking about living here on this earth. That is very different."

"I don't see the difference," remarked Harvey. "Your body without your soul would not be of much account anyhow, while your soul can live without your body, you know. Besides, we believe in 'the resurrection of the body' too."

"I do not see the use of thinking all the time about such things, Harvey," said Kitty, rather uneasy at the course the conversation was taking. "It only makes one uncomfortable. What would become of the world if everybody's head was full of nothing but thinking that they were to die some time or other?"

"I think perhaps it would be a better world than it is, in some respects," replied Harvey, "and that if we thought of such matters oftener, we should do some things much better and others not at all. I guess that both you and I have done things this very day which we should not have done if we had remembered those two sentences, —'The resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.'"

If Harvey had not been so much engaged in altering a refractory buckle, he might have seen how Kitty winced under this chance shot.

Suspecting nothing wrong, however, he noticed nothing. And having arranged the buckle to his satisfaction, he proceeded in his remarks:—

"You see, Kitty, it is not as if we could put it away by not thinking about it: it 'will come,' anyway, and we don't know when nor how. And since that is the case, which do you think is the wisest plan,—to act as the quail does, which puts its head under a leaf and thinks no one can see it because it can see nobody, or to make up our minds to meet it bravely and be ready when it comes, so as to have it bring us good instead of hurt? Which course seems most worthy of a reasonable, sensible person, do you think?"

"But some people live to be very old, Harvey," said Kitty, evasively. "There was my grandfather Maynard, you know: he lived to be ninety-seven."

"And some die very young. Your aunt's youngest daughter was just your age when she was killed by being thrown from a wagon; and see how near poor little Annie came to it the other day. But, old or young, sooner or later, what does it signify, if it must come at last?"

"Annie is such a curious child," said Kitty, thoughtfully. "She said to me yesterday, 'Kitty, if I had died that day, I should have been an angel just exactly two weeks.' Wasn't it curious, for a child?"

"I believe she was right," said Harvey, with emphasis. "I do believe that child is a good Christian child, young as she is. Isn't that a better way of thinking about it than yours, Kitty?"

"Perhaps so, if one only could," replied Kitty, with something of a sigh. "Have you almost finished that harness, Harvey? You know you promised to fix our springboards after tea."

"So I did, and so I will," said Harvey. "I have just got through here; and then I will wash my hands and set about it. But, Kitty," he added, earnestly, detaining her a moment, "I do wish you would think about what I have been saying. It won't make you any the less happy, and may make you a great deal more so."

Harvey was so far mistaken in what he had said, that it did make Kitty very uncomfortable to think about it. She had come, almost unconsciously, to attach a good deal of importance to his sayings and opinions; and she could not get over the impression his words had made upon her. She knew very well that she had been doing things this very day, and for a long time back, which looked very ugly in the light of the few simple words which Harvey had quoted:—"The resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting."

She remembered a story she had read in the newspaper of a man who was killed on the railroad with his pockets filled with forged bank-notes. She had considered it very shocking at the time. But now she could not help drawing a parallel between his case and her own, and thinking,—

"What if I should be killed on my way to school with that thing in my pocket? Oh, how I do wish I had never begun it!—That I had just let Selina have her way, and not tried—If she had not been so hateful about it! But I know she has written the very best she possibly could, and how she will triumph if she gets the prize, after all."

The mention of Selina's name called up all the old trains of thought about her, from the first unfortunate laugh under the school-room window to the affair of the picnic. And she remembered, or fancied, that only that very day Selina had glanced at her with a significant smile when the two suggestive words "Poland" and "exile" had occurred in the reading-lesson.

"I cannot give it up now, so there is no use in fretting about it," was her final conclusion. "Examination will soon be over, and then I need think of it no more."

The next day, Miss Watson was sitting alone at her desk, when Kitty approached and handed her the manuscript she had prepared. It was in recess, and all the other girls were out in the yard at play.

Miss Watson opened the paper, and Kitty was about to retire, but the teacher detained her:—"Sit down, my dear, till I look it over."

Kitty would rather not have done so, but there was no escape, and she reluctantly took a chair, while Miss Watson ran her eye over the composition.

"I like this very much, my dear," said Miss Watson, after she had read it twice through. "It is original,—quite out of the common run,—and is very well expressed. I suppose these comet-stories suggested it to you?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Kitty, as Miss Watson paused for a reply.

"It might be longer, certainly," Miss Watson proceeded to say; "but brevity is after all a good fault."

"I thought I had said all there was to say," said Kitty; "and there was no use in adding more just to make it long."

"Very true," replied Miss Watson. "I would not alter a word in it, but copy it just as it is. I think you can hardly improve it. You have made a great advance in writing, Kitty, and your conduct has given me great satisfaction in many other ways. I feel that I can trust you, my dear: I know that you will not be idle or in mischief the moment my back is turned."

If Selina had been present to hear them, Kitty might have enjoyed these praises: as it was, they gave her unmixed pain, and she could not refrain from tears as Miss Watson kissed her and again assured her of her regard and confidence.

As it happened, Selina entered just as the conference came to a close, and seeing tears in Kitty's eyes and an unusual flush on her cheeks, she concluded that Miss Watson had found fault with the composition which Kitty held in her hand. This idea was a very natural one, and made her feel good-naturedly sorry for Kitty, who, she thought, must have been very much annoyed before she would have let Miss Watson see that she was crying.

"Never mind, Kitty," she whispered, as they sat down at their desks together. "I would not care. Miss Watson always criticizes the girls' examination-compositions. She made me alter ever so many things in mine. I would not worry about it, if I were you."

"Who do you think will get the prize?" asked Kitty, drying her eyes, but not caring to undeceive Selina as to the cause of her tears.

They had been on pretty good terms, upon the whole, since she returned to school. And she was willing to talk to her now, if only to get away from her own thoughts.

