Kitty Maynard : or, "To obey is better than sacrifice."

By Lucy Ellen Guernsey

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Title: Kitty Maynard
        or, "To obey is better than sacrifice."

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey


        
Release date: July 14, 2026 [eBook #79094]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1857

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79094


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK KITTY MAYNARD ***

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

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



[Illustration: _Kitty Maynard.—Frontispiece._
 "Do stand still a minute, can't you?"]



                            KITTY MAYNARD;

                                 OR,

                 "TO OBEY IS BETTER THAN SACRIFICE."


                           [Illustration]


                          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.

[Illustration: _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.

[Illustration: _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."

[Illustration: _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."






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