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Title: White and black lies
        Or, truth better than falsehood

Author: Madeline Leslie

Release date: May 16, 2024 [eBook #73637]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Ira Bradley & Co


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHITE AND BLACK LIES ***

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



                        WHITE AND BLACK LIES:

                                  OR,

                    _Truth Better than Falsehood._


                                 BY
                        MRS. MADELINE LESLIE

              AUTHOR OF "TIM, THE SCISSORS-GRINDER," AND
                     OTHER SABBATH-SCHOOL BOOKS.



 _"Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord; but they that deal truly
                          are his delight."_



                               BOSTON:
                    PUBLISHED BY IRA BRADLEY & CO.
                        162 WASHINGTON STREET.



      Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
                             HENRY HOYT,
    In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of
                           Massachusetts.



                              PREFACE.

THE Bible ranks truthfulness among the cardinal virtues. Perfect
veracity is a prominent element of a good character, lying at the
foundation of permanent success and of enviable fame. Yet, from
the prevalence of a passion for the marvellous, the temptations
are numerous in our age and country to the practice of the arts of
deception.

The thought of these exposures of the young has recently revived my
early recollection of the excellent treatise on lying, by Mrs. Opie, a
book which I read in childhood with the liveliest interest, and which
has deepened my conviction of the desirableness of a work expressing
similar sentiments, but more fully illustrated and enforced by the
teachings of the Bible.



                             CONTENTS.

 CHAPTER I. FIRST LESSONS IN LYING

 CHAPTER II. GRIEF OVER YOUNG LIARS

 CHAPTER III. ONE LIE LEADS TO ANOTHER

 CHAPTER IV. TROUBLE FROM LYING

 CHAPTER V. THE LIAR DETECTED

 CHAPTER VI. FASHIONABLE LIES

 CHAPTER VII. SCHOOL LIES

 CHAPTER VIII. THE LIAR ABANDONED

 CHAPTER IX. THE FATHER OF LIES

 CHAPTER X. THE LIAR'S DEATH

 CHAPTER XI. LYING CURED

 CHAPTER XII. LIES OF MALIGNITY

 CHAPTER XIII. LIES OF POLITENESS

 CHAPTER XIV. LIES OF TRADE

 CHAPTER XV. LIES OF CONVENIENCE

 CHAPTER XVI. LIES OF AUTHORSHIP

 CHAPTER XVII. LYING CONTAGIOUS

 CHAPTER XVIII. PARTY LIES

 CHAPTER XIX. THE ART OF LYING

 CHAPTER XX. LIES ABOUT RELIGION

 CHAPTER XXI. CLERICAL LIES

 CHAPTER XXII. REWARD OF TRUTHFULNESS

 CHAPTER XXIII. END OF TRUTH AND OF LYING



                       WHITE AND BLACK LIES.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

FIRST LESSONS IN LYING.

"JOSEPH SAUNDERS, take those glasses off this very minute! How many
times have I told you never to touch my things!" Nevertheless, Aunt
Clarissa laughed heartily.

"They aren't yours," answered the boy, saucily. "They're father's, and
he says I may take them just as much as I have a mind to."

"Take care, Joseph; when your conscience gives a twinge like that, you
had better recall your resolutions about lying."

Joseph Saunders was a motherless boy. His father was a master mason;
that is, he did not work himself; but kept a number of men, who did the
jobs, while he superintended them, to be sure the work was right. This
is a very profitable business, and by it Mr. Saunders had become quite
a rich man. He lived in a handsome house, in a street overlooking a
pleasant park which in summer was filled with beautiful flowers. He had
three children,—two daughters and one son.

Alice, the elder, was fifteen, and was away from home at a boarding
school. Ellen was three years younger, and still remained with her
father. Joseph, the baby, as his sisters teasingly called him, was but
six, though he insisted he was old enough to wear suspenders, and have
a watch-pocket.

Mrs. Saunders died when Joseph was little more than a year old, so
that he could not remember her. But he had so often heard his father
describe her sweet smile, her dark loving eyes, her broad polished
forehead, over which her shining hair was so smoothly parted, that it
seemed to him, he could remember her, and that when he went to heaven,
he should know her at once. Then her voice, which his father told him
was low and musical, like the chiming of silver bells, he often heard
in his dreams. Sometimes he awoke, calling her, and it was difficult to
convince him that she had not stood by his side, and that it was only a
dream.

Soon after his mother died, Aunt Clarissa came to take care of the
children, and to direct the servants in her nephew's family. Though
aunt to Mr. Saunders, Miss Clarissa was only ten years older than he
was, and would have felt quite insulted, had she even suspected that
she was not considered a young lady. She was a very good housekeeper.
The upper shelves in the china closet were always filled with jars of
jelly and sweetmeats, neatly covered with white paper, and tied with
pink cord. Her sponge cake, custards, and Washington pies, always
came out of the oven done to a turn, and exactly the right shade of
brown; and as to her waffles, why, nobody who had eaten Miss Clarissa's
waffles ever expected to make any equal to them! So light, so rich, and
covered with just the right quantity of butter and sugar.

Mr. Saunders was fond of inviting his friends to dinner, and this at
first annoyed his aunt, who disliked hurry or confusion, such as the
sudden appearance of a guest was likely to occasion; but she gradually
became accustomed to this, and to all her duties, and even grew quite
fond of being seated at the head of a luxuriously spread table, richly
ornamented with its display of silver, china, and cut glass.

In the laundry, too, Miss Clarissa was quite as successful as in the
china closet. The making up, as she called it, of her nephew's shirts
was both her pride and delight; while her own laces—I do not say caps;
she would consider me very presuming to hint that she wore caps—and her
niece's muslins were the envy of all who saw them. Then this good lady
was skilled in all kinds of preparations for the sick. Few, even of
well persons, could refuse her chicken-broth or beef-tea; and those who
came on to the sick list were willing to try her senna, her jalap, or
her thoroughwort, for the sake of the delicacies which accompanied them.

If any one person in the world was neater than every other, that person
was Aunt Clarissa. The least particle of dust on the furniture, or
on the heavy mouldings; the slightest variation in the width of the
snow-white sheet when it was turned down over the smoothly-spread
counterpane; the tiniest speck upon the shining silver, or on the large
panes of glass in the windows, was sure to attract her attention; and
woe be to the servant who had so shamefully neglected her duty.

So far then as her housekeeping was concerned, Miss Saunders was every
way calculated to render her nephew's family exceedingly comfortable;
but I am very sorry to say, she was in no ways adapted to educate his
children. In the first place, she had no fixed principles for the
regulation of her own conduct. To be sure she did occasionally, on a
stormy Sabbath, read her Bible; and she had heard of the inspired rule,
"Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will
not depart from it;" but she had little idea of the literal meaning of
the old-fashioned precept. So far as she had any rule, it was this:
"Train up a child to have his own way, and when he is old he will be a
model of perfection."

The first part of this adage she certainly carried out. Alice, Ellen,
and particularly Joseph, were trained to have their own way in every
particular. If the little dears chose to obey her, and overload their
stomachs with her rich dainties, well and good. If they disobeyed her
commands, quarrelled, went on the damp ground with thin shoes, talked
impudently to the servants, or told what was not true,—why, such
follies must be expected from children. Does not even the Bible say,
children go astray as soon as they are born?

Whether Miss Clarissa's training was such as to make her nieces and
nephews honor their father, and her who took the place of a mother;
whether it would render them "kindly affectionate one to another;"
whether it would make them lovers of truth; whether it would cause them
to become ornaments of society, loving their Creator, and endeavoring
to serve him,—we shall see as we proceed with their history.

Alice was called a handsome child. She had small regular features, a
pink and white complexion, and an abundance of soft, light hair, which
waved over her cheeks and neck. Her eyes were blue, but of so light a
shade, that they had the appearance of being faded. In disposition,
she was naturally amiable; and under judicious training, such as her
mother, had she lived, might have exercised, was capable of making a
useful, agreeable, but never a strong, character.

Ellen was the exact opposite of her sister, both in person and
disposition. She was a brunette, with dark flashing eyes, a low
forehead, and somewhat wide but laughing mouth. She was warm and
enthusiastic in her temperament, to a degree which astonished every
member of the family; strong and unyielding in her prejudices, keenly
alive to all the weaknesses of Aunt Clarissa's character, and ready
to take advantage of them for her own benefit. Being a very positive
character, she soon exercised a most decided influence over her more
yielding sister, and though three years younger, until Alice left for
school, was almost always appealed to in cases of doubt.

"Would you go to church? Would you wear that? Do you think this hat
looks well?"

If Alice was invited to go to a party, it took her a long time to
decide whether she would send a note of acceptance or regret; whether
she cared enough about it, to take the trouble to dress. In the midst
of her queries and uncertainties, Ellen would come in, and with her
decided, "I shall go," or "I shall not go," put an end at once to the
controversy.

Alice, without proper training, would become a negative, indolent young
lady; Ellen, an obstinate, self-willed, and passionate one.

From the many years of difference between Ellen and Joseph, an infant
brother having died between their ages, the boy was always petted and
indulged by all. He was what would be called a smart child, and his
sayings and doings were repeated and laughed at, until it was not
strange, he considered himself a wonderful personage.

It was Joseph's great ambition to be old; and if money could have
purchased him a dozen years, he would have given those around him no
peace until he had added them to his life; but as even Aunt Clarissa,
with all her desire that he should be gratified, could neither increase
his stature, nor present him the moon for a toy—he was obliged to
content himself with aping the dress and manners of a man. With this
intent, he would often steal into his father's bedroom, and, arraying
himself in stock and collar, would then mount his father's glasses on
his nose, seize his cane, and with a rude, swaggering air saunter into
the parlors.

"Joseph Saunders! I do believe there never was such a mischievous
child!" Aunt Clarissa would exclaim. "How dare you take a clean collar,
sir!" But at the same time, she would join most heartily in the shout
of mirth with which his appearance was greeted by the others.



CHAPTER II.

GRIEF OVER YOUNG LIARS.

MR. SAUNDERS was a moral man, strictly honorable in his dealings with
his fellow-men. He would have scorned the idea of cheating his patrons,
or any one with whom he had to do; because such conduct was, in his
opinion, mean and low. For a liar, he had the greatest contempt.
Imagine, then, his horror when he found that neither of his daughters
had the slightest regard for truth.

On one occasion he brought home a valuable book of engravings, lent him
by a friend. For a few days, he was so much occupied, he had no time to
examine it; but when he did, he found almost every page marred by marks
of dirty fingers. Mortified and chagrined, he called, first, Alice and
then Ellen, and holding up the volume, demanded an explanation. They
both denied having touched the book, or even having seen it, and looked
in his face, as they repeated the assertion, with such unblushing
effrontery, he could not believe them to be the guilty ones.

A few days later, he met a young man at the bookstore who was on
intimate terms in his family. Mr. Saunders was about purchasing a
duplicate of the volume which had been so mysteriously injured, when
the other remarked,—

"I told Ellen it was dangerous to handle a valuable book while eating
fruit."

"What do you mean?" inquired the gentleman, a bright flush spreading
all over his face. "Did you see Ellen with a book like this?"

The young man laughed.

"I had no idea I was telling tales," he said; "but I happened in
one day when you were not at home. The girls were earnest in their
admiration of the engravings, and in her zeal, Ellen pulled it from her
sister, though her hands were half full of fruit. Ask them; they will
tell you about it."

The father opened his pocket-book, laid down the price of the volume,
and walked out of the store without another word. Perhaps in all the
years since his wife died, he had never so forcibly realized the
responsibility which rested upon him as he did during that short walk.
What adepts in lying his daughters must have become, when they could so
entirely deceive him! His boy, too,—there was no knowing how soon he
would follow their example. Before he reached his own steps, his eyes
seemed for the first time open to the fact that Aunt Clarissa, however
excellent a housekeeper, was not equal to the moral training of his
children.

On entering the house, he sent for his daughters, and was deeply pained
to see how readily they reiterated the falsehood, and, even when he
convinced them he was aware of the fact that they had deceived him, how
little shame they exhibited at the detection. Indeed, they did not feel
that they had committed a grave offence, nor realize that not only had
they deceived a kind, indulgent parent, but had violated one of God's
holy commands, "Lie not one to another."

A sharp pang shot through the heart of Mr. Saunders, as he
remembered how entirely he had neglected to teach his children their
accountability to God. After a few words to them, expressing his
horror of their crime, he dismissed them abruptly, and passed the
next hour in forming resolutions for the future. He realized, for
the first time,—because circumstances had not heretofore brought the
subject before him,—that if they went on as they were now going, with
no counter-influences to check their impulses, they would be ruined.
Something must be done, and that at once, to change their whole course
of conduct.

If Mr. Saunders had been a Christian father, he would have reasoned
differently. He would have said, "My children are by nature sinful; the
seeds of corruption have begun to take root, and must be exterminated.
The grace of God and the constant instructions of his holy word alone
can do this. I will give them line upon line, and precept upon precept,
and pray for God's blessing upon the result."

But, as it was, he saw the evil, yet was puzzled as to the cure. That
night but little sleep came to his pillow, and the morning dawned with
only one advance upon the doubts of the preceding day, and that was a
resolve to consult a friend, who had several daughters of her own, as
to the course he had better pursue.

Mrs. Peters was a woman of the world. It was her ambition that her
children should excel and shine in society. She therefore was unwearied
in her devotion to what she considered their best interests. She would
have thought it a sin to omit one of their studies, or to remit an
hour of their daily penance of sitting with their feet in the stocks,
with their arms tightly braced back to give grace and vigor to their
frames. They were to be outwardly polished and beautiful; but she had
not given a thought to the fashioning of their souls in the image of
their Saviour. She condoled with Mr. Saunders, as to the state of
perplexity in which he found himself, and advised him at once to send
Alice to a fashionable boarding school, where she would be taught every
accomplishment, and where, of course, she would soon learn that lying
and all those things were very low and unladylike.

Though not entirely convinced by her reasoning, Mr. Saunders determined
to follow her advice, and in less than a month, Alice became a member
of Mrs. Lerow's celebrated school for young ladies, where for the
present we shall leave her.

Now that his attention had once been directed to the subject, the
gentleman watched closely his other daughter, and was pained to
perceive that, with many fine traits, she was growing up not only a
liar, but passionate and self-willed. It was evident she needed a firm,
careful hand to direct her physical and moral training for a few years.