"Oh, I don't know any more than you do, of course. I think it will be between us four,—you and I and Sylvia and Harriet, I mean,—for Myra won't be here, you know. I know who would like to get it," she added, laughing.

"So do all of us," replied Kitty.

"But, to tell you the honest truth, Kitty. I don't care so much about it as I did," Selina continued, quite seriously. "I don't want to make you angry with me again by saying what you won't like, but I have been thinking a good deal about it lately, and I do think that we—you and I, I mean—have acted very foolishly this summer. What nice times we had that first two weeks, and might have kept on having them, only we fell to quarrelling and being jealous of each other! I don't mean to excuse myself. I knew it was mean in me to laugh at your composition so; and you know I did tell you I was sorry."

"I know," replied Kitty, much astonished at the unexpected turn the conversation was taking.

"Well, we might have gone on well after that, if we had not got into such a foolish way of rivalling and triumphing over each other every chance we had. And what good has it done?"

"But at the picnic, Selina—"

"Well, at the picnic, Kitty, I do really think you were as much to blame as I was. I never meant to spoil your dish, though I own I was a good deal vexed because it was prettier than mine. But it was really and truly an accident, and so I should have said, if you had not been so violent and made me so angry. But never mind that now. What do you say to letting it all go and being good friends for the future?"

She offered to kiss Kitty as she spoke; and Kitty could not refuse.

"But I don't understand what makes you feel so differently all at once, Selina," she said,—a little suspiciously.

"I don't know that I can tell you exactly," Selina replied, blushing a good deal and playing with her slate-pencil as she went on.

"The truth is, Miss Watson has talked to me, and Sylvia has talked to me,—you know what a coaxing thing she is when she sets out to make one do any thing. And finally, one Sunday night, after I had been thinking a good deal, I told mother about it, and 'she' talked to me. Then your little cousin was taken sick, you know, just about that time, and I thought you must be feeling so badly, especially as I heard it all came from your making a mistake about her medicine. And altogether, I thought I would make one more effort to be friends again before school was out. You don't know how much I want to be a good girl sometimes," she added, with a sigh, "only I am always forgetting it the first time any thing comes in my way."

"But what about the prize, Selina?" said Kitty, feeling as if she were in an uncomfortable dream.

"Oh, let that take its chance. I don't deny that I want to get it, and so, I suppose, you do. But we will not quarrel about it, however it turns out: will we?"

"No; of course not," was the reply.

The ringing of the school-bell put an end to the conversation, and Kitty tried to fix her attention upon her books, but without much success. She would rather Selina had gained every prize in the school than that she should have spoken as she had done. Nothing that could have occurred would have lowered her so much in her own eyes as did this frank confession, joined to Miss Watson's praises of her trustworthiness.

She would have given any thing to have the forged composition back in her own hands. But how to help herself she did not see. If she were to request permission to suppress it and write another, Miss Watson would be sure to ask her why she did so; and then what reason could she give?—For a full confession of all her deceit from the beginning was not to be endured. She could not see any way except to let matters take their course; and this, with a heavy heart, she resolved to do, more than ever determined that Selina should have the prize at any rate.

She was so absent in the history-class, and made so many mistakes, that Miss Watson noticed it, and asked her what was the matter.

"My head aches, Miss Watson," Kitty answered,—with perfect truth, for she had such a heavy pain over her eyes that she could hardly see.

She had had several of these headaches since the excitement of Annie's sickness; and Mrs. Evelyn was quite uneasy about them, and would have taken her out of school had not the end of the term been so near.

Miss Watson pitied her, lent her her own Cologne-water, and finally sent her home before school was out, with an injunction not to come next morning unless her head was quite well.

Selina walked home with her, and then ran all the way to her own home to bring over her mother's camphor, because Mrs. Evelyn happened to say that she had none. All these kindnesses were as coals of fire upon Kitty's head. She longed, as she turned upon her uneasy pillow, to have the matter off her hands, and almost resolved, before she went to sleep, that she would confess the whole in the morning.

But with the morning, there came a relief from pain; pride resumed its empire and sealed her lips. And again, she persuaded herself that the best way was to let matters take their course.

Day by day went on, and still Kitty had not copied her composition, though Miss Watson had more than once reminded her that she had no time to lose. The truth was, Kitty could not bear to touch or even to see it; and so greatly had her feelings changed that she would have given the world, almost, if she could have contrived some way to escape the examination altogether.

Either her conversation with Harvey in the barn, or Selina's unexpected frankness, or perhaps both together, had thoroughly aroused her lately-sleepy conscience, which now absolutely refused to be silenced and tormented her night and day. She felt acutely all the sins of which she had been guilty, and which now appeared to her in their true colours; and it seemed to her that she could never look any one in the face again.

Sometimes at night, when alone in her own room, the pressure would become so intolerable that she felt she would do any thing to be relieved of it; and at such times, she almost resolved to go to her aunt, or Miss Watson, and confess the whole. Happy would it have been for her if she had done so. But, somehow, when morning came, she always felt differently: the task which had appeared so easy the night before now seemed impossible, and again she resolved to let it go to the end.

At last, on the Thursday before the examination, Miss Watson called Kitty to her desk and told her peremptorily that she must bring the composition to school the next day, adding that she had done very wrong in putting it off so long.

Kitty promised compliance, and Miss Watson turned again to her employment. But looking up and observing that Kitty still lingered, she asked,—

"What is it, Kitty? What are you waiting for?"

"I wish, Miss Watson—" Kitty began, but paused as if the words stuck in her throat.

"Well, what do you wish?" asked Miss Watson, after waiting a reasonable time for the remainder of the sentence.

"I wish you would excuse me from having a composition at all," Kitty at last managed to say. "I would much rather not."

"But why, Kitty?" Miss Watson asked, much surprised at this unusual fit of diffidence,—as she considered it. "Why don't you want your composition read? Are you out of conceit with it?"

"No, ma'am; but I don't want to have any. I would much rather Selina should have the prize, and I don't want to write against her."

Miss Watson smiled, pleased at Kitty's generosity, though at the same time she could not help being amused at the apparent coolness with which Kitty took it for granted that she was sure of the prize.

"But, Kitty, perhaps Selina will get the prize at any rate. I have not declared my opinion yet, and shall not do so till the compositions are read: so you need not distress yourself upon that score. I cannot excuse you; and I shall expect you to have your composition finished and ready by to-morrow morning."

Kitty walked away, feeling that, though she had fully made up her mind to give up the prize to Selina, there was something after all not very agreeable in the idea of her gaining it for herself. She copied her composition very neatly and handed it to Miss Watson next morning, thinking within herself that now, at any rate, there was no more to be done; she could not draw back if she would, but must wait the event.

"Who reads the compositions?" she asked of Sylvia, as they were walking home together at night.

Every thing was now ready for the examination, which was to take place the next Monday: the lessons had been recited for the last time; the drawings, of which there was a pretty display, were nicely mounted; and nothing now remained to be done, except that the girls were taking their books home for a final review.

"I don't know who is to read them this time," replied Sylvia. "Sometimes it is one and sometimes another: last spring Miss Watson read them herself. But I dare say Selina will know; she always has the latest news. Selina," she asked, as the latter came up, "do you know who is to read the compositions this time?"

"Miss Watson's sister," replied Selina. "Did you not know she had come? She is going to stay till the end of the week, and then they are going a journey together."

"Oh, I am so glad!" exclaimed Sylvia. "She reads so beautifully, Kitty! You never heard any thing like it; and she never makes mistakes, as Mr. Stuart does. You remember last fall, Selina?"

"I should think I did," replied Selina. "I was on thorns all the time. He made mine sound like perfect nonsense; and Miss Watson said herself that there was no excuse for it, because the writing was as plain as print: but Felicia is something like. Her voice is music in itself."

"What did you say her name was?" asked Kitty.

"Felicia! Isn't it a curious name?"

"I have heard it somewhere before," said Kitty, "but I don't remember where."

"Miss Watson brought her up," continued Selina, "and worked herself almost to death to pay for her education; for you must know that her mother died when she was only a few months old and Miss Watson was sixteen. They say that was one reason why Miss Watson never was married."

"It was all the more generous in her," continued Sylvia, taking up the story, "because Felicia's father never was kind to Miss Watson, but treated her very harshly, besides spending all her own father's property."

"Well, but how was it?" asked Kitty. "I don't understand. I thought Felicia was Miss Watson's sister."

"Half-sister," replied Selina. "Mrs. Watson married a man by the name of Brandon when Miss Watson was thirteen or fourteen years old. She acted against the advice of all her friends; and it was very unfortunate, for he was a good-for-nothing fellow, and spent all her property and Miss Watson's too, besides abusing them shamefully. But he died after a while, and left her with this little baby. By this time Sophia—that is, Miss Watson—was teaching school and supporting herself very nicely, and when her mother died—which she did pretty soon—she gave Felicia into her sister's care and made her promise to be a mother to her; and so she has been."

"Then her name is Felicia Brandon?" asked Kitty, trying in vain to recall her association with the name.

"Yes, but almost every one round here calls her Felicia Watson, because she has been with Miss Watson so much. She is teaching, herself, now, and gets a very high salary, for she has a first-rate education, and she is always sending her sister things. And, by-the-by, Kitty, she knows all about your school: she was there two years, and thinks all the world of Miss Burlingame."

They had arrived at Mrs. Evelyn's gate as Selina concluded her sentence. Kitty bade her friends a hasty good-night and went directly into the house.

"I wonder what ailed Kitty?" said Sylvia to Selina, as they went on their way. "Did you notice how she looked when she went in?"

"I dare say she has one of her sick headaches coming on again," replied Selina. "She has not been well at all lately. I hope she will not be sick examination-day."

"You and Kitty are very good friends now," remarked Sylvia, smiling.

"Yes; and I mean to keep good friends if I can," replied Selina. "You were right there, Sylvia: it 'is' a great deal pleasanter than quarrelling."

CHAPTER VII.

KITTY went up to her own room and sat down, feeling as if some one had struck her a stunning blow. Felicia Brandon! She had no difficulty now in recollecting where she had heard the name. What had possessed her to take that composition above all others? Yet she could not possibly have known or guessed that Miss Watson had a sister of that name who had once attended Miss Burlingame's school; and she felt that, if she had taken any other, something else would have happened to bring the matter to light. Her sin had found her out at last, and there was no escaping the consequences. Detection—probably public disgrace—was hanging over her head, and she could do nothing whatever to arrest it.

She pictured the whole thing to herself. Miss Watson would probably keep the discovery a secret till the day of examination, and then proclaim it before the whole school. Selina would triumph in her disgrace, and Sylvia and the other girls shrink away from her in horror and disgust, while her aunt—but she could not endure to think of what her aunt and, above all, of what her father and mother would say when it came to their knowledge, as it too certainly must.

"It will kill mother, I know," she said to herself. "She used to feel worse about my telling a lie than any thing. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? She little thought, when she kissed me good-by—"

Kitty burst into tears and wept bitterly for a long time. Finally, she dried her eyes, washed her face, and, putting on her hat, she went quietly out at the back-door and down through the orchard to where she knew Harvey was at work mending a fence. It seemed a curious choice of a counsellor for a girl like Kitty, but she had become very fond of Harvey, and she had learned, moreover, to have a high opinion of his sense and judgment. She felt as if he would at least be kind to her and perhaps tell her what to do.