Mrs. Saunders's sister was married and lived fifty miles in the
country. It had been her habit; ever since her sister's death, to
visit her brother-in-law once in a few years; and just at this time,
she wrote announcing her intention of spending a week in the city. The
gentleman was intensely relieved.

"She is just the person," he said to himself, "to have the charge of
Ellen. I wonder it did not occur to me before. It will be the saving of
the child, if her aunt will consent to take her."

Mrs. Collins had not been in the house many days, before she agreed
with her brother that his children needed a mother's careful, judicious
management. Ellen, ardent, impulsive as she was, had always been her
favorite; but she was deeply grieved to see how entirely the child was
wanting in moral and religious principle.

When Mr. Saunders first mentioned his wish of sending his daughter home
with her to remain for an indefinite period, she shrank from so great a
responsibility; but after making it a subject of prayer and direction
from her Father in heaven, she thought here was an opportunity to do
good which ought not to be neglected, even though it involved great
personal sacrifices.

There were some conditions, however, which she insisted upon as
essential to the well-being of Ellen. She should be entirely under her
aunt's influence, not even visiting home until her present habits of
deceit were so far eradicated that she would not be likely to return to
them; and that Mr. Saunders would co-operate with her in everything she
considered essential for the good of the child.

Ellen, herself, was in raptures at the proposed change. Mrs. Collins
prolonged her visit another week, in order that the necessary
preparations might be completed, and as, in the mean time, she
accompanied the lady on her shopping expeditions, and in many instances
had her own taste consulted in the choice of her dress, she expressed
herself as more happy than she had ever been in her life.



CHAPTER III.

ONE LIE LEADS TO ANOTHER.

BEFORE she left the city, Mrs. Collins remonstrated with her brother
upon the course of indulgence he was pursuing with Joseph, assuring him
that, if he persevered in it, the result might be more fatal even than
in the case of his daughters.

With all due respect to the excellencies of Aunt Clarissa, she
explained to him that her influence over the child was very injurious
indeed; that the lady was completely governed by him, and, except by
her words, never enforced, did not oppose him in anything. He paid no
more attention to her constant reminder:

"Joseph, don't let me know you to do so again!

"Joseph Saunders, I forbid you to go to my drawers!"

Than he did to the sighing and moaning of the autumnal wind. She
recommended that he be placed in a good school, where, for six hours
every day, he be under a proper influence and restraint, or that a
private governess be taken into the house.

How many times, in after years, did Mr. Saunders regret he had not
acted upon this last piece of advice!


Mrs. Collins resided in a quiet country town. Her husband was a
physician, and kept a small shop of medicines more for the convenience
of his neighbors than from any advantage which accrued to himself. They
had one son, who was at an academy pursuing studies preparatory to
entering college, and a daughter one year older than Alice.

There was but one church and society in the whole village, over which
the Reverend Mr. Allen had been settled for a score of years.

The district schoolhouse, where Mr. Collins's children had been
thoroughly taught the rudiments of knowledge, was but a short distance
from their home and to this the lady determined to send her niece.

For the winter term, a gentleman of high attainments had been engaged,
and Mary Collins, also, expected to become a pupil.

Though scarcely a day passed, without some trials with the impulsive,
untutored girl; yet her aunt hoped much from the silent influences
which surrounded her. From Mary, too, she expected great assistance by
inspiring in the mind of her cousin a love for virtue. This young girl
was an earnest, sincere Christian, and, though modest and unobtrusive
in her manners, extremely decided where principle was involved.

In the centre of the village, there was one large variety store,
sufficient to satisfy most of the wants of the residents. As Mr.
Saunders, without his sister's knowledge, had liberally supplied his
daughter with pocket-money, she used to invent a variety of excuses for
visiting the store, where she had seen one small shelf devoted to jars
of confectionery.

Mrs. Collins often wondered that her niece, when called to meals, felt
so little appetite for her food, not even suspecting that she had been
overloading her stomach with poisoned sweets obtained at the store.

After a few weeks, Ellen's money was gone, but not her sickly craving
for sweets. She felt convinced that her aunt would disapprove, if not
wholly forbid, her eating so much candy, and determined not to apply to
her. She now wished more than ever that she could write and direct a
letter by herself; for if so, she would beg her father or Aunt Clarissa
for means to gratify her appetite; but as she could not, she concluded
to run up a bill at the store, which she would be careful to pay with
the first remittance from her indulgent parent.

"I want six gibraltars, and six sticks of peppermint candy," she said,
one morning, to the young clerk, who stood smiling behind the counter.

He selected them as directed, folded them neatly in a small parcel, and
then held out his hand for the pay.

"Aunt Collins wants you to put what I buy on a bill, and my father will
pay it," she answered, with a somewhat heightened color.

"Stop a minute," he said, walking quickly to his master, who was at the
other end of the counter. "Well," he added coming back, "you must tell
me, though, what your father's name is. I suppose there is no doubt
your aunt said so," looking keenly in her face.

"No, indeed! She said you would trust me."

"Do you eat all this candy yourself?" inquired the clerk, gayly.

"Yes—no; I gave my cousin some; but she is not very fond of it."

This was lie the second, and Ellen, somewhat provoked, turned quickly
from the counter, lest she should be obliged to tell lie the third.

She broke open the parcel, took out one gibraltar, which did not taste
as sweet as usual, and crowded the rest into her pocket. Though she had
equivocated many times since she came to P—, she had not before told a
downright falsehood; and somehow, the thought of it troubled her. At
home it seemed natural to deceive; and then nobody had told her how
wicked it was.

"What an impudent fellow that is, to ask so many questions!" she
soliloquized. "I am almost sorry I did not leave the candy with him
after all. He may keep it if he is so afraid of losing his money. I
wish father would send me some; and I would pay his bill, and never buy
anything at his store again."

But all this did not satisfy her conscience, which was beginning to be
more enlightened. She had not listened, morning and evening, to her
uncle's prayer for strength to resist the temptations of our own hearts
to do evil, without some feeble desire for help to do likewise. She
had not been witness to the lovely, consistent conduct of her cousin,
without hoping at some future time to be like her. She had begun to
love her aunt and, indeed, the whole family; but she found herself
during the day returning short answer to their affectionate questions,
not daring to look them frankly in the face.

She had promised Mary that she would try to be good, and would ask her
heavenly Father to help her; but in the evening when she retired to her
room, and began to repeat the form of prayer she had learned, her heart
seemed to rise up in her throat and choke her. Covering her face with
her hands, she gave way to a passionate burst of grief and thus her
cousin found her.

"Why, Ellen!" she cried. "What has happened? Do let me comfort you."

But for some time the sobbing girl could not speak. Indeed, there was
a severe struggle going on within her. Conscience, awakened at last,
urged her to confess her fault, ask God, and then her aunt, to forgive
her. Next pride would plead, "What a fuss you are making for just a
little lie which can do no harm to any one. You bought the candy, and
mean to pay for it. You have told bigger lies a great many times, and
never cared about it."

Oh, how little Ellen then realized that the gracious Spirit of God was
hovering over her; that his influence was operating on her heart; that
if she resisted him, she might be left to work out her own ruin!

Mary kneeled by her side, affectionately pressing her cheek to her
cousin's wet one.

"Can't you tell me what it is?" she softly murmured.

"I—I don't feel well; I am not happy,—I can't say my prayers to-night."

"But why, dear cousin? You were singing merrily half an hour ago.
Has anything happened since? It is a sad thing when we cannot tell
our heavenly Father our troubles. You know praying is only talking
with God,—telling him our desires. If we have sinned, we confess it
to him as we would to an earthly parent, only we do it more readily,
as we know he is more ready to forgive. He says, 'Like as a father
pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him.' You feel
sure your father loves you. Mother has often told me how tender and
indulgent he is. But your heavenly Father is infinitely more so. He
sees you all the time, and knows just what your temptations have been;
and the moment he sees you are sorry, he is ready to forgive."

Ellen started up and looked eagerly in her cousin's face. "How has she
found out that I have been tempted?" was the question which alarmed her.

But Mary returned the glance so kindly, she was relieved, and saying to
herself, "After all, what's the use of feeling so. I never mean to tell
another lie," she laughed hysterically, as she sprang to her feet.

"Come, Ellen, sit by me while I read my evening chapter."

Mary went on, not at all deceived by her appearance, and opening her
Testament, she read the thrilling account of the prodigal son returning
to his father.

"Is it true?" asked Ellen, sighing deeply.

"Christ told his disciples this parable," answered Mary, "to show poor
sinners how willing God is to forgive them. It is true that many,
many poor prodigals have gone astray from their Father's house, have
offended against his holy laws, and have found that where they expected
pleasure, they only met with pain, sorrow, and weariness of heart.
When oppressed with poverty and want,—at last they remembered that in
the home they had left there was plenty; and with penitence for their
sin, in so foolishly throwing away their blessings, they arise at last
and say, 'I will go to my Father, confess my fault, and be happy once
more.'"

Ellen began to pick the trimming on her apron, her countenance looking
very thoughtful.

Mary slowly closed the book, and putting her arm around her cousin,
said, softly,—

"You and I, dear girl, and all mankind, are sinners before God. Our
sinful hearts have led us far away from home; but we shall never know
peace until we return to him with the prayer of the prodigal on our
lips:

   "'Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no
more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants,
even the lowest place in thy kingdom is far more than I deserve.'"

For a few moments they sat in profound silence, then Ellen, without a
word, undressed herself and retired to her couch, while her cousin,
checking a sigh of disappointment, went quietly from the room.



CHAPTER IV.

TROUBLE FROM LYING.

NOTWITHSTANDING, Ellen's sorrow at the commission of so grave a fault,
which she vainly tried to convince herself was a very trifling one,
the temptation a few days after proved too much for her, and she added
to her bill at the store by the purchase of twenty-five cents' worth
of candy and lozenges. This way of gratifying her sickly appetite for
sweets proved so easy, that she resorted to it again and again, until
the clerk informed her she owed nearly five dollars.

"Five dollars!" was the poor child's frightened exclamation. "The story
of five dollars,—it can't be true! You have not counted it right."

The clerk laughed, though he blushed too.

"See," he said, "how often you have had twenty-five cents' worth, and
it only takes four times that to make one dollar. If you don't like
large bills, you had better pay this before it comes to be larger. Mrs.
Collins never allows anything for herself to be charged."

"I will write a letter to my father to-day," exclaimed the distressed
girl. "He gives me as much spending money as I want."

"Very well," answered the young man, "I dare say it will be all right;
you don't look like a young miss who would run up a bill without the
means of paying it."

Vexed with the clerk for the insinuating smile which accompanied his
words, and more angry with herself for having given him the opportunity
to speak so familiarly, she hastily returned home.

With a weight on her heart, she walked slowly along, ever and anon
saying to herself, "What shall I do? I think it's real mean in Aunt
Collins not to give me money, and then I should not have to run up a
bill." Upon each member of the family in turn did she try to affix the
blame which conscience told her belonged only to herself.

Hurrying up to her own chamber, she stealthily drew a sheet of paper
from her cousin's desk. Under other circumstances, she would have
begged her aunt for what she needed; but the fear that she would be
asked what she wanted of paper led her to the commission of another
crime; so true it is that one sin leads to many others.

With a lead pencil, which she was obliged to wet continually, the point
was so blunt, Ellen rapidly wrote, or rather scrawled, a few lines to
Aunt Clarissa,—for to her she had concluded the application must be
made,—in which, in words badly spelled, she expressed her desire for
some money; she did not care how much, only it must be more than five
dollars.

She now considered it fortunate that the post office was kept at the
store; for she had concluded to ask the clerk to direct and post it for
her. This was another humiliation to which her falsehood had subjected
her; and her cheeks burned as she made the request.

"Ah!" said he, with a coarse laugh. "Aunt Collins is not to know all we
do."

Ellen was too angry to reply, and turned away with a toss of her head;
but presently remembering she was still in his power, went back to say,
"When my letter comes, I will pay your money at once;—and never have
anything more to do with you," she muttered to herself, as she went
abruptly out of the store.

"Oh, how very unhappy I am!" she soliloquized, as with slow and
faltering steps she made her way home. "I mean to tell aunt I am
homesick, and had rather live with father."

She sighed heavily, and forcibly restrained her tears, as conscience
reminded her of a passage occurring in her last Sunday's lesson: "The
way of transgressors is hard."

"But I used to be a great deal worse than I am now," she went on, "and
I thought nothing about it. I used to tell lies all the time; and
take Aunt Clarissa's cake and jellies, which Mary considers as bad as
stealing."

"The prodigal son revelled in sin," again suggested the inward monitor,
"and thought not of his folly; but by and by he began to mourn over it,
and then he desired to return to duty."

"Well, I've suffered so much, that if I ever get out of this, I shall
know better than to get myself into trouble again. At any rate, I can't
help it now."

Then a voice whispered, "Why not confess to your aunt; ask her to
settle with the storekeeper, and restore your self-respect?"

"Oh, no, that would be too mortifying! I could not bear my uncle or
Mary to know how foolish I have been."

Now it so happened that the continued want of appetite for wholesome
food had begun to excite the serious anxiety of Mrs. Collins. She
consulted her husband, who suspected at once she was or had been in the
habit of eating confectionery.

"But isn't it strange the effect should continue?" inquired the lady.
"I am sure she has eaten none since she came to P—."

"I think you may be mistaken, mother," suggested Mary, who was present.
"I have often seen her with candy; and she has occasionally offered me
some. One day I joked her about her excessive fondness for it; and she
seemed very much confused, but said that her Aunt Clarissa always gave
her as much as she wished."

"Where can she obtain it?" asked the lady, in great surprise. "She
has no money. At least, none that I am aware of. Her father gave me a
generous sum for the supply of every want; but as I thought her too
young and untaught to use it properly herself, I requested him not to
allow her spending money. Perhaps her companions have given her some."

Mary smiled, as she answered, "I cannot say; and unless I had heard
you express a fear lest she was injuring her health, I should not have
mentioned having seen her eat candy."

"I have noticed of late that she was more petulant," added Mrs.
Collins, after a brief pause, in which a painful suspicion shot through
her mind; "it may be that something troubles her conscience."

Mary was silent. Not even to her mother had she felt at liberty to
relate the incident which had occurred many weeks before, when Ellen
wept so bitterly. She was just debating the question, whether she ought
to do so, when the young girl entered. They both noticed that she was
excited; her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were crimson.