Harvey was busily at work, hammering and whistling. But he stopped when he saw Kitty coming, and waited her approach. He was amazed, as she came near, to see how pale she was and how red her eyes were.

"Why, Kitty, what is the matter?" he asked. "What has happened? You look as if your heart was fairly broken."

Kitty wept anew.

"You won't speak so to me, Harvey, when you hear. I don't believe you will ever speak to me again, but I want to tell you, and have your advice about it."

"About what?" asked Harvey, amazed and grieved to see Kitty's distress. "Come; don't cry, but tell me what is your trouble and how I can help you. Sit down on this stone, and let's hear all about it."

It was some little time before Kitty could compose herself to speak. But at last she began at the beginning and went over the whole affair.

Harvey listened without comment, diligently whittling the while.

When Kitty had finished,—

"It is a bad business, Kitty," he said, "a very bad business, and the last thing I should ever have expected of you. I always thought, whatever your faults were, you would be open and honest. I don't see what is to be done."

"But won't you help me, Harvey?" Kitty asked, in distress. "I don't expect you will ever like me again, but I do wish you would tell me what to do."

"Who have you told about it?" asked Harvey.

"Nobody but you. I suppose Miss Watson has found it out by this time."

"You must go directly to your aunt and tell her the whole story," said Harvey, decidedly.

"Aunt Sarah! Oh, Harvey, I never can do that in the world!"

"I don't know what else to advise, Kitty. It is the only right course to take, in my opinion. You had better confess it yourself than have Miss Watson tell her first, as she surely will unless you make the most of your time."

"If I only knew what they would do," said Kitty. "I am so afraid Miss Watson will tell of it in school. If I thought nobody would know but Miss Watson and aunt, I should not care so much. But to have all the girls talking about it,—Selina, above all—"

She paused for sympathy.

But Harvey had returned to his whittling, and did not speak till Kitty had repeated again, "If it were only aunt and Miss Watson, I should not care."

Then he said, without looking up,—

"There is One other, who has known it all along, Kitty, whom you don't seem at all to take into the account."

"Who do you mean?" asked Kitty. "Miss Burlingame? She doesn't know any thing about it yet."

"No; I don't mean Miss Burlingame, nor Miss Anybody, but One much higher, against whom you have sinned more deeply than against any one else, and whose forgiveness is much more important to you than either Miss Watson's or your aunt's. You don't seem to think any thing about Him."

Kitty made a movement of impatience.

"Now, Harvey, please don't begin to preach about it, but tell me what you think I had better do. I want advice, and not a sermon."

"I think," said Harvey, getting up from the stone and returning to his fence-mending, "that you had better go to your own room, confess your sin and ask God's forgiveness, and then go to your aunt and tell her all about it; and try to do this, not because you want to escape exposure and disgrace, but because you have committed a great sin and feel your need of pardon."

"Suppose I don't feel the need of it?" said Kitty.

"Then pray that you may," replied Harvey, shortly.

"It was as much Selina's fault as mine," said Kitty. "If she had not teased me so about my composition, I should never have thought of doing it."

"I suppose if you had got angry and killed her, you would have made the same excuse," remarked Harvey. "Don't you remember what I told you that evening in the cow-yard,—'He that despiseth little things shall fall by little and little'? You did not think then that vanity was a matter of any consequence; and just see what it has led to. First, envy, hatred and malice, then theft, then lying—"

"You should not speak so to me, Harvey!" interrupted Kitty, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes. "You as much as call me a thief and a liar!"

"What else do you make of it?" asked Harvey, coolly. "You took what was not your own, that was theft: and then you pretended that it 'was' your own, that was lying,—according to my dictionary. And if any one had done so by you, you would have been ready enough to call the thing by its right name. I don't want to hurt your feelings, Kitty, and I would help you if I could, I am sure, but I want you to see matters just as they are,—because, till you do, you can never do any thing towards setting them right again. That is the very best advice I can give you."

This was cold comfort, and Kitty returned to the house feeling worse than ever. Angry with Harvey, with herself and the whole world, trembling under the fear of detection and disgrace, tormented by the conscience which would no longer be silenced, she was indeed wretched enough. She took a few hasty morsels at the tea-table, and then excused herself under the plea that she wanted to go up-stairs and look over her lessons.

Meantime, Miss Watson had carried home all the compositions, wishing to give her sister an opportunity of looking them over before reading them in public. There was quite a parcel of them; for all the girls had written, and they were all to be read if there was time.

"There is one which I think is a little out of the common course," she observed, as Miss Brandon was laying them out upon the table. "It is Kitty Maynard's, and is really remarkable for a girl of her age. You will find her name upon the back of it."

"'The Last Night of the Old World,'" repeated Felicia, as she opened it. "I wrote a composition with that title myself, once upon a time."

She began to read, but before she had half finished it, she uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"Curious, isn't it?" remarked Miss Watson, who was busied over something else.

"I should think it was!" said Felicia. "Why, Sophy, this is my own composition, word for word! I wrote it at Miss Burlingame's the last year I was there; and here it is, literally copied! I don't think there is one expression changed or left out."

Miss Watson looked perfectly confounded.

"But Kitty certainly gave it to me for her own: she showed me the first draught, and it had every appearance of being an original document."

"I cannot help that," persisted Miss Brandon. "It is my composition. It took Miss Burlingame's fancy greatly, and she had it read at the next examination. I never thought so very much of it myself. But here it is: there can be no mistake about that."

"Kitty has been at Miss Burlingame's school a long time, I know," said Miss Watson; "but how could she come by this composition?"

"Very easily," replied Felicia. "The compositions used to be kept in a great box in the closet, and I presume they are to this day,—for the customs of that school are like the laws of the Medes and Persians. She had only to get the key of the closet and help herself. And that, I presume, she has done, taking the precaution to select old ones which would not be missed. Have you any more of her productions?"

"I have all the compositions she has written since she came to school," replied Miss Watson.

And she forthwith placed them before her sister, who proceeded to look them over. She selected six or seven from the pile and laid them aside.

"I remember all these," she said, "as having been read that winter. This was Lucy McNair's, and that was Augusta Hyde's, and these three were poor Anna Crampton's. The authors of the others I do not remember, but I have a perfectly distinct recollection of the compositions themselves. Upon my word, I think Miss Kitty must be a remarkable young lady. I know girls frequently use over their own compositions when they go from one school to another, and I believe most teachers consider it allowable. But this case goes beyond any thing that has come within the range of my experience."

Miss Watson looked very much distressed. "I do not know what to do about it, Felicia," she said, after some painful consideration. "Of course, I shall not read it, and I must take notice of it in some way, but how best to do it is the question."

"She deserves a public disgrace richly," said Felicia, indignantly.

"There is no doubt of what she deserves," replied Miss Watson, "but the question in my mind is, not what she deserves, but what will do her the most good? I wish to take such a course as to make her sensible of her fault and penitent for it. I seldom or never punish for the mere sake of punishing."

"Nor I," said Felicia,—"though I know I used to when I first began to teach. But who is this Miss Kitty, and who does she stay with?"

"She is Mrs. Sarah Evelyn's niece, and has been spending the summer with her. Her mother, Mrs. Richard Maynard, has always been sick, and I suppose poor Kitty has grown-up pretty much as it has happened. Mr. and Mrs. Maynard are travelling this summer, and Kitty is under her aunt's care."

"Then why not consult Mrs. Evelyn before doing any thing? I used to think her one of the wisest women in the world. And as Kitty has deceived her as well as you, it seems perfectly proper to tell her the whole story. Suppose, as there is not much time to lose, you go over there after tea and hold council with her?"

Miss Watson considered a little and finally decided upon the course which her sister recommended.

Kitty's room was at the back of the house, but she heard the gate shut and the knock at the door, and she felt certain at once that Miss Watson had come to tell her aunt. Bitterly she repented that she had not taken Harvey's advice at once and forestalled the story by her own frank confession, but it was too late for that now.

It seemed to her an age, as she sat in the deepening twilight, before her aunt came to the foot of the stairs and called her. She descended slowly and paused a moment before she opened the door. Her aunt and Miss Watson were sitting together at the table. And Miss Watson held in her hand, not only the examination-composition, but all the others.

"Come in, Kitty, and shut the door," said Mrs. Evelyn, gravely.

Kitty obeyed in silence.

"I have been hearing very bad news about you, Kitty," Mrs. Evelyn continued,—"news which I should never have believed had not the proofs been absolutely incontestable. I wish now to hear from your own lips the story of the transaction, and very glad shall I be if you can produce any thing in extenuation of your fault. Where did you get these compositions?"

Kitty was silent.

"Answer me, my child: where did you get them?"

"If you know all about it," Kitty answered, sullenly, "there is no use in my telling you."

"I know that you have used as your own what did not belong to you," said Mrs. Evelyn, sternly, "and I wish to hear whether you obtained them in any honest way in the first place, or whether you stole them. If you refuse to answer me, I shall take other means to ascertain, which may be less agreeable to you than if you made a full confession."

Kitty paused a moment, and then said, "I got them out of the school-house the day I went to town with Harvey."

"How did you get into the school-house?"

"I asked Miss Burlingame for the key, and then took the key of the closet out of her little drawer."

"Where are the originals now?"

Kitty would not answer.

Mrs. Evelyn lighted a candle and went up-stairs. She was gone some time, but finally returned with the bundle in her hand, and opening the door of the next room, she called in Miss Brandon.

"Miss Brandon, will you please to look at these papers and tell us if you recognise them?"

Miss Brandon looked them over, and then said, "These papers are compositions written by the class of which I was a member, and which left Miss Burlingame's school in the fall and winter of 18—. They were all read publicly, and were then, according to the custom of the school, put away in a place appropriated to such things. I was acquainted with all the writers, and recognise the signatures."

"Would Miss Burlingame have been likely to give them to anybody?"

"I think not. I never knew of her doing so. She has burned up a great many, but I think she never disposes of them in any other way."

Miss Brandon returned to the other room and shut the door after her.

"You see, Kitty, the matter is proved against you," said Mrs. Evelyn. "It seems clear that you obtained the key of the school-house upon false pretences, and then stole these papers, in order that you might, by making use of them, obtain credit for more talent and industry than you possess. You went so far as to lay your plans to take a prize at a public examination by the same means."

Kitty Maynard.
"Come in, Kitty, and shut the door."

"I did not mean to take the prize, either," replied Kitty, breaking silence at last. "I meant to tell Miss Watson that I did not want it, and would prefer to have her give it to Selina."

"Very generous in you, no doubt," said Mrs. Evelyn, "to give away that which was not your own! If you wished Selina to have the prize, why did you not give her a fair chance of obtaining it by simply writing as well as you could and not availing yourself of any assistance?"

Kitty remained silent; nor could she again be induced to speak. She would not say that she was sorry for what she had done, nor ask Miss Watson to forgive her. And wearied at last with her obstinacy, Mrs. Evelyn ordered her to go to her room and not leave it again till she gave her permission.

Kitty obeyed, glad to escape from the parlour and shut herself up with her own thoughts,—which, however, as may be imagined, she did not find very agreeable companions.

Mrs. Evelyn had said nothing of writing to her father,—which was what Kitty most dreaded. And she persuaded herself that she would not dare to do so, for fear of agitating Mrs. Maynard, who had not been so well lately. She decided in her own mind that she would not go to school on Monday unless she were carried by force, and after that, she did not care what became of her. Sometimes she thought of running off, sometimes even of making way with herself; and she occupied her mind for a while with imagining how badly they would all feel when they found her dead, and how her aunt would reproach herself for being the cause of such a sad catastrophe!