"Come here, my dear!" exclaimed the lady, a sudden gush of tenderness
toward the motherless child for a moment overpowering her. "We were
just talking of you, and we think you are neither as well in health,
nor as happy, as when you first came to us. We love you, dear Ellen,
and thought we could make you happy; but if we cannot, perhaps we ought
to send you back to your father."

Ellen eagerly caught her aunt's hand, and pressed it to her lips. Oh,
how she longed to throw herself into her kind arms, and confess all!

"If I only had Aunt Clarissa's letter, with money enough to pay the
bill, I would do so," she thought; "but I fear she would despise me."

Don't blame this child too much, reader. You perhaps have always been
watched by a tender Christian mother, who has kindly pointed out your
faults, and taught you that the first step toward curing was to confess
them. Aunt Clarissa had taken the best care of which she was capable
of her body; had seen her well, even fashionably, clothed, but had
never inquired into the state of her heart; while her father, busied
in acquiring wealth for his children, had wholly neglected their
moral culture until, frightened at the result, he shrank from the
responsibility he had incurred.

Mrs. Collins waited patiently for her niece to speak: but though Ellen
kept repeating the words, "It is not your fault that I am not well.
I do love you dearly!" Yet she gave no reason for her too evident
unhappiness.

"I must inquire more particularly into this. There is something I do
not understand," the lady said to her daughter as, with a sudden start,
Ellen left the room.

In the evening, as the family, including Frank, who had just returned
from school, were seated around the table, Mary entered, portfolio in
hand. "Ellen," she said, with an anxious flush, "have you taken a piece
of paper from my drawer?"

The young girl started, gave one searching glance into her cousin's
face, and then faltered, "No, I haven't."

"You are welcome to as much paper as you wish," she added,
misunderstanding the expression of distress; "but I have lost one sheet
on which I had made a memorandum of books my teacher gave me. I have
searched every place I can think of, but I cannot find it; and I was so
sure I put it in my portfolio."

It was with the greatest difficulty the poor girl could refrain from
screaming aloud. She bent over her book to hide her tears, while Mrs.
Collins gazed in astonishment.

"Come to the side table, Nelly," at length exclaimed Frank, breaking
the awkward pause which ensued. "Let's play a game of checkers. I know
just how you feel," he added, in a low voice, when they had arranged
the board.

She started, and blushed violently.

"I mean when Mary asked you if you had taken her paper. Our master at
school missed his gold pencil from his desk, and a pretty piece of work
he made of it. When the school were all seated for prayers, he spoke
out in a solemn tone and told us what he had lost, and asked whether
any of the scholars had seen it. He began at the back row, and cast
his eyes along through every desk. When he came to me, I couldn't help
it to save my life, but I turned as red as fire, just as you did when
Mary asked you. I was vexed that I had made such a fool of myself; but
when the scholars saw how long the master's eye rested on me, they all
looked at me until, like a great booby, the tears came right into my
eyes. I choked and choked, but it was no go. Master said no more. He
thought he'd found the thief. After school, he called me, and asked,—

"'Collins, have you anything to confess?'

"'No, sir,' I answered; and I could feel my cheeks burn again.

"'Not about my pencil?'

"'No, sir; I never have seen it, that I know of.'

"'You may go,' he said, in an awful, stern voice."

"But hadn't you really seen it?" asked Ellen, eagerly.

"Seen it? No, indeed! Do you suppose I'd steal and lie too?"

This was said with such a tone of honest indignation, that the young
girl's heart beat furiously; but she presently comforted herself that
he supposed her innocent.

"Two days after," Frank went on, "master found his pencil in an old
vest pocket, and he made an apology to the school."

"I am vexed with myself," Ellen heard Mary say, "that I did not take
better care of my memorandum! I am ashamed to ask my teacher again; it
seems so careless!"

"I don't believe you like to play checkers," said Frank. "You have made
a false move twice, and I've had to take your king."

"I don't feel like playing to-night," she said, softly; "my head aches
so hard." And to his surprise, she rose suddenly and left the room.

"That's polite!" exclaimed the youth, trying to conceal his vexation,
as he deliberately restored the checkers to the box.

Ellen ran to her own room, and throwing herself on the bed, wept as if
her heart would break.

"Oh, what a dreadful day this has been!" she kept repeating. "How
little I thought when I bought that first candy that it would ever make
me do so many wicked things! Mary and Frank will hate me when they find
out I have deceived them; and I fear God will hate me too," she added,
with a fresh burst of tears. "Oh! Will he ever forgive me?"



CHAPTER V.

THE LIAR DETECTED.

"I DIDN'T tell you the whole of my story last night," said Frank, as
the next morning, Ellen, pale and sad, seated herself in the window
to study her lesson. "Mr. Taylor is a real good teacher, though he is
awfully strict. As soon as he found his pencil just where he had left
it, he thought, I suppose, that he had suspected me without cause, or
rather because I was silly enough to blush upon being asked a simple
question.

"He took occasion to give the whole school a lecture on circumstantial
evidence, and proved, by some good anecdotes, how unsafe a mode of
judging it was. Why, some men have been hanged, being judged by
circumstantial evidence; and afterwards they were found to be innocent.
When he had done, he alluded to the pencil again, and said he had known
some persons with such a tender conscience that the simple fact of
their being questioned would cause them to show all the signs of guilt.
I guess I blushed some then; for all the scholars smiled as they looked
at me, and Mr. Taylor looked in my face and smiled too. So you see, I
knew just how to pity you last night. But, of course, Mary is glad to
give you paper and pens, too, whenever you want them."

"Oh, how I wish he would never speak another word about it!" thought
Ellen, almost ready to cry again.

"Mary is a dear, good sister!" cried Frank, gayly, determined, if
possible, to win a smile from his cousin before he left her.

"So she is!" was the earnest response. "She is just as kind to me as if
she were my sister, too. But I must study my lesson now."

It took but one day for a letter from P— to reach the city, and one
day for an answer to be returned; so that, when at the close of the
third day, Ellen had received neither answer nor money, her anxiety
and restlessness were almost more than she could endure. Her feverish
appearance attracted the attention of her uncle. He called her to him
to feel her pulse, ordered her to take a cup of weak tea and go to bed.

The next morning, however, all was explained. On his way to visit his
first patient, he called at the post office and took out a letter to
his wife from her brother-in-law, Mr. Saunders. There was something
peculiar in the appearance of the envelope, and he hastily tore it
open, hoping it enclosed a note for Ellen, which would bring back her
old gayety: for the doctor was almost as much vexed as his wife at the
sad change in their young guest.

The clerk who had noticed the postmark, and was interested in the
result, saw the doctor change color and, after a brief glance at an
enclosed paper, shut his lips firmly together, and leave the store.

When he was in his sulky, the doctor unfolded the letter again, when
his eye fell upon a pencilled memorandum, "Abercrombie's Mental
Philosophy, page 50, etc., etc."

"The girl is a liar, too," he muttered. "Here is the sheet Mary lost.
Whew! Gibraltars, sticks of candy, lozenges, to the amount of five
dollars. No wonder the child looks pale and has the headache. Well,
what does her father say to such a bill?" He slackened his pace and
read:

   "MY DEAR SISTER,—The enclosed note came to hand yesterday morning.
   It was directed, as you see, to Aunt Clarissa, who would gladly
   have sent the money, and kept the knowledge of the letter from me.
   But I insisted on seeing it. I presume Ellen is not quite cured
   of her old habit of deceit, and has run up this bill without your
   knowledge. I enclose the amount, but wish you to do just as you
   think proper about paying it. The sight of the miserable, poorly
   spelled scrawl makes me blush for my daughter's ignorance.

   "We all are well, though Joseph grows every day more wilful. What
   shall I do with the boy? It seems hard that I must deprive myself
   of the society of all my children, or see them growing up to be a
   curse to themselves, and to everybody who belongs to them.

                     "Your affectionate brother,
                                    "JOSEPH SAUNDERS."

"There is a document which will help you to solve a mystery," remarked
Dr. Collins to his wife, about the middle of the forenoon.

"Poor child! I feared something of this," was the tearful reply, after
the lady had slowly perused both the enclosed letters. "Oh, how my
sister would have grieved over her! The lost memorandum too! Oh, Ellen!
Cannot you learn to be frank and truthful?"

"From Mr. Saunders's note, I fear one lesson will not suffice for him.
Did you notice what he said about his boy?"

"Yes," she answered, sighing. "His father's neglect and Aunt Clarissa's
indulgence will prove his ruin."

"Well, about Ellen, I would make a serious matter of this want of
confidence. The child has been unhappy no doubt, as she deserved to be;
but I would not pay the money too readily."

"If there was any way in which she could earn it, the lesson would be
more lasting," exclaimed Mrs. Collins, eagerly.

After her husband left, the lady retired to her chamber, where, upon
her knees, she sought counsel of her heavenly Father in regard to this
case of discipline. By this exercise, her own feelings were softened,
so that when Ellen returned from school, she was able to receive her
with affection, a mode of treatment which cut the penitent child to the
heart.

Mrs. Collins still hoped that the young girl would confess her fault.
Little did she suspect the dreadful struggle between conscience and
pride which was going on in the breast of her niece; but after waiting
until evening, she followed the child to her chamber, where she found
her with her head resting on her arm, the tears trickling down her
cheeks. Stooping tenderly forward, the lady said,—

"Ellen, as the child of my dear sister, I love you. It grieves me to
see you so unhappy. Cannot you tell me frankly what has caused this sad
change?"

"Don't speak so, aunt; it makes me cry more. If you would only be cross
with me, I could bear it a great deal better; but I have been very
wicked! I—I don't deserve to have you love me!"

"I know all about it, my poor child,—your letter to Aunt Clarissa, and
all; but I would have you confess your fault."

Ellen sprang to her foot. "Has she sent me the money?" she almost
screamed. "Oh, if she has, and I can but pay that hateful bill, I am
sure I never shall be so wicked again."

"No, Ellen; she has not answered your letter; your father enclosed it
in one to me."

The child's countenance fell again.

"I will advance you the money," rejoined her aunt, "and will accompany
you to the store to pay your bill, on one condition,—that you promise
me never to repeat this offence. Afterwards you can earn it and repay
me."

"I have been too miserable ever to do so again," faltered the poor
girl; "and Mary's paper too; did you know about that?"

"Yes, here it is. Now what shall I do? Cut off this pencilled slip at
the top, and lay it in Mary's portfolio, where she will no doubt find
it; or will you tell her frankly that you took it, and was betrayed
into deceiving her?"

Ellen hesitated, cast down her eyes, blushing crimson, but presently
exclaimed, "I will tell her; I feel so much happier already, now that
you know it! Oh, aunt," throwing her arms about the lady's neck. "I
do mean to try to be good! If I thought I could ever be like Mary!—It
seems so easy for her to do right."

She drew a low stool to her aunt's feet, and there in her own impulsive
manner gave an account of her temptation and of her sin,—how one lie
led to many others until she found herself entangled in difficulties
from which she saw no way of escape. Many tears showed how bitterly she
had suffered; but the bright flush of pleasure with which, when she had
ended, she said, "Now I have told you all, I am so happy!" encouraged
Mrs. Collins to believe that having once learned the delight resulting
from a frank confession of her fault, she would never be guilty of the
like deception again.

"Does uncle know about it?" she asked, as her aunt tenderly parted her
hair on her forehead.

"Yes; he brought me the letter. He will rejoice as sincerely as I do
that we have found our own light-hearted Ellen, again."

"And Frank, has he heard it too?"

"Not a syllable. You shall do as you please about telling him."

She covered her face with her hands; there was a quick gasp, and then
she said, firmly:

"Will you come with me now while I have courage?"

Frank's look of astonishment as Ellen, with burning cheeks, repeated
her sad story was, perhaps, the severest punishment she had borne.
From his cradle, he had been taught to despise a liar as too mean and
cowardly to be endured; but when, with a burst of feeling, she ended
with the words, "You know I had never been taught how wicked it was,
till I came here," there was an instant revulsion of feeling, and with
boyish enthusiasm, he exclaimed,—

"I'm real sorry for you, Nelly, but I think you're a trump after all to
confess it now. I'm going to forget all about it right off; and we'll
all help you to be a first-rate truthful girl. Wont we, Mary?"

"Yes, indeed!" said his sister, her lips quivering. "I love you, dear
Ellen, better than ever; for I believe you are really penitent."

"Just as the good father did his prodigal son," said the humbled girl,
smiling through her tears; "but do you know I took your paper too. You
never can imagine how it pained me to tell you that lie. As soon as you
spoke, I remembered seeing something written on the sheet; but I dared
not say so; I was afraid. You see I didn't know then how much easier it
would be to tell the truth right out."

"But you'll know after this," interrupted Frank. "The only way is if
you've done wrong to get it off your mind at once."

Ellen laughed. "I haven't felt so well for a month," she said.

"You'll be lucky though, if father doesn't give you a dose of jalap, or
castor oil to cure you of too much candy," added the boy, merrily.

"That wouldn't be half so bad as bearing this pain all alone;" and
Ellen put her hand to her heart.

"Come with me, child," said her aunt, leading the way to her own
chamber.



CHAPTER VI.

FASHIONABLE LIES.

"IT is not very late," said Mrs. Collins, "and I want to talk with you
a little more before you go to bed."

Ellen took her aunt's hand and pressed it against her own cheek.

"It is right for us to confess to each other," she added, solemnly;
"but there is a duty still higher than that. The sin against me or
your cousin is nothing compared with the sin against your heavenly
Father. He has given us a terrible instance of his displeasure against
liars, in the punishment of Ananias and Sapphira. You know they owned
property which they sold, and pretended to give all the proceeds to the
disciples. As Peter told them, they need not have sold the property.
If they chose, they had a perfect right to keep it; and after they had
sold it, they would have been justified in retaining the money for
their own use; their sin was in pretending that they gave all they
obtained from the sale for charitable purposes, while in fact they only
gave part and kept back the rest. When the apostle asked whether they
had sold the land for so much, they said, 'Yes, for so much,' lying not
only to him, but to God. Their instant death is an awful warning to
those who depart from the truth, or speak lies, as the Bible terms it."

Ellen shuddered. "I have always told lies," she said, softly; "Alice
does, and Joseph and Aunt Clarissa too."

"That is a grave charge, my dear."