She had wrought herself up to an agony of weeping over the details of the tragedy, when she was disturbed by the entrance of Mrs. Evelyn, who was glad to find her in tears, hoping that it was a sign of repentance.

But she soon found out her mistake: Kitty was more sullen than ever, and Mrs. Evelyn was fairly at her wits' end.

"Shall I write for your father to come, Kitty?" she asked, at last.

But Kitty would not answer.

And with a heavy heart, she determined to wait till morning, hoping that Kitty's feelings might change in that time, or that some plan would occur to her by which the obstinate child might be brought to repentance.

Kitty passed a restless and uncomfortable night, tormented by all sorts of disagreeable dreams, and awoke in the morning with a violent headache.

Annie, meantime, was in great trouble at her cousin's disgrace.

"What makes Kitty stay up-stairs?" she asked of her grandmother.

"She has been a very naughty girl," Mrs. Evelyn replied, gravely, "and she will not say she is sorry."

Angie looked very much distressed; for Kitty had been her model of perfection, and the idea that she could do any thing wrong was quite new to her.

"Cannot she come down to breakfast?" she inquired, as she saw her grandmother preparing a tray to take up-stairs.

"No," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "She cannot come down till she has said she is sorry. You may go up with me if you please, and carry some of the things."

Annie followed her grandmother, who set the tray down upon the table and arranged it comfortably without receiving a word of acknowledgment from Kitty, who was dressed and apparently engaged in looking out of the window.

Annie lingered till the door was shut, and then stole timidly to Kitty's side and took hold of her hand.

"Kitty," said she, softly, "why won't you say you are sorry?"

"Because I am not sorry," replied Kitty, still unmoved.

"But, if you are not sorry, grandmother won't forgive you."

"I haven't asked her to forgive me," replied Kitty, proudly: "I don't care whether she does or not."

"But God won't forgive you, either," said Annie, very much grieved and puzzled to find her dear Kitty in such a state of mind.

"I can't help that," said Kitty, still looking out of the window. "I shall not say I am sorry when I am not. I shall not tell a lie for any of them," she added,—not choosing to remember how many she had already told upon her own account.

"But you can ask Him to make you feel sorry. Oh, do, Kitty!"

"'You' can ask Him if you choose, Annie," replied Kitty,—a little softened, and wishing to get rid of the child's importunity.

Annie took the permission quite literally.

She kneeled down where she stood, and repeated, with touching seriousness,—

   "Our Father in heaven, please make Kitty sorry that she was naughty, and make her a good girl!"

Then she kissed Kitty, and went slowly down-stairs.

The morning was wearing slowly away, and Kitty began to get very tired of being left to herself, and to wish that somebody would do something. She tried to read, to sew, to draw, but nothing answered the purpose of diverting her attention. She had always been accustomed to spend part of Saturday morning in writing to her mother and in learning her Sunday-school lesson. But, as may be imagined, she did not feel very much inclined to either of those employments at present.

Towards noon, she heard a horse come pretty fast up the road and stop at the gate, and then a knock at the door, which sounded as if some one were in a great hurry. She opened the door to listen, and she thought she heard her aunt utter an exclamation of surprise and grief.

Could her father have come? An undefined feeling of some calamity made her heart beat fast. But moment after moment passed by, and she heard no more. Her head ached very severely, and she thought she would lie down on the bed and try to sleep. She was just falling into a dream when the door opened, and Mrs. Evelyn came in with a note in her hand and sat down upon the side of the bed. Her face was pale and her eyes swollen with weeping; and a second glance showed Kitty that the note was telegraphic despatch.

"I have just heard from your mother, Kitty," said Mrs. Evelyn, in a trembling voice.

"Is she worse, aunt?" asked Kitty, starting up in terror. "Oh, I am sure she is very sick, or they would not have telegraphed."

"No, my poor child," replied Mrs. Evelyn, taking Kitty in her arms: "she is past all suffering now. She is at peace."

"Not dead?" said Kitty, in a hoarse whisper.

Mrs. Evelyn nodded. She could not speak.

Kitty turned deadly pale, and would have sunk to the floor but that Mrs. Evelyn sustained her in her arms. She laid her back on the pillow, and would have risen to seek some restorative. But Kitty held her hand tightly with both hers, and whispered,—

"No, no! Don't go!"

Mrs. Evelyn kissed and caressed her tenderly, and after a few moments, was relieved to see her burst into an agony of grief.

"Oh, my mother!—Oh, my dear mother! Oh, what shall I do?" she repeated between her sobs.

Mrs. Evelyn let her have her way and wept with her for some time. But at last she began gently to hush her, and by slow degrees, she became somewhat composed.

"When was it?" she asked, at last.

"Last night, about ten. It was very sudden. She had not been considered any worse."

Kitty remembered what sort of thoughts and feelings had occupied her at that very time, and she wept again as if her heart would break. Her pride and ill-temper had all given way beneath this heavy and unexpected stroke, and she thought, with tears and shame, of the way in which she had behaved.

"Oh, I do hope she will never know what a wicked girl I have been!" she sobbed. "Do you think she will, aunt?"

"I don't know, Kitty. I hope not. But you know," she continued, gently, "that 'there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth;' so that, if you are really and truly sorry—"

"I am, aunt!—Oh, I truly am! I was all the time,—only I was too proud and too obstinate to say so. Oh, please forgive me, and ask Miss Watson to forgive me!"

"I forgive you with all my heart if you are penitent, my child. But, Kitty, there is One whose forgiveness you need more than mine or Miss Watson's. Will you not ask Him to pardon you too?"

"Please to ask Him for me, aunt," Kitty replied, in a faint whisper.

Mrs. Evelyn kneeled down, just where Annie had kneeled, and in few and simple words confessed Kitty's sin in her behalf, and prayed for forgiveness and comfort for the penitent and now afflicted child.

It was with all her heart that Kitty answered "Amen" to this prayer.

She lay quite still for some little time after it was concluded, and Mrs. Evelyn thought she had fallen asleep, but she was mistaken. At last, as she was rising to leave the room, Kitty asked,—

"Were there any particulars in the note, aunt?"

"Only that she died quietly and in great peace. Her last words were of you."

Kitty wept again, but her tears were not so bitter as at first. She felt as if a great load was gone from her heart,—as if she had now a right to mourn for her dear mother.

Mrs. Evelyn left her to herself while she went down-stairs to give some necessary directions. And when she returned, Kitty was asleep. As she stood by the bed and noticed the child's flushed face and quick breathing, she feared that the excitement of the last few days had been too much for her, and so it proved.

When Kitty awoke, she had a terrible headache, and was so ill by night that Harvey was sent after the doctor, who said that she was threatened with fever and must be kept very quiet for a few days.

Harvey brought up a letter from Mr. Maynard, giving a more particular account of his wife's death. It was his intention to bring the body of his wife home for burial. And he desired that Mrs. Evelyn and Kitty might be at the house ready to receive them.

Mrs. Evelyn did not mean to show this letter to Kitty, but she asked for it, and it was thought best to indulge her. After reading it through, she put it under her pillow, and desired Mrs. Evelyn to bring her pen and paper, that she might write to her father and tell him the whole story about the compositions. But her aunt finally dissuaded her, by telling her that such a letter would only add to his grief, when he had already enough to bear, and that it would be better to tell him at another time.

Her mind wandered frequently all night and part of the next day. But towards night on Sunday, she had a good sleep and awoke much better. Miss Watson was sitting by her, Mrs. Evelyn having gone to lie down. Kitty would have spoken, but Miss Watson put her finger on her lip.

"You must not talk now, my dear; indeed you must not. I know all that you would say, and I assure you I forgive you entirely."

"But the girls,—" said Kitty; "do they know?"

"No," replied Miss Watson; "and I shall not tell them. I do not think it desirable to have the matter talked about; and it will never be mentioned out of the family."

Kitty seamed much relieved, and sank into another slumber. She passed a tolerably comfortable night, and though the fever returned on Monday, it was much less violent and lasted but a short time.

Still, it was very evident that she would not be able to go to town on the morrow to meet her father as he had desired. She was naturally very unwilling to give up the idea; and it was not till Tuesday morning came, and she found herself quite unable to stand up long enough to dress herself, that she was willing to allow that it would not do to try.

Mrs. Evelyn was at first rather unwilling to leave her, but Kitty begged her so earnestly to go that she at last consented to leave Kitty in charge of Miss Watson for two days, in order to attend the funeral. Kitty behaved very well about it, though she cried bitterly as she bade her aunt good-by, and tried to send some message to her father. But upon Miss Watson's representations that Mr. Maynard would probably return with Mrs. Evelyn, and that he would be very much grieved to find her worse, she restrained her tears and lay very quiet all the morning.

The subject of the examination had not been mentioned. But in the afternoon, Kitty herself adverted to it and asked how it had gone off.

"Very well," replied Miss Watson. "There was not a single mistake made, except one or two in the arithmetic-class."

"I suppose Selina got the prize?" said Kitty.

"It lay between her and Harriet Ashton," returned Miss Watson. "Their compositions were so nearly upon an equality that I really could not decide between them; so I procured a second premium, and the girls drew lots for them. Selina drew the desk."

"I am glad of it," said Kitty. "She wanted it very much, I know. And who got the arithmetic-prize?"

"Sylvia; but she says you would have been sure to take it if you had been there, and she thinks you ought to have it, at any rate. I told her she might settle it with you."

"I don't want it," said Kitty. "I would much rather she had it."

She hesitated a moment, and then said, "Did the girls ask after me?"

"Yes; there have been many inquiries about you. The girls knew that you were sick and in trouble, and there was a great deal of sympathy expressed for you. Some of them are very anxious to see you, and Sylvia and Selina have called twice. I told them I would ask you if they should come up next time."

"I should like to see them," said Kitty, "only—"

She hesitated, and Miss Watson said, kindly,—

"You know, Kitty, they do not know that any thing else has occurred."

"I was not thinking about that, Miss Watson," said Kitty, earnestly. "I would rather they knew than not. It seems, somehow, like cheating to have them think so much of me."

She paused a moment, and then said, hesitatingly, "Miss Watson, if I should come back into school again next term, do you think you could ever trust me again, as if I had never done any thing?"

"I should not feel exactly the same towards you as though you had never deceived me, Kitty," replied Miss Watson: "that would be out of my power. Nevertheless, I should give you every opportunity of re-establishing your character; and I should always be ready to believe you, unless I saw some good reason to the contrary. Why do you ask? Would you like to come back into school again?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Kitty, frankly, "I should. I hope it is not a wrong feeling, but I should like very much to have an opportunity of showing you that I mean to be a good girl. I don't know whether I shall succeed or not, but I mean to try."

"If you try, depending only upon your own strength, Kitty, you will be sure to fail," said Miss Watson. "Your good resolutions will come to nothing unless you rest for strength upon a higher power."

"I know it," replied Kitty, in a low voice. "I have tried that, but I hope I have learned better now. I used to think I could do every thing I chose to do. I might have been wiser,—for I was always wishing to be a good girl and doing the same wrong things right over again. I hope it will not be so this time."

"You must not be discouraged if you fail many times, Kitty," said Miss Watson, kindly. "Almost everybody does that. You must begin again and again. And if you are sincere in praying for help, you will find that you gain something every time. We must 'run with "patience" the race set before us,' you know."

"Isn't there something in that verse about besetting sins?" asked Kitty.

"Yes: 'laying aside every weight and the sin which doth so easily beset us.' What do you think is your besetting sin?"

"Vanity, I have no doubt," replied Kitty, blushing. "Every one used to tell me so, but I never could see that I was vain. But, since all this happened, I have thought a great deal about it; and I can see that that was the beginning. I could not bear to think that Selina wrote better than I did, and so—" Kitty paused.

"You have thought a great deal since last Friday, Kitty," Miss Watson observed, after a little silence.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Kitty, with a deep sigh. "It seems as though I had lived a whole lifetime since then: I feel so much older. I do hope," she added, earnestly,—"I do hope I shall be a good girl."

The next day, Sylvia and Selina called to see Kitty, and were admitted, as she was so much better as to be able to sit up half the day. Miss Watson had given them a strict charge to keep her quiet, and they obeyed her very well, though Kitty shed some tears at seeing them. As they rose to go, after quite a long visit, she detained them.

"Girls, I want to tell you something," she said, blushing very much. "I don't know what you will say or think, but I would rather you knew."

She then went on with the history already known to the reader, and ended by saying, "I shall not ask you not to tell. You may do as you please about it."

"What should I want to tell for?" asked Selina, abruptly. "You don't think, now, that I would like to see you in disgrace, do you, Kitty?"

"No, I don't believe you would, Selina."

"And, besides, I was as bad as you," Selina continued. "If I had not teased you so, you would never have thought of it. I am as much to blame as you."

"I should not say that, Selina," observed Sylvia. "I think it was very wrong to tease Kitty, however; and you know I have always maintained that it was wrong for the girls to plague and torment each other as they do. It leads to nothing but ill will and bad feeling, and I am sure I cannot see what fun there is in it. But I am sure, Kitty, we shall neither tell of you nor lay it up against you. So don't fret about that, but get well as fast as you can. I think, Selina, we had better go now, lest Kitty should be tired."

The girls kissed her affectionately and took their leave.

They walked some distance in silence, which was broken by Sylvia's saying, after a deep sigh,—

"Who would ever have thought of Kitty's doing such a thing?"

"I never should," replied Selina; "and yet I used to think there was something queer about those compositions of hers. They were so good, and yet not the least like each other. I wonder Miss Watson did not have some suspicions,—only she never does suspect anybody. After all, it is not so much worse than some things the girls very often do, especially in geography,—write the beginnings of the names and boundaries upon little bits of paper, to hold in their hands in the class."

"I am sure I never did that," said Sylvia.

"I have," returned Selina, "and never thought there was any great harm in it, because all the girls did it. But I don't see now why it is not as bad as stealing a composition. And another thing: I know I have talked about people behind their back as I never would to their face. I have about you, Sylvia. I have laughed about your being so proud."

"I know it, Selina, and so have other people. But I do not think it is a wrong pride which makes one unwilling to be helped so long as one can help oneself; do you?"

"No, indeed; and I never did. But I have such a bad habit of laughing at and about people. Poor Kitty!" she added, after a little silence. "How sad to lose her mother just at such a time! I don't believe she will ever be the same girl again."

"I believe she will be a great deal better one," said Sylvia; "and so I hope shall all of us."

"I hope I shall, for one," replied Selina. "It won't be for want of trying if I am not."

Mr. Maynard returned from the city with Mrs. Evelyn the day after the funeral, and found Kitty a great deal better, though still looking pale and thin.

At her own request, Mrs. Evelyn had given him an account of the affair, adding that she believed Kitty to be truly penitent. Mr. Maynard did not allude to the subject for several days. But one Sunday evening, as they were walking in the fields, he talked it over with her, and was glad to find that her sorrow for sin and her good resolutions seemed to have been strengthened rather than weakened by time.

A day or two afterwards, a consultation was held as to what should be done with Kitty for the winter. Her father naturally felt desirous to have her with him. But, at the same time, he saw many difficulties in the way, as she would necessarily be left very much to the care of Huldah, who, though kind-hearted and conscientious, was not exactly the best guide and director for a girl of fourteen.

Mrs. Evelyn at last proposed that they should consult Kitty herself. And she was accordingly called and the case laid before her.

Kitty was silent for a few moments, evidently considering deeply.

"I should like to be with you, dear father. But then—"

"Well, my daughter, what then?" asked Mr. Maynard.

"Who would there be to take care of me? You are in the store so much."

"You think you could not take care of yourself?" said Mrs. Evelyn.

"No, 'indeed,' aunt, I don't," replied Kitty, with such grave emphasis that Mrs. Evelyn and her father both smiled.

"There would be Huldah, you know," said the latter.

"Yes, I know, and she is very good. But still—I do really think that, if Aunt Sarah is willing to be troubled with me, I would rather stay here. At least, I think it would be better for me to stay."

Mrs. Evelyn smiled again at the distinction—more truthful than polite, perhaps—which Kitty made between her convictions and her inclinations, and assured her that she should be very glad to keep her, if she could make up her mind to stay contentedly.

"What would you do with yourself all day?" she asked.

"I should go to school, I suppose," replied Kitty, blushing. "I should like to go another term to Miss Watson. I should like—"

She did not finish the sentence. Mr. Maynard and his sister exchanged glances.

"You would like to show Miss Watson that you are in earnest in meaning to be a good girl?" said Mr. Maynard.

Kitty assented.

"I think you have made a very wise decision, my daughter. I shall feel perfectly safe about you if you are here, and you will be near at hand. And though I may be lonely sometimes, yet it will be a great comfort to me to think that my little girl is in good and kind hands, improving in mind and making daily progress in virtue and godliness of living."