"Well, she does. She often tells Joseph, 'I'll certainly let your
father know if you behave so, tumbling up all his clean clothes, or
meddling with my baskets!' But she never does tell him; and we all know
she never means too. Isn't that lying? Then she tells the chamber-girl
if she doesn't sweep cleaner, she'll dismiss her right off; but the
girl only laughs. She's heard it so many times, she don't believe a
word of it. So that is lying.

"And one day," she went on, eagerly, "a lady called, and asked aunt to
visit her; and Aunt Clarissa told her that every day, for a week, she
had been meaning to call. After the lady had gone, Alice said,—

"'I don't see why you like that lady so.'

"'I don't like her at all,' aunt replied. 'She runs round all the time
and neglects her family.'

"'Well,' cried Alice, 'you told her you meant to go and see her all
last week.'

"'Oh, dear!' said Aunt Clarissa. 'I only told her that, not to offend
her.'

"Alice laughed, as she said, 'I suppose that's what you call a
fashionable lie.'"

"I am both sorry and grieved," sadly remarked Mrs. Collins, "that the
children of my dear Sarah should have been exposed to such influences.
Fashionable lies, white lies, lies of convenience; or by whatever other
name they are called, are in God's word all classed under one head,
against which this fearful penalty is pronounced: 'All liars shall have
their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone; which is
the second death.' Among the seven crimes which God specifies as things
which he hates, he classes the lying tongue and repeatedly avers, 'he
that speaketh lies shall not escape.'

"You will see, at once, that a child or man who is known to speak
falsely is never believed. They soon become despised of their fellows;
even when they do speak the truth, no one is willing to take their
word; and thus they not only merit the displeasure of their Maker, and
expose themselves to his dreadful curse, but their object in telling
lies is destroyed, since their very oath is disregarded."

"Dear aunt," softly murmured Ellen, "do you think God will forgive me?
I never knew before what a dreadful sin lying is."

"We will ask him, my dear. We know—and how blessed is that
assurance—that his word never fails."

Together they knelt, while Mrs. Collins implored the blessing and favor
of God upon her penitent niece, poor Ellen's sobs bearing witness to
the depth of her sorrow for sin. She prayed, too, that grace from above
might be given the young girl, to assist her in keeping the resolutions
she had formed; and that at last she might become perfect through the
blood of her crucified Saviour.

The next morning Ellen arose early, and after begging a sheet of
note-paper of her cousin, sat down to write a letter of confession to
her father.

Mary was greatly pleased that the proposal came from herself; but
suggested that she should make a first copy on the slate, where it
could be corrected, and then written neatly on the paper.

For the next hour, the young girl bent all her energies to this task,
and when, at the breakfast-table, she exhibited her epistle to her
aunt, the lady gave it her decided and smiling approval.

The young girl felt that there was an especial meaning in the doctor's
prayer that morning, and also in the tenderness with which he afterward
patted her head, as he said,—

"God bless you, my dear girl, and help you to be a blessing to others."

With her heart swelling with gratitude for this unexpected kindness,
Ellen took her books from her satchel and began to study her lesson.

Frank presently approached and said, gayly, "How bright and happy you
look to-day! I began to be afraid, yesterday, that I shouldn't like
you. I thought you were dumpish and moping; but now I think I shall
like you first-rate, almost as much as I do Mary."

"Please remember, my son," remarked his mother, with a smile, "that you
are not now under oath to tell all the truth."

The boy laughed aloud; but Ellen looked puzzled.

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

"Well, Frank knows, which is enough for this morning. Some other time I
will explain my meaning to you. You have but little more than an hour
for your lessons."

"I hate sums!" she exclaimed, presently. "And I don't see how
four-sixteenths and two-eights, and ever so many more fractions, are to
be reduced to a common denominator."

"Let me help you!" cried Frank. "I'll make it as clear as noon-day, as
our master says."

"Oh, I do see! I understand now," she cried, gayly clapping her hands,
after his patient and repeated explanation. "I see how they're done.
They're just as easy—"

"As 'tis for puss to lick her tail, when you once know how," said
Frank, with mock gravity. "Now you can do them on the run."

"You had better run, then," suggested his mother, "and leave her to
herself."

"I'll go and post Ellen's letter."

"Ellen Saunders, perfect recitation," repeated the teacher as the class
were leaving their seats.

The young girl smiled and looked so pleased that the lady, who had
heretofore considered her a dull scholar, detained her a moment for a
few questions.

"Did you do the answers by yourself?"

"Yes, ma'am," was the unhesitating, self-complacent reply. "They were
very easy at last."

She was turning away, when with a sudden start she said, eagerly, "My
Cousin Frank helped me do the first one and explained the rule, else I
don't think I could have done them at all."

The lady smiled approvingly, and Ellen, turning to go too her seat, met
the kind glance of Mary, and felt a thrill of pleasure such as she had
not experienced for many a day.

In the evening they were scarcely seated around the cheerful fire,
before Ellen began,—

"What did you mean, Aunt Collins, about it not being right to tell all
the truth?"

"That's a strange doctrine for you to advance, my dear," said the
doctor, glancing archly at his wife.

"I think I did not say exactly that, Ellen," answered the lady. "Though
we ought always to speak the truth, if we speak at all; yet we are not
bound to tell all we know, upon any subject. For instance; if a lady
should call here whom you thought extremely disagreeable, and very
homely; and Frank should ask you what you thought of her, it would be
enough for you to say, you did not admire her. That would be the truth,
but not all the truth."

"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Ellen, her eyes flashing with merriment. "I need
not say, as Aunt Clarissa sometimes does, 'What a sallow complexion!'
or, 'What a very homely nose!' or 'How wretchedly her dress fitted!'
Though I might think it all the time."

"Or, I need not say," cried Frank, with mock gravity, "'Ellen, how red
your lips are!' or, 'How your eyes sparkle!' or, 'What a pretty white
hand you have!' Though I might think it all the time; but if I said so,
it might make you vain, you know."

"In a court of justice," said Dr. Collins, "a person is put upon oath,
that is, he promises before God, in whose presence he stands, to speak
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. In that case,
if Frank were asked what he thought of the personal appearance of his
cousin, he might be obliged to repeat what he has just said, however
painful such testimony would be."

The doctor glanced so comically at his niece when he said this, that,
notwithstanding her blushes, she burst into a hearty laugh.

"Did you know, Ellen," inquired Mary, after a pause, "that a person can
tell a lie, and yet not speak a word?"

"Oh, no, indeed! I thought a person must speak in order to lie. I'm
sure I—"

She hesitated, colored, and stopped, while Mary, to relieve her, went
on quickly,—

"Yes; mother explained that to me a long time ago."

"First tell me, Ellen," said her aunt, "what is a lie?"

The young girl shook her head, while Frank, in rather a condescending
tone, explained,—

"That which is not true, of course."

"I beg pardon, my son," suggested the doctor, smiling. "Suppose, for
instance, Mrs. Holmes, whom I left very ill, should die suddenly,
without my knowledge. Your mother asks, 'Is Mrs. Holmes living?' I say,
'Yes;' and I say it honestly, believing it to be true; and yet it may
not be true after all. Still I do not tell a lie."

"What is a lie, then, sir?"

"A lie is an intention to deceive. The words are spoken, or the motions
made, for the purpose of deceiving. If, as Mary says, not a word is
spoken, by a nod of assent, or a shake of the head, you may give and
intend to give a false impression, and thus be guilty of lying."

"Do you remember, father," asked Mary, "how dreadfully Abby Jones's
brother was whipped at school, because she nodded her head to assure
the teacher that he took her dinner out of the pail?"

"Yes; they had quarrelled, and she had threatened to be revenged on
him. So when the teacher, who had forbidden such thefts, repeatedly
questioned her as to her brother's fault, and whether he did it, she,
by a nod, gave her testimony against him."

"Oh, what an ugly girl!" exclaimed Ellen, warmly.

"But you are not under oath, and therefore, not obliged to say all you
think of her conduct," whispered Frank, with a laugh.

"I hope I never shall tell another lie as long as I live," was the
earnest rejoinder. "I wish somebody would talk to Alice, and explain to
her how wicked it is."



CHAPTER VII.

SCHOOL LIES.

"FATHER," asked Alice Saunders, on the evening of her return from
school for a short vacation, "when is Ellen coming home? It seems very
odd to be without her."

"I cannot tell, my dear; probably not for a long time. Your aunt writes
a very favorable account of her improvement. Among other things she
says, 'I can trust her word most implicitly.'"

There was the slightest shade of contempt upon Alice's placid face, as
she answered, "That is high praise from Aunt Collins."

Poor Alice!—Poor in all the heart's rich treasures, though beautiful in
person, and fairy like in figure. In the fashionable boarding school
where she had passed six months, she had been taught many things; but
a strict adherence to truth was not among her accomplishments. She had
acquired a more correct pronunciation of the French language; could
dance with singular grace; could enter a room filled with company with
the ease and polish of a lady of thirty; could write an acceptance or
regret to a party with taste and elegance, and without any special
violation of the rules of rhetoric,—but, alas! In all that pertained to
the true, stern discipline of mind, or that regarded her moral culture,
she was, if possible, more ignorant than ever.

Thrown into the society of half a hundred young misses, whose only aim
seemed to be to outshine each other in dress or fashion; with teachers
whose main ambition seemed to be to give, with a smattering of many
kinds of knowledge, that superior ease and grace of manners which the
papers ascribed to the pupils of Mrs. Lerow; every sentiment of virtue,
or the stern principles of right, seemed to be blunted, while nothing
really valuable was acquired.

One thing Alice, in common with most of her companions, had learned;
and that was to sneer at, or hold in contempt, those persons who had
a higher standard of morals than her own. The Bible, too, although
her mother's favorite book, was considered old-fashioned and rigid,
containing a code of laws which were to the present generation a kind
of dead letter and of no manner of importance.

The Sabbath and the sanctuary she had learned to regard as golden
opportunities to display the rich, fashionably made dress with which,
at the suggestion of Mrs. Lerow, her father so abundantly supplied her.

On the evening of her arrival at home, her father gazed at her with
pride, and expressed his satisfaction at her evident improvement in the
warmest terms; which opinion Alice took calmly, as praise to which she
was justly entitled.

The next day, however, when he took advantage of her return to invite a
few acquaintances to dine, he was pained and humiliated by her pertness
and affectation. There was such an effort to show off before the young
gentlemen of the party the knowledge she had so recently acquired,—such
art, in even the tossing of her head, or the languishing expression
of her eyes, that, fearing she would disgust his friends as she had
disgusted him, he suddenly gave Aunt Clarissa a hint to move from the
dining hall to the parlors.

But when a young man invited her to sing, he was more displeased than
ever; she had been, she said, so much occupied in her studies; she had
practised so little; her music was not yet unpacked; and her voice was
affected by a cold.

Her manner of saying all this made it too evident that she wished to be
urged; but her father, who, though talking with one of the guests, was
attentive to all that was passing, abruptly interfered, saying,—

"Well, my daughter, it is of very little consequence whether you sing
now; Madame—, the celebrated singer, is in town, and we shall, no
doubt, all have a chance to hear some really fine music."

On returning to his house the next day for dinner, he heard Alice
talking over the stairs to a servant.

"What did she say?"

"She left her card, miss, and was sorry you were not in."

The peculiar smile on the servant's countenance arrested Mr. Saunders's
attention.

"What is it?" he asked his daughter, in a grave tone.

"Miss Huntington called; and as I was not dressed for company, I sent
word 'not at home.'"

"Margaret," said the gentleman, turning to the servant, "the next time
you obey an order which obliges you to tell a falsehood, I wish you
to come to me for your wages. I will have no one in my house who will
carry a message like that."

"Thank you, sir, and my mother will thank you, too," answered Margaret,
blushing with pleasure.

"Alice," sternly remarked Mr. Saunders when he had followed her to a
parlor upstairs. "Where have you learned to deceive, and to teach your
servants to deceive?"

She blushed a little, but said, directly,—

"Oh, papa! It is the most common thing in the world—I mean in genteel
society—to send word you are not at home; it is understood to mean that
you are engaged."

"Then why not say so? Why put lies into your servants' mouths? Don't
you see that if you teach them to lie for you, they will soon learn to
lie to you?"

"You use such dreadful words, papa, you quite frighten me; I'm sure I
never thought I was doing the least harm."

"I use the right words, Alice. I am cut to the heart to see that, after
all the money I have paid for your education, you should be so devoid
of the first principles of honor."

He sighed deeply, as he walked to the window, revolving in his mind
a plan to send her also, to her Aunt Collins; but, recalled to the
present by the dinner-bell, he added,—

"I wish you to understand, Alice, that I will not allow such a system
of deception in my house. Margaret has already been notified that one
more occasion like that I witnessed, and she leaves her place."

This was plain talk in plain words; and Alice put up her lip with an
ugly pout. She did not appear at dinner until her father and aunt
were nearly through the first course, and then rendered herself so
disagreeable that Joseph called out,—

"Pa, I wish you'd have company every day; Alice acts better when
gentlemen are here to see her do so." And he rolled his eyes so exactly
in imitation of her action the previous day, that Aunt Clarissa and
even her father laughed aloud.

During the weeks which followed, there was scarcely a day passed
without proving to Mr. Saunders the entire recklessness of his
daughter in regard to the truth. One day he came home and entered
the back parlor while she was entertaining a friend in the front one
with reminiscences of school life. They were so much engaged they did
not notice his entrance, but amid shouts of mirth went on with their
conversation.

"But did not Mrs. Lerow require you to study very hard?" asked the
visitor.

"Oh, no, indeed!" was the laughing reply. "We had our exercises, of
course; but we generally contrived to copy them from one another. Why,
half the last term I had my answers written on a paper I held inside
my handkerchief; at last the class-teacher mistrusted something from
my always being so correct, and asked me up and down whether I had
committed the lesson. I told her, of course, I had. It was only a white
lie, you know, and everybody tells white lies."

"You remind me of an old lady who visited us last week," rejoined
the young girl. "She heard me telling a story at the table, and then
repeating it to some callers in the evening. I suppose I did not
remember to use exactly the same words, and—do you think she had the
impertinence to tell me I had been guilty of falsehood! I excused
myself, saying, as you did, 'Everybody tells little lies, or white
lies, in these days.'

"'No, my dear,' she said, 'not everybody; I could name several, and
among them, some you would call the most polished ladies in the city,
who would not, for their right hand, tell a lie, white or black.
Truth—simple, unvarnished truth—is their motto, and a beautiful motto
it is, such as I wish every young and every old lady would abide by.'

"'But you must own,' I said, 'that almost all fashionable people tell
what is called white lies?'

"'I acknowledge that it is far too common,' she went on. 'We are
becoming corrupt and unprincipled as a nation; but I will give you one
instance where a white lie, and a very innocent one, as the young lady
called it, was the means of breaking off a match between two persons
who before that had been sincerely attached to each other.'

"The story is an affecting one; and if you like, I'll repeat it to you."

"Do," returned Alice; "I have a curiosity to hear it."

"'You remember,' she went on, 'that pale, intellectual lady you saw
riding with me last week?'

"I had noticed her particularly, for she was very beautiful, though so
sickly; and I told her so.

"'She was a gay belle ten years ago; no party was thought perfect
without her presence. She was amiable, too, and very accomplished; that
is, she sang well, danced divinely, as her admirers used to tell her,
talked French as fluently as her native tongue; but she had a habit of
telling white lies, which threw a blight over her fair prospects, and
in the end destroyed her peace.

"'Mr. Stanton, the gentleman who had won her from a score of admirers,
really believed her to be an angel. The possibility of her violating or
falsifying her word had probably never occurred to him; for he had that
high sense of honor which would have led him to forfeit his life rather
than be guilty of an act of deception.

"'A French singer of rather questionable reputation just about that
time came to the city, and attracted great crowds to her concerts.
Miss Hill had a great desire to hear her; but, after listening to her
friend's arguments against encouraging a person of such character, she
declared nothing would tempt her to go. This was her first lie, for she
meant to join a party the next evening; but how to deceive her lover
was the question.

"'The next morning, with the help of a friend, the plan was made. She
was to go early before the hour when he usually made his appearance,
call for her chaperone in a carriage, leaving word with the servant
that she had gone to pass the evening with a sick friend, and would not
be at home till late. In order to make this excuse more plausible, Miss
Hill wrote her lover an affectionate letter, regretting the necessity
that deprived her of the pleasure of his company for the evening,
adding, "I know that you would say duty is paramount in this case."

"'The carriage was at the door at the moment, and, giving extra charges
to the girl to say nothing that could betray her, she hastened away to
the brilliant scene.

"'Soon after, Mr. Stanton made his appearance with a carriage to take
her to the E—House, where some valued friends had just arrived. He
was exceedingly disappointed, as he had promised them, he would call
with her. He read her note, and asked the girl in what street the sick
friend lived.

"'"I don't know, exactly," she stammered at this unexpected question;
"but it was somewhere out of town, for now I remember she took night
clothes, and said if the lady was not better, she should be away a day
or two."

"'"It is very unfortunate for me," he said, speaking to himself; "I
would go anywhere for her, if you could learn where she is."

"'"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the girl. "Her father has gone, too, and nobody
else in the house knows anything about it."

"'"This is strange!" he said, stepping into the carriage and giving
orders to be driven back to the hotel. "I wonder she did not mention
the name of the sick lady. Probably it is some near relative, as her
father has accompanied her."

"'The evening was passed with his friends, and at a late hour, he was
about to take his leave when a mutual friend entered.

"'He laughed heartily as he shook hands with Mr. Stanton, saying,—

"'"I have been playing the agreeable all the evening to Miss Hill, and
merit your warmest thanks."

"'"Where, where did you see her?" was the eager inquiry.

"'"At Madame R—'s concert, of course. All the world was there to-night.
To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised to see Miss Hill, knowing,
as I did, your opinion of her concerts; but she appeared to have no
scruples."

"'Mr. Stanton turned very pale at this reply, but in a moment
controlled himself, and said, "Are you sure Miss Emily Hill was at
Madame R—'s concert?"

"'"As sure as I am that I stand here," seriously replied the gentleman,
perceiving this was no time for a joke. "I was in the same slip with
her and Mrs. Jones who was her chaperone, and after the concert, waited
upon her to their carriage. She excused your absence by saying you had
a previous engagement which prevented your accompanying her."

"'"Enough," faltered Mr. Stanton; and rising soon after, he took a
hasty leave of his friends.'"



CHAPTER VIII.

THE LIAR ABANDONED.

"'THE night which followed was spent by Mr. Stanton in pacing the floor
of his chamber; and the first dawn of the morning found him resolved
upon an immediate termination of his connection with Miss Hill. He
could not take to his heart one in whom he had no longer the least
confidence. But the rupturing of this bond, which he had heretofore
considered almost as sacred as marriage, made his noble heart sink
within him.

"'At an early hour he called at Mr. Hill's. The servant was all smiles,
and informed him that her mistress found her friend better, and
returned late the previous evening. Stifling a groan at this new proof
of duplicity, he asked her to inform Miss Hill that he wished to see
her. She presently made her appearance, and, though rather startled at
his pallor, exclaimed, gayly,—

"'"Wasn't I fortunate in being relieved so soon? I was able to return
last evening."

"'"Emily," he said, in a tone which cut her to the heart, "I know
all. It is unnecessary for you to burden your conscience with another
falsehood. I know the story of a sick friend, of duty to her, is all a
falsification. You passed the evening at Mrs. R—'s concert."

"'She sank back in a chair, blushing violently, while he, with great
effort controlling himself, went on,—

"'"I loved you, Emily; but that love was based on a false estimate of
your character. I believed you as pure in morals as you are beautiful
in person. Yesterday, only yesterday, I would have taken your word
against all the world; but now the illusion has passed away. We must
part, Emily. You have ruined my happiness. If it were not for the
recollection of my mother, you would have ruined my faith in your sex."

"'Miss Hill gasped for breath.

"'"I must be dreaming!" she exclaimed. "Surely, this cannot be true!
You do not, cannot, mean to give me up just for one little white lie?"

"'"One white lie," he repeated, "has been enough to ruin my hopes of
happiness forever: but you have done far more than that. You have
proved yourself to be wholly lost to that rectitude which must be a
ruling principle with my wife; you have not only told me, who trusted
you so implicitly, many deliberate falsehoods, but you have taught your
servant, also, to deceive me; even now you met me with a lie—call it
white or black, as you please—on your lips."

"'He paused, overwhelmed with emotion.

"'"Try me! Try me!" she repeated, in agony. "I will never be guilty of
even the smallest variation from the truth."

"'"It is too late—too late, now!" he murmured, hoarsely, pressing her
cold hand. "But oh, Emily, remember hereafter how I have loved you; and
when your lips would utter that which is false, call to mind a lonely
wanderer, whom your crime has exiled from his country and home!"

"'They parted, and have never met since. Remember,' added the lady,
'all his suffering, all her years of sorrow, since that eventful
morning, came from what she then considered an innocent deception.'"

"And what is she now?" I asked, when I had wiped away my tears.

"'She is a penitent Christian woman,' she answered. 'From that time,
I do not believe she has ever deviated from the truth; but oh, what a
fearful lesson is hers! I have seen her shudder when gay, thoughtless
young ladies utter words which are totally false. I have told you this
story, hoping you may profit by her experience.'"

The young girls were both startled when Mr. Saunders advanced slowly
from the back parlor.

"I have heard your story," he said to the visitor. "I knew both Mr.
Stanton and Miss Hill. The breaking off of their engagement occasioned
much talk at the time. I never understood the cause till now, when I
think him perfectly justified in the course he pursued. I hope, Alice,
Miss Hill's experience will prove a most useful lesson to you. Lies
show a mind and heart so degraded and mean that no beauty of person or
polish of manner can, for any length of time, hide the deformity."


As I have before said, Mr. Saunders was most liberal in gratifying the
wants of his children. He liked to see his house handsomely furnished,
his table set with abundance and elegance, and his children dressed
tastefully, even richly. When Alice came from school, he gave Aunt
Clarissa a handsome sum of money, and requested her to replenish his
daughter's wardrobe.

Wishing to outshine her companions in dress, the young miss begged for
one or two articles which even Aunt Clarissa considered extravagant.
Alice, however, was vain, and having been told how becoming they were
to her particular style of beauty, determined in some way to obtain
them. One was a richly embroidered velvet mantilla, not at all suitable
for a girl in her teens, the other a love of a Paris bonnet, as she
termed it, made of blue velvet and lace, with an exquisite white
feather tipped with blue. The bonnet the milliner pronounced low at
fifteen dollars, while the price of the mantilla was forty.

"I will have them charged," she said to herself, "and then save all my
pocket-money until they're paid for."

The next Sabbath, the young girl, arrayed in a new lustrous silk,
together with her bonnet and mantilla, appeared before her father to
accompany him to church.

"Why, Alice! I scarcely recognized you," he said, starting back,
actually dazzled by the beauty of her appearance. "Well," he added,
after a moment, during which he surveyed her from head to foot with a
most comical expression, "you certainly are decked out. I never saw
your mother dressed so extravagantly in my life. Where did you get
this, and this?" Touching with his finger the bonnet and mantilla.

"At Miles's, papa. They look rich; but they were very cheap."

"Well, I hope they are paid for. You know I don't allow a bill
anywhere."

He spoke decidedly, aroused by a sudden suspicion.

"Oh, yes, sir. They are all paid for. Aunt Clarissa had the money, you
know."

She looked full in his face as she made this reply; and he, quite
satisfied, said he was ready, and it was time to go to church.

Alice heaved a sigh of relief. She had got over the interview much
better than she expected; and so wholly was her conscience seared by a
long course of deceit that she felt scarcely a pang when she thought of
the ready falsehood by which she had obtained the coveted articles.

But the end was not yet. Day after day of the vacation glided away.
The evening before she was to leave for school, her father returned
home rather earlier than was his wont, and sending a servant to his
daughter's room, desired her to join him in the parlor. He did this in
order that he might be alone with her; for on several occasions his
aunt had been present when he reproved his child, and had always taken
her part, or suggested such ready excuses for her conduct, that his
advice was entirely counteracted.

Alice came running down the stairs, humming a refrain from a favorite
song. Her cheeks were tinged with the softest rose color, and the
silken tresses lay lovingly upon them, while a pretty smile dimpled her
small mouth.

As she entered the room, fully expecting to see a caller, her father
stood and gazed at her; but no pleasure kindled his eye or heightened
the color on his cheek. He was thinking how much to be preferred were
the plainest features accompanied by true nobleness of heart! How mean,
how degraded she appeared to him then, as he recalled his business with
her!

"Papa," she said, softly, "did you send for me?"

"Yes, I did," was the brief reply.

They stood for a moment gazing at each other, and then, with a burst of
feeling, he exclaimed,—

"Oh, my child! Will you never learn to trust your father?"

"I don't know what you mean," she answered, her cheek crimsoning.

He unfolded his pocket-book and took out a bill, which he held before
her.

She started, and turned pale. "I did not mean you should ever see it,"
she said, quickly. "Indeed, papa, I meant to save all my spending money
until I had paid it myself."

"Did your aunt know of this deception?" he asked, looking keenly in her
face. "If you have not lost the power of speaking the truth, tell me,
did Aunt Clarissa encourage this deceit? Remember, I am not in a mood
to be trifled with!"

"No, sir!" was the faltering reply.

"How, then, did she suppose you obtained these expensive articles,
entirely unsuited to your years?"

She was silent.

"Speak and speak the truth!" he said, in a loud, excited tone.

"I told her you gave them to me."

The words were almost inarticulate; but they reached his ears.

"Lie upon lie," he repeated, bitterly. "Oh, Alice, that I should ever
live to bless the day your mother died! But this conduct would have
killed her!"

He covered his face with his hands, while a few tears trickled down her
cheeks. They were, however, tears of regret that her falsehood had been
detected, and not tears of penitence for her sin.

"Bring the bonnet and mantilla to me," he said, presently. "Pack them
in the boxes in which they came."

Astonished at such a command from her usually indulgent parent, Alice
reluctantly obeyed.

"To-morrow morning these will be returned," he said, in a firm tone,
after having satisfied himself that they were in no way injured.

"But they have been worn, papa," she began, the tears now flowing
copiously.

He made no answer, and presently waved his hand for her to leave
the room, but suddenly called her back to say, "You can unpack your
trunks. I am satisfied Mrs. Lerow's influence over you has not been
what I wished. I shall look out for a school of an entirely different
character, where such finery would be out of place."



CHAPTER IX.

THE FATHER OF LIES.

BUT where all this time was Joseph, with whose story we commenced
this book. In accordance with his aunt's advice, he had been sent
to a day-school, and was, therefore, for six hours of every day
under wholesome restraint. Miss Sanborn, an excellent young teacher,
well-calculated to win not only the love but the respect of her pupils,
soon discovered his habit of lying, and took every pains to correct it.
But, young as he was, his lips had so thoroughly learned deceit that
she could make no impression upon him.

Every day, at the close of the school, the children were required to
give in their report as to their own conduct, or the teacher would ask
them like this:—

"Joseph, have you whispered?"

"No, ma'am," was his invariable reply.

"In how many lessons have you been perfect?"

"In every one."

Even though he had repeatedly been sent to his seat to commit his
lesson more thoroughly, he would not confess he had failed.

In vain she told him of his sin, and explained to him that he gained
nothing by his lies; for a liar is not believed even when he speaks the
truth. In vain she illustrated her meaning by stories from the Bible,
and from her own observation; the habit had been formed almost before
he could speak.

Aunt Clarissa lied to him when she told him the medicine was not
bitter, and laughed, after he had swallowed it, at her success in
deceiving him. Margaret lied when she promised to sit by him all the
evening, and then slipped away when he had fallen asleep. Even his
father lied when he threatened to punish disobedience to his commands,
and then failed to execute the threat.

One day, when Joseph had been more than usually unruly and then
insisted that he had broken no rules, the teacher detained him after
the scholars were dismissed and tried to point out the wickedness of
his conduct.

"Do you know, Joseph, who is the father of lies?" she asked, seriously.

"No, ma'am."

"It is the devil; who, the Bible says, goes about like a roaring lion,
seeking whom he may devour."

"I never saw him, so I guess he don't come to this town," the boy
answered timidly.

"Yes, he has been in this room this afternoon. He was close by your
elbow and whispered in your ear when you pinched Tommy and when you
made such times at little Ellen, who complained that you had torn her
book. And he was there again when you told me you had been a good boy.
Didn't you hear the good spirit whispering, 'Oh, Joseph, don't tell a
lie! God wont like it?' You have been very naughty indeed. It makes my
heart ache when I remember that God, who never lies, who never in any
way deceives us, has said, 'All liars shall have their part in the lake
which burns with fire and brimstone.'"

Joseph's attention was arrested. He was a bright boy, not wanting in
quickness and apprehension, and after a moment's reflection, he said,—

"My Sister Ellen used to tell lies; but now she never does; Aunt
Collins wrote about it. When I'm as large as Ellen, I shall leave off."

"But, my poor boy," cried the lady, tears filling her eyes, "you may
not live to be as old; you may die this very night. Will you promise me
you will try to be a truthful boy?"

He nodded his head.

A few days after this, Joseph ran and jumped on his father's knee.

"Papa, I want six cents," he exclaimed earnestly.

"What for, my dear?"

"To buy a new top. Eddie Lawson has one, and I want one like it."

The indulgent father gave him the money with a smile.

Joseph, however, had no idea of buying a top. He had been with his
companion that morning into a store and had seen some cocoanuts of
which he was very fond. He was sure if he asked for money to buy a
cocoanut, he would be refused, because they always made him sick. He
thought a cocoanut very cheaply obtained when he had only to tell one
lie for it.

In the night, Mr. Saunders was aroused by a stealthy step coming into
his chamber, and presently by Aunt Clarissa's voice saying,—

"Joseph seems very sick. I think you had better call the doctor."

The physician came just after the child had thrown from his stomach a
quantity of indigestible matter.

"He has been in dreadful pain all night," remarked his aunt, who was
holding his head.

"Well, he'll die one of these days, if you are not more careful what he
eats," said the doctor, dryly. "He's had cocoanut again, which is rank
poison to him."

"Joseph, have you eaten any cocoanut?" asked his father. "Tell me the
truth, my boy, and I'll forgive you this time."

He shook his head.

"Pshaw, it's no use to try and deceive me," added the doctor, sternly.
"Here it is in the basin."

With a groan of pain, the child commenced vomiting again.

"I should really like to know how much he ate," said the physician,
pointing to pieces of the indigested food.

"I gave him money yesterday, to buy a top," gravely remarked Mr.
Saunders. "He must have spent it for this."

"I didn't!" cried Joseph. "I didn't eat any!"

After administering a simple quietive, Dr. Long turned away, and,
motioning the father from the room, said, abruptly,—

"Your boy will end his days on the gallows, if you don't correct his
habit of lying."

As soon as Joseph was well, his father, having ascertained from the
grocer that he had bought a cocoanut at his store, gave him a more
severe punishing than he had ever received in his life, to make up for
which Aunt Clarissa ordered the cook to bake him a nice little loaf of
frosted cake, richly filled with raisins and citron.

The room where Joseph attended school was situated on one of the
principal streets, just opposite a druggist's store. The front windows
with their immense panes of cut glass, behind which were large jars
filled with colored liquid presented a most attractive appearance, and
Joseph, in common with his other companions, often paused in front of
them.

The only objection Miss Sanborn had to her schoolroom was, that there
was no yard adjoining, where the pupils could exercise at recess;
and thus they were obliged to play in the street. Throwing ball was
strictly forbidden, and rolling hoop was inconvenient to passengers, so
that it required considerable invention to devise plays which would not
be objectionable.

Among his companions there was not one Joseph liked so well as Dexter
Russel, a boy near his own age, who resided in the same block. This
child, the son of watchful Christian parents, was a lad of ardent
temperament and quick passions, but of generous, noble impulses, and
perfectly truthful. If, as often happened, he had been guilty of
breaking his teacher's rules, when questioned concerning it:

"Dexter, did you whisper? Did you take a book without permission?"

His cheek would flush, and his eye be cast down, but he would reply
frankly,—

"Yes, I did."

Joseph and Dexter had each of them a hard India-rubber ball, with which
they sometimes amused themselves out of school-hours.

One afternoon, Miss Sanborn, having an engagement, hurried to her
boarding-place, the moment her little ones were dismissed, leaving some
of the boys in the street near the schoolroom.

"Don't go home yet," exclaimed Dexter. "Let's play awhile."

Joseph readily agreed, and each taking out his ball, they commenced
throwing them upon the pavement, eager to see who could catch it, when
it bounded, and keep it from falling longer than the other.

"Go away from here!" called out the druggist, coming to the door.
"That's a dangerous game so near the windows."

The boys ran farther along, but presently, in the excitement of the
play, ran back again laughing in great glee as they followed their
balls.

But suddenly their mirth ceased. In order not to lose his throw, when a
lady was passing him, Joseph unconsciously drew nearer the window, and,
with a loud crash, the ball went through the large pane of glass into
the druggist's shop.

The man rushed angrily to the door just in time to see Joseph running
for home as fast as he could go, while Dexter, pale with fright, was
gazing at the broken glass.

"Did you do that?" asked the merchant in a stern, excited voice.

"No, sir, it was not my ball; here is mine," said the lad, looking the
man full in the face; "but it's my fault, though."

This reply so astonished the incensed druggist that he asked, in a less
angry tone, "What do you mean?"

[Illustration: "No, sir, it was not my ball."]

"I asked him to play, sir. I'm real sorry! He was going home, but I
asked him to play."

"Well, but who's to pay for my glass?"

"I'll give you all my spending money, sir!" cried Dexter, his cheeks
flushing. "Will it cost a great deal, sir?"

"Yes, more than you'd have in a good many years. You know I told you
to go away," he added, softening, as he saw the distressed, eager face
looking into his so wistfully; "and I can't afford to buy glass for
boys to break."

Dexter choked, but did not speak for a moment; at length he said,—

"My father promised to buy me a magic-lantern; would the money that
would cost pay for it?"

Instead of answering, the man inquired,—

"Who was that boy with you?"

"Joseph Saunders."

"And he threw the ball?"

"Yes, sir; but he didn't mean to."

"Why didn't he come and say so, as you did?"

"I suppose he was afraid, sir," replied the boy, hesitating.

"Well, you may go now; and remember, I forgive your part of the blame
because you so courageously confessed the truth."

The same evening, Joseph was sitting near his father, talking and
laughing, when a ring of the door-bell summoned Mr. Saunders from the
room. He came back presently, however, followed by the druggist's
clerk, who said at once,—

"That's the boy, sir."

The father frowned, looked again at the bill, "For damages, one pane of
cut glass, twenty dollars," and then turning to his son, said,—

"Why can't you learn to confide in your father? Why didn't you tell me
what, you had done, Joseph?"

There was no reply.

"Haven't I forbidden you to throw a ball in the street? And now here is
a bill of twenty dollars because you didn't obey me!"

"Who says I threw a ball?" Joseph's voice trembled.

"My master says so, and the boy playing with you saw you too."

"Tell the truth, Joseph; did you do it?" Mr. Saunders's voice was so
stern the boy began to cry.

"No, sir, I didn't; it was Dexter. He asked me to play with him, and
then his ball went right into the window."

With a sickening dread lest his only son was again deceiving him, the
gentleman said,—

"Tell your master I will see to this in the morning. If my boy broke
it, I shall, of course, pay for it; but I wish first to be sure of the
fact."

As soon as the clerk was gone, Mr. Saunders took Joseph and went to
Mr. Russel's. Dexter was just going to bed; but, at the gentleman's
request, was called back to the parlor.

The father, who was closely watching his boy, saw that when his
companion entered, smiling frankly, he looked very much confused.

"I want you to tell me all about Mr. K—'s glass. How did it happen
to be broken?" said Mr. Saunders, after having cordially shaken the
child's hand.

Dexter, without a moment's hesitation, and with his eye fixed on the
gentleman's face, repeated minutely the events of the afternoon. Every
word of which carried positive conviction of its truthfulness to the
father's heart.

He looked at Joseph, when the story was finished, with such an
expression of anger and contempt that the boy began to cry. At last he
sobbed out,—

"I shouldn't have thought of playing if he hadn't asked me!"

The doctor's warning flashed across Mr. Saunders's mind but, making an
effort to control himself, he patted Dexter's head fondly, saying, "You
are a noble boy," and then, followed by Joseph, took his leave.



CHAPTER X.

THE LIAR'S DEATH.

THE next morning, the money was paid; but for days, the poor mistaken
father looked as if he had lost all his friends.

He talked long and earnestly with Aunt Clarissa, pointing out to her
the result of all her foolish indulgence; but she was far from viewing
it in as serious a light as he did. She urged that he was very young;
that such habits would soon correct themselves when he was older; that
she was sure the poor child meant no harm.

With a sigh he turned from her, feeling that it was hopeless to try and
convince her of her error, and passed half the night in writing Mrs.
Collins, and urging her to be a mother to his motherless boy.

After some weeks of struggle between inclination and what she feared
was duty, she wrote that she would take Joseph into her family for
a few months, but could not yet promise to do so for a much longer
period. Before the arrangements could be made for his removal, however,
a painful event occurred which prevented him from going to P—.

On his way to and from school, Joseph usually passed an old-fashioned
wooden house, enclosed by a high board fence, which ran for a distance
of twenty rods along the street. Within this enclosure was a dog-kennel
inhabited by a large animal of the Newfoundland breed. Looking through
a knot-hole in the fence, Joseph and Dexter often shouted to the dog to
come out from his house; and once, when the butcher had left the gate
ajar, they ventured in to examine more minutely the accommodations of
Nero. A hoarse growl warned them to be cautions; but ever after, when
they had an opportunity, they ran in for a minute to prove to him that
they were his friends.

One day they were standing near the dog-kennel, when a gentleman in the
house opened the window, and said,—

"Run away, little boys; Nero is cross and may bite you."

"He knows us," answered Dexter, frankly; "we often come to see him."

"Shut the gate fast, and don't come in again!" added the man, assuming
a stern voice.

They turned away, with a lingering gaze at the dog and then reluctantly
left, shouting "Good-by, Nero! Good-by!"

When the gentleman descended to the kitchen and said to the cook,—

"I wish you to see that the gate is kept fastened for a few days. Some
little boys have been in the habit of coming in to see Nero, and may do
so again."

She looked in the face of her usually kind master and was going to
remonstrate, when, seeing his expression of decision, she refrained,
and in a moment, he was gone.

When Joseph returned from school at noon, after a glance at the
windows, he gently tried the gate, but found it bolted; but at night, a
man happened to be carrying in something, and it was ajar.

"I mean to go right in," he said to Dexter; "I don't see that cross old
man about anywhere."

"I don't want to," was Dexter's response; "'cause he told us we
mustn't."

Joseph ran forward, muttering, "I don't care," but presently, with a
loud scream of pain, fell to the ground. Nero had caught his leg and
bitten it severely.

Dexter sprang forward to help his companion, when a strong arm caught
him and placed him outside the enclosure. One glance showed him that
the act was performed by the gentleman they had seen at the window, and
that his face was deathly pale.

Joseph was not so much hurt but that in a few minutes, when the
wound had been dressed, he was able to walk home accompanied by the
gentleman, who seemed strangely agitated at the event.

As Mr. Saunders had not yet come in from his office, the stranger left,
but returned in a few minutes with a distinguished surgeon, who, after
a rapid examination of the wound, gave orders for fresh bandages, and
directed that the door should be locked.

Aunt Clarissa was indignant, and began to remonstrate, when he cut her
short by saying, curtly, "It is his only chance of life." For a few
minutes the most piercing screams issued from the closed room, and in
the midst of them, the father entered.

"Mr. Saunders," said the surgeon, when he was admitted to the side of
his boy, "I am sorry to say your son has had a bite in the leg from
a dog. It would be slight, however, were it not for the fears of the
owner that the dog—is—mad."

The poor father staggered back, pale and trembling, when the stranger
added,—

"I brought him home, and, knowing his only chance of life was that
the wound be cauterized without delay, I summoned Dr.—, who has just
completed the operation."

Mr. Saunders, pressing his hand to his forehead, rushed to the sofa
where Joseph lay pallid and exhausted with suffering.

Before he left, the stranger stated that for a day or two, Nero, who
was a great favorite in the family on account of having saved the
life of a young brother, had acted so strangely that his suspicions
were excited that all was not right; still, no symptom of madness
had appeared. In the morning, he had seen two children in the yard,
and had ordered them out, forbidding them to enter again, and he had
also ordered the gate to be kept locked. With a countenance almost as
agitated as that of the stricken father, he then took his leave.

Two days later, a note came from him which was as follows:—

"I regret most keenly being under the necessity of informing you that
Nero, who, since the accident to your son, has been in confinement, has
shown unmistakable signs of madness, and just been shot."

For more than a fortnight, however, no symptoms of hydrophobia appeared
in the boy, and great hopes were entertained that the means taken by
the surgeon had proved effectual.

But at the end of that period, he had a violent fit, which was followed
by many others, until, at the close of the sixth week from the time he
was bitten, he died, leaving his father a prey to the keenest grief and
remorse, while Aunt Clarissa, half frantic with sorrow, wandered from
room to room, wringing her hands and calling to Joseph to:

"Come back! Come back!"

Alice, who had been placed under the care of a lady who superintended
the education of a dozen young misses, was recalled for the funeral.
Her father was somewhat comforted in his affliction by seeing that her
brother's death seemed to make a great impression upon her usually
volatile mind. During the few days she remained with him after the
funeral, he had many grave conversations with her regarding her future,
representing to her that, now Joseph had been taken away, all his
comfort for this life depended on her and her sister.

"I look forward," said he, warming with the subject, "with pleasant
anticipations to a calm old age, brightened by the attentive care of
my virtuous daughters. If I may be permitted to live," he added, with
more seriousness, "to see them, like their mother, adorning the station
to which God shall call them, I shall be happy indeed. But remember,
Alice," taking her hand affectionately, "your mother was a Christian
lady. Since Joseph died, I have reflected much, and with bitter regret,
that I have not more faithfully performed the duties of a father." He
paused, much agitated, but presently added, "Oh, Alice! I hope you may
never give me occasion to mourn over my fond, foolish indulgence to you
as I have mourned for your brother!"

Alice was affected at her father's words, and made a resolve to be
more dutiful and regardful of his wishes. But she made it in her own
strength; we shall see whether she kept it.

For a time, the sight of Dexter, so intimately associated with Joseph,
was exceedingly painful to Mr. Saunders and to Aunt Clarissa; but after
Alice had returned to school, they found their house so lonely that
they begged Mrs. Russel to allow him to run in and out as he used to
do. After this, the old lady tried her best to spoil the boy.



CHAPTER XI.

LYING CURED.

TO return to Ellen. As soon as Joseph was taken ill, Mr. Saunders wrote
his sister-in-law, relating minutely the circumstances, and leaving it
with her to decide whether his daughter should return.

Dr. Collins peremptorily said, "No; let the child stay where she is.
Aunt Clarissa would do her more harm in a fortnight than the good she
would be likely to gain by being present at such a scene."

Ellen wrote her father very affectionate, sympathizing letters, begging
him to send her word when there was the least change for the worse.
Every morning she walked hastily to the office, her young heart heaving
with anxiety, lest she should learn that her dear little brother was
dead. She had begun to pray now, and with her whole soul, she begged
for a blessing on her brother,—that his sins might be forgiven, and he
prepared for heaven before his last change should come.

"Oh, how I wish Aunt Collins could have had the care of him!" she
exclaimed one morning, with a burst of tears, returning from the office
with the intelligence that the poor boy's life was fast drawing to a
close. "How can I endure to have him die so?"

"You must pray, and pray earnestly, dear cousin," replied Mary. "God
is both able and willing to bless the poor boy. His Spirit can work on
the heart of the dear sufferer even when, to those around him, he may
appear unconscious."

"I can't help thinking that I might have been taken. If I had died
before I came here, while I was so wicked, oh, it makes me shudder to
think what might have become of me!"

Mary put her arm tenderly about her cousin, and murmured, softly,—

"We ought to be thankful, dear, if anything leads us to review God's
dealings with us; and to call to mind his many mercies."

"Do you think, Mary, I shall ever be a Christian?" sighed Ellen, hiding
her face in her cousin's shoulder.

"Yes, darling; I think you have already begun to walk the strait and
narrow road. You love to pray; and I feel sure you have chosen Jesus as
your Saviour."

"But you know, Mary, how many things I do that are wrong every day. I
thought when I had become a Christian, that it would be so easy to do
right. I have such a quick temper, too, that I speak before I think."

Mary smiled encouragingly. "I think," she said, "you have governed
yourself bravely of late."

"No, I haven't! Only yesterday I was real downright angry with Margaret
when she wouldn't iron my white apron in season for me to wear it to
school. You know all our class had aprons alike with pockets, and all
braided the same pattern; and we had agreed to wear them together."
Ellen's face flushed as she recalled her disappointment. "Yes, I was
really angry, and felt like calling her a hateful, disobliging old
girl!"

"But, instead of that, you controlled yourself and returned good for
evil, by giving up a pleasant walk, to write a letter for her to her
aged mother in Ireland. Do you think you would have done that when you
first came here? Or, could you have done so now if the good Spirit had
not aided you?"

Ellen laughed through her tears, saying,—

"I think I should once have scratched her face for her; but, Mary, do
Christians ever feel angry? I never saw you, nor aunt, nor uncle vexed."

"You make me ashamed of my short-comings," said Mary, blushing. "I
think as you have acknowledged your fault so freely, I must step
into the confessional box, and say that I overheard your talk with
Margaret about the apron, and after you left, reproved her sharply for
disappointing you. I think she did very wrong; if I had known about it
in season, I would have ironed it for you. I have heard mother say that
I had naturally a passionate temper; but as I was taught to curb it
from my earliest infancy, it has become easy to do so. You deserve far
more credit than I do."

The tidings of Joseph's death came at last.

Mr. Saunders wrote his sister, who broke the sad intelligence to her
niece in as cautious a manner as possible. Though the event had been
expected for days, yet Ellen wept as if wholly unprepared for it.

"Is he happy now? Has he joined mother in heaven?" were questions ever
recurring for the next few days.

Mrs. Collins wept with her niece, begging her to leave her dear brother
where she had left herself,—in the hands of a merciful and forgiving
God.

"Remember, dear Ellen," she said, "that your mother was a Christian
woman, who early dedicated her son to his Saviour. What may those
prayers not have done for him even in the last moments of his life?"

This was the saddest hour Ellen had ever known,—warm and ardent in
her attachments to an extreme. Now that Joseph had gone, she tortured
herself with thinking how little she had ever labored for his best good.

"If I had done my duty, had been a truthful, obedient child," she would
exclaim, with a fresh burst of grief, "this dreadful sorrow would never
have come upon us! Now father has no son, and I have no brother."

"Except Frank," murmured Mary. "We have all adopted you, darling."

The impulsive girl put her arms around her cousin's neck, and embraced
her tenderly.

It was not, however, until Frank's return from school, that Ellen
regained her wonted cheerfulness.

Dr. Collins made a great pet of her; and the first time he saw her
smile in return to some sally of wit from his son, he said that a ton's
weight seemed lifted off his breast.

"I miss my birdie's merry songs," he said, tapping her cheek. "Now that
you are beginning to look like yourself, I shall hope to hear them
again."

Frank's presence had a cheering effect on the whole finally. He had
so much to relate about his school, and told his jokes in such a dry,
off-hand manner, that no one could help laughing.

There were times, however, when he and Ellen sat together in the bay
window, that he listened tearfully to her account of her brother,—how
bright and intelligent he was; how capable under Aunt Collins's care,
of becoming a useful man,—and showed her that with all his heart, he
sympathized in her sorrow.

"But, Ellen," he added, one night after she had related many events in
Joseph's early life, "you have a brother still. As long as I live, I
will take care of you."

"Thank you, dear Frank," she answered, warmly; "but you know father
will need me soon. I must go home and finish my education in the city."

"Then I wish you had never come at all!" he exclaimed, throwing her
hand petulantly from him. "I thought you would stay here always; your
father has Alice."

"And Uncle Collins has a wife and Mary and a passionate boy," Ellen
answered, laughing. "When I'm gone, you'll be sorry you treated my poor
hand so badly."

The youth gazed a moment in his cousin's face, then left the room
without speaking.

I do not mean to give the impression that Ellen had changed suddenly
from a passionate, deceitful child to a yielding, truthful one. She
still had many faults to overcome, some of which sorely tried the
patience of her good aunt: but the influences around her were all in
her favor, and she was trying to do right.

The suffering and mortification sue endured during the first weeks of
her residence with her aunt fixed indelibly on her mind the sin of
lying as well as the happiness resulting from perfect truthfulness.
More than all, Ellen, having learned by sad experience the weakness as
well as the sinfulness of her own heart, sought strength from above
to resist all temptation to do evil. Every day she witnessed in the
conduct of a schoolmate the sad consequences of lying, and was more
than ever resolved to guard carefully the door of her lips lest her
mouth should utter deceit.

Josey Maxwell was an only child, indulged in every wish that her
foolish little heart could form. At last her mother was taken sick and
died, leaving her daughter to the care of the old housekeeper. This
woman soon grew tired of her whims and caprices, and in the absence of
her father, sent her to school. There she was under restraint, which
soon grew so irksome that she resorted to every means to evade it.

With the most unblushing effrontery, she told falsehood after falsehood
to her teacher as an excuse for not learning her lessons. Sometimes
she had been suffering from severe headache, or her book was lost, or
the housekeeper wished her to go away on an errand, or a letter from
her father required an immediate answer. But on inquiring at home, the
teacher found not one of these excuses had any foundation in fact.
Then, in her reports, she could not be trusted; and so hardened was she
by her guilt that she scarcely seemed to feel any mortification when
a schoolmate was appointed over her to render a report in her place.
At last she was expelled from school, the teacher fearing her corrupt
example would have a bad effect on her associates.

A few days later, Ellen was walking slowly past Mr. Maxwell's handsome
house in the village, when Josey came out and greeted her in the
most cordial manner. The young girl was quite handsome, and, when so
disposed, could render herself very agreeable. She urged Ellen to go
in and see her, and our young friend, hoping to do her good, after a
moment's hesitation, complied.

An hour or two was passed in talking of the school and then Ellen came
frankly to the point of Josey's want of candor, begging her, by what
she had herself suffered, to turn from so wicked a habit, and try the
beauties of sincerity and truth.

At first, Josey looked very angry, but for reasons of her own, did not
wish to show it; and concealing her true feelings, urged her companion
to visit her often.

"I should like to," was the frank reply, "I thought I could influence
you to become good. If I had not been sent to a kind friend like Aunt
Collins, I don't know what would have become of me."

"Well," said Josey, "I'll promise to do as you wish me, if you will
grant me one favor. Don't tell anybody you have been to see me; or if
you do, don't say what we have talked about."

Ellen mused for a moment.

"I always tell aunt everything," she said; "and she'll wonder where
I've been. I'll promise not to tell unless I am asked; and certainly, I
need not say what our conversation has been."

They parted, our young heroine sanguine as to the reformation of her
former schoolmate.



CHAPTER XII.

LIES OF MALIGNITY.

IT was near a fortnight later that one evening Miss Granby, the
teacher, called at Dr. Collins's. Ellen, who ran joyfully to the door
to meet her, noticed that she was unusually grave.

"I called to see you on business," said the lady when Mrs. Collins
entered the parlor.

Ellen instantly rose to leave the room, blushing violently as she did
so. There was something in Miss Granby's manner which she could not
understand.

"I wish you would not leave the house," added the teacher, seriously;
"I wish to talk with you before I go."

"What can it mean?" the young girl asked herself, retiring to her
favorite seat in the bay window. "Perhaps something has happened at
home, and they are afraid to tell me."

It was scarcely ton minutes before she heard her aunt speaking in a
loud, excited manner.

"It can't be true," she said, in a positive tone.

"Call her and see what she will say," was the reply, in Miss Granby's
voice.

The next moment she was standing before them in the parlor.

"Ellen," said her aunt, gazing searchingly in her face, "your teacher
has heard some strange rumors about you; but I think you can explain
everything fully to my satisfaction. She says you have visited Josey
Maxwell."

Ellen started and grew very red, which was not unnoticed by either lady.

"That while there you talked against your teachers, and some of your
schoolmates, whose conduct you called too strict; that you mimicked
Miss Granby's words and tone; that you complained of being unhappy
here, everybody was so pious, and declared your intention of writing
to your father to take you home; worse than all, it is reported that
you talked in an indelicate and improper manner of a young man, whose
name Miss Granby cannot recollect. Now, what do you say to all this, my
dear?"

While Mrs. Collins had been speaking, Ellen twitched her hand from
her aunt and stood quivering with passion, looking defiantly in her
teacher's face.

"It's all a lie,—a wicked lie!" she exclaimed, with more passion than
her aunt had ever seen in her before. "I never thought of mimicking my
teacher or making fun of her in any way; I told Josey—" She checked
herself in great confusion and then went on. "I couldn't talk against
her, for I always loved her before to-day. You know, aunty, that I
love you and Uncle Collins and all the family dearly; and that I never
was so happy as since I came to live with you. All I ever said about
writing to father was to beg him to come and live here too."

Miss Granby pursed up her mouth, and looked unconvinced; but Mrs.
Collins said, soothingly,—

"Don't get excited, Ellen; I believe all you say. Now what is it about
the young man?"

"I don't remember any young man being mentioned."

"Then you do acknowledge going to visit Josey after she was dismissed
in disgrace from the school, and that, too, without the consent of your
aunt?"

The tone was slightly exultant, and grated harshly on Mrs. Collins's
ears.

"Yes, I did go. I'll tell you sometime, aunt, how it happened."

"And what did you talk about?"

Ellen burst into tears.

Mrs. Collins looked astonished; Miss Granby, confirmed in her worst
opinion.

"Try to control yourself, my poor child," said the former, leading
Ellen to a chair, and laying her hand on the hot temples. "I feel quite
confident that you meant to do right. Take time, and tell us what was
said during your visit."

"I can't! I can't! I mustn't tell; it would be a lie!"

"You see, now, that I was right," urged the teacher, sitting very
erect, and smiling unpleasantly. "If there were no wrong, there would
be no concealment."

Ellen, uncovering her face, saw that her aunt was very pale; and, with
a cry of anguish, screamed out,—

"She is making you hate me! You are beginning to believe her! Oh, dear!
But I'll go to Uncle Collins. He will be my friend, and Frank will know
I'm not guilty!" And, with a fresh burst of grief, she rushed from the
room.

Her aunt immediately followed her and, by caresses, sought to convince
the poor child that her confidence was unimpaired. When she had
somewhat soothed her, they went back to the parlor where Miss Granby
sat firm and unbending. She was a good woman; but her dignity had
been deeply wounded by the liberties taken with her name; and fully
believing in her pupil's guilt, she took no pains to conceal her
feelings.

The doctor's gig at this moment drove into the yard; and Ellen, who
heard his voice, said, eagerly,—

"There's uncle! Mayn't I ask him to come in?"

The gentleman presently made his appearance and gazed inquiringly at
one and another, as if waiting for an explanation of the scene.

"Uncle," cried Ellen, "if I make a promise not to tell anything, wont
it be a lie if I should tell?"

"Certainly; or, rather, it would be breaking your promise."

"I went to Josey Maxwell's once. I used to know her at school; and I
felt very sorry for her disgrace, because I couldn't help thinking that
I—you know."

"Yes, pet, I know."

"One day I was walking by, and she came out and urged me to go in.
I thought at first I wouldn't, and then—" She leaned forward and
whispered in her uncle's ear.

"Very right; very well, child."

"I stayed a good while, and when I come away, Josey promised to do what
I had been asking her, if I would promise not to tell that I had called
there, and what we had been talking about. I promised the first unless
I was asked, and said certainly I wouldn't tell the last."

"Now," said Mrs. Collins, "there are sad reports concerning that visit,
all of which Ellen indignantly denies."

"But not quite to my satisfaction, I must confess," added the teacher,
with a forced smile.

"From whom do these reports come?"

"I have traced them to Josey herself."

"Will you repeat them?"

She did so without a word of comment.

"Pshaw such stories are simply absurd. We know our Ellen too well to
believe such nonsense. She has become a truthful girl, Miss Granby; and
it will take a good deal more than the testimony of a miss who has been
convicted of lying as often as Josey Maxwell has, to make me doubt her
word."

"If there was nothing wrong in the conversation," murmured the lady,
"what motive could there have been for concealment?"

"Ellen, look me in the face," said her uncle, in his abrupt way. "Was
there anything in the conversation alluded to which you would be
ashamed to tell me or your aunt?"

"Oh, no, indeed, sir! I was only—Yes, now I do remember a boy's name;
it was Hiram Jenkins, at the store. I was—But I mustn't repeat it. I'll
tell you what I'll do. I'll go right away with you to Josey's house and
ask her to let me tell you."

"Yes, that will do finely. Miss Granby, I make a request that you will
remain here till I return."

Not a word was spoken during the short ride, though the doctor could
see how closely every variation in his countenance was watched by the
excited child.

Unfortunately, Josey was away from home for a visit of a week, and the
explanation was, therefore, necessarily postponed.

"I wish I might tell you, uncle," said Ellen, when she had again
squeezed herself into her seat beside the doctor in his buggy. "I
couldn't think why she should wish to keep it secret."

Mrs. Collins was greatly disappointed. "Not on my own account," she
said, "but in order to satisfy Miss Granby that our confidence in Ellen
is deserved."

"You and I are satisfied; aren't we, pet?" added the merry doctor,
tapping her cheek.

"I'm sorry Miss Granby don't believe me," faltered the poor child,
after a glance into the teacher's uncompromising face.

"That is not of the slightest consequence," the doctor began, when,
meeting a cautionary glance from his wife, he added, "compared with
the approval of your own conscience. Miss Granby does not know you as
well as we do, or she would not have been so ready to believe a report
coming from such a source."

The teacher suddenly remembered that Dr. Collins was chairman of the
school committee, and that her capabilities as an instructor might
be questioned after this. She made an awkward attempt to justify the
proceeding and then took her leave.

The half-hour passed at the supper table was usually a merry one;
but on this occasion, no one seemed disposed to talk. Ellen ate
mechanically, her thoughts appearing absorbed in a reverie; and Mary,
who had heard what had passed, having been especially requested by her
mother not to allude to the subject for the present.

The doctor, having listened to all the particulars of the teacher's
visit, had ventured the remark to his wife that personal pique at
hearing herself ridiculed had prompted the interview,—that he was
mistaken in the woman, having always before considered her a person of
good sense.

At last Ellen broke the silence by exclaiming,—

"And I loved her so dearly!"

"Loved whom, pet?"

"Miss Granby. Uncle, will you go to Mr. Maxwell's when Josey comes
home?"

"I'll see about it."

The next morning, Ellen was learning her lessons as usual, after a
great struggle in her own room for grace to forgive her teacher's
unkind looks, when her aunt said,—

"I'll hear your recitations to-day, my dear. Go on and commit them as
usual."

Ellen embraced her aunt in a rapturous manner.

"How could anybody believe I wanted to go away from this dear home,"
she said, eagerly, "when you are such a darling mother to me."

Still Ellen did not seem quite happy. Several times during the day her
aunt saw her sitting lost in thought. She was wondering what motive
could have induced Josey to tell such dreadful lies about her, and
whether her innocence would ever be proved. Another thing also troubled
her. She was afraid that she had indulged in anger toward her teacher
and that God was displeased. Even now she found it difficult to say,
"I can forgive her;" how, then, could she repeat the Lord's Prayer,
"Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors"?

On the Sabbath, Ellen passed Miss Granby in the porch, and though
blushing painfully, held out her hand as usual to the lady. Mrs.
Collins was deeply grieved to see that the teacher took no notice of
the friendly salutation.

The next afternoon, the doctor in driving from one patient to another,
stopped at the house and beckoned Ellen, who sat at the window, to come
to the door.

"Tell your aunt," he said, "that she is to have company to tea. The
lady will be here about five, and I'll try to be at home by that time."

The doctor and his guest came up the yard together. He was in high
spirits, while the lady looked anxious.

Ellen ran to the door to meet her uncle and give him her usual kiss of
welcome. Miss Granby bowed rather stiffly.

After tea, the doctor ushered his company into the parlor, and then
began in rather a formal manner,—

"I have seen Miss Josey—"

"Oh, uncle, I'm so glad—"

"Hush, pet! I have the floor now. I saw the young lady. I had
considerable difficulty in bringing her to the point, but finally
overcame her objections, and prevailed on her to put her confession in
writing. Here it is, and I do not hesitate to declare the statements
she made regarding Ellen as lies of first-rate malignity; lies which
any person acquainted with our pet could scarcely credit."

He passed the paper to his wife, who read as follows:—

   "I, Josey Maxwell, do hereby confess that every word I reported
   concerning the conversation that passed between Ellen Saunders
   and myself was false,—that I told the story because I hated her
   for being a favorite among the scholars; and for reporting that
   I whispered in the class; and because she talked to me on the
   subject of lying. It was for the same reason I made her promise
   not to relate what had passed between us, from which promise she
   is now free.

                               "JOSEY MAXWELL."

It was curious to watch the countenance of Ellen as her aunt read the
above. Joy, surprise, and contempt expressed themselves by turn on her
beaming face. At the close, she heaved a great sigh of relief, and
clasping her hands, said, softly,—

"Aunt told me it was safe to trust in God."

Next to Ellen, Dr. Collins was interested to watch the effect of the
letter on Miss Granby. He was pleased to see her slyly wipe a tear from
her eye, and then, with something of a struggle between her pride and
conviction of duty, she rose, and approaching her pupil, said, with
real feeling,—

"I have been grievously mistaken, Ellen; I really believed from your
confession that you were guilty. Will you forgive me?"

Ellen caught her hand and kissed it repeatedly, exclaiming, eagerly,—

"I love you now just as well as I did before. I was vexed at first;
but I remembered that you couldn't trust me as well as you can Mary,
because I used to tell falsehoods, you know."

"I shall always trust you in future, my dear child. You have taught me
more than one lesson by your ready forgiveness."

"So that you no longer wonder that her old uncle doats on her," said
the doctor, laughing, as he seated his niece on his knee. "But you must
pity poor Josey. She had a bitter pill to swallow this morning. It
needed all the influence of the lawyer I took with me to induce her to
take it."



CHAPTER XIII.

LIES OF POLITENESS.

THE school to which Alice Saunders was sent was different in almost
every respect from the fashionable establishment of Mrs. Lerow. In
regard to the studies, Miss Salsbury labored far more to discipline the
mind, and lay a thorough foundation upon which a good education might
be reared up, than to have her young pupils pointed at as ladylike and
accomplished.

In her thirty years of experience in teaching, she had seen many young
misses sacrificed to their own or their parents' love of what was
merely superficial in learning,—preferring a smattering of French,
ability to sing a few Italian operas, and to dance gracefully, to
those acquirements which would fit them for the real duties and
responsibilities of life. She had an old-fashioned opinion, that when
a young lady left school, her education was by no means complete,—that
only a substructure was formed upon which a beautiful temple might be
raised.

If Alice had been under her influence at an earlier age, the seeds of
vanity and deceit which had early taken root in her young mind might
have been eradicated; but half a year in such a hot-house as Mrs.
Lerow's school had brought these shoots to a fearful state of maturity.

With Miss Salsbury's discernment, it did not require many hours'
acquaintance with her new pupil to give her an insight into the
purposes and motives which governed the young lady. Beautiful in
person, bewitching in manner, but wholly destitute of moral rectitude,
could the preceptress have consulted her own wishes, she would have
sent Alice directly back to her father, so much did she shrink from the
responsibility involved in the moral training of such a girl. Then she
doubted her own wisdom in introducing so artful a character among her
other pupils.

"Certainly," was her mental exclamation, "with such an influence to
oppose, I must be doubly vigilant."

As the house was too full to allow the new scholar a room by herself,
and as the preceptress was far too conscientious to expose those
committed to her care to such intimate companionship as would be
unavoidable in roommates, she turned with a sigh from the parlor, where
she had been talking with Alice, to make hasty arrangements for giving
her a room with one of the under teachers, who was her own niece, a
young lady of Christian courtesy and great integrity of character.

In half an hour, Miss Saunders was introduced to a pleasant chamber
on the third flight, where she found Miss Farley, her new room-mate,
awaiting her.

Emma Farley was an agreeable young lady of twenty years, wholly
unacquainted with her aunt's motives in putting Miss Saunders under her
care, and very favorably impressed in regard to the new-comer.

On the other hand, Alice was deeply chagrined at the idea of being
under the constant surveillance of a teacher; but she was quite too
much a woman of the world, and had profited too well by Aunt Clarissa's
example to betray such a feeling. Indeed, the first words she spoke
expressed exactly the opposite sentiment.

"What a pleasant room!" she said in her sweet, languid voice. "I am
very happy to share it with you. I think we shall have delightful times
together."

While the new miss lazily arranged her wardrobe in the closet and
drawers, the acquaintance progressed rapidly. Alice, with a degree of
art far beyond her years, praised her companion's hair, complexion,
and general appearance,—accounting herself most fortunate in being
thrown in with one evidently accustomed to the best society,—and
then drew from the unsuspecting teacher an account of the families
in the neighborhood, with difficulty concealing her pleasure at the
announcement that an academy for young men was in flood-tide of success
at the other end of the village.

"Of course," she remarked in an indifferent tone, lazily arranging a
box of laces to hide her eagerness, "the pupils here are allowed no
intercourse with the young gentlemen?"

"Aunt Salsbury is as cautious as possible," answered Miss Farley; "but
as Dr. Bowles's pupils occupy the opposite wing to ours in church, they
know each other by sight, and as a number of our young ladies have
brothers there, some visiting is unavoidable."

"Of course," was the careless reply.

Alice returned to her wardrobe, the school formerly so much dreaded
being invested with new interest.

"What do you think of Miss Saunders?" anxiously inquired Miss Salsbury,
at a late hour the same evening.

"I think she will be a great acquisition to the school," was the
enthusiastic reply. "She is lovely in person, and as far as I can
judge, of a bright mind."

"Yes, there is no doubt of that, Emma; but her morals,—has her
conscience been cultivated quite as diligently as her personal charms?"

"I see no reason to think the contrary." Emma repeated part of the
conversation, and then retired.

"I must guard against prejudice," said the preceptress to herself;
"but, if I do not mistake, my unsuspicious niece has been duped by a
few lies of politeness. But time will show the real character of my new
pupil."

Less than a fortnight sufficed, not only for mutual acquaintance
between the young ladies, but also to raise Alice to the height of
popularity. Her dress and her opinions were quoted as law; her most
trifling acts commented upon with favor; while her frequent remissness
in the recitation room was excused on account of her inability to
apply herself closely without bringing on an excruciating pain in her
head. This artifice the young girl had resorted to immediately upon
ascertaining that none of the tricks to evade duty so successful in
Mrs. Lerow's school would avail here. So far, the plea of ill-health
had worked well.

Alice had been in the recitation room but a few times before she found
that she could neither make use of copied exercises, nor glance at her
book held adroitly inside a fan. The teachers were so thorough, and
required so many explanations of the rules, that no such artifices
availed. She must either give her attention wholly to the business of
study, or invent some plausible excuse for not doing so.

Alice, however, was too experienced in deceit to allow her tactics to
fail her now, and therefore resorted to the plea of headache, which
her natural delicacy of complexion enabled her to simulate with a good
chance of success.

She had been twice to church, where even Miss Salsbury's strict ideas
of propriety could detect nothing wrong. But the young girl had made
good use of her eyes, and was aware, long before the extravagant
compliments reached her through sisters of the young gentlemen,
that her beauty had caused no slight degree of excitement among the
susceptible youth ranged on the opposite seats in church.

Even the very gentlemanly-looking under teacher, sitting at the head
of the back slip to overlook the conduct of his charge, had fixed his
bright blue eyes on the new-comer with far more than ordinary interest.

At the close of the second week, Alice wrote her father that, though
she was greatly disappointed at being compelled to leave Mrs. Lerow's
school, she now was happy here, as the teachers were very kind, and
aimed to do their scholars good. She complained, however, of headache
on severe application to study; and requested her father to ask Miss
Salsbury to allow her more time for exercise in the open air.

Mr. Saunders was delighted with the apparent improvement in his
daughter. He wrote at once to the preceptress, begging the lady to give
Alice all possible indulgence that her rules would allow in regard to
the hours of exercise.

Hitherto the young girl had conducted herself with such seeming
propriety that she completely blinded her teachers, so that Miss
Salsbury, in endeavoring to make amends for her former distrust, gave
the new scholar far more credit than she deserved.

In the mean time, these first weeks did not pass without some advance
on the part of Dr. Bowles's pupils toward an acquaintance with the
beautiful stranger. All those who could form any excuse to gain an
entrance into the charmed mansion eagerly availed themselves of the
opportunity. Alice, on one pretext and another, had been called down
to the parlor and introduced to half a dozen of them. After this,
projected walks and incidental meetings in the street caused the
acquaintance to ripen faster than was desirable.

Miss Saunders, the beauty and heiress, the model of taste in dress and
fashion, had already acquired more influence in the school than any
young lady had done since its formation. But, sad to say, in order to
attain this popularity, she had uttered, without one compunction of
conscience, lies of politeness and lies of flattery almost without
number.

An incident occurred in school about this time, which directed the
attention of the preceptress to this vice.

A little girl named Clara Dalton, the youngest scholar, had been
detected several times in equivocation, and once in a deliberate
falsehood. The circumstances were these.

Wednesday and Saturday afternoons were half-holidays; and under
certain restrictions, the pupils were allowed to employ themselves
as they chose. It was a rule, however, that they should not exceed a
certain limit in their walks without special permission. Somehow or
other, Clara had formed the acquaintance of a girl living quite at the
other extreme of the village; and as Miss Salsbury for some reason
disapproved the intimacy, she had forbidden Clara to visit her.

Wednesday morning came again, inviting all lovers of green fields and
pure air to walk forth. Miss Gleason, one of the older pupils, having
arisen earlier than common, was sauntering through the garden with a
volume of poems in her hand, when she heard a low murmur of voices
close to the hedge separating the garden from the road.

"I will!" exclaimed a low, earnest voice. "I'll tell you how I can
manage it. I'll get one of the girls to ask Miss Salsbury if we may go
to the post office. We'll start early, and while the girl has gone in,
I'll run across the fields to your house, as fast as I can go."

"So you can!" answered another voice. "I'll be there somewhere to meet
you. Be sure to bring the money, and I'll have the earrings all ready."

"Good-by, then; you'd better go now, or somebody will see you."

"What an old tiger Miss Salsbury must be, to keep you caged up so!"
said the street girl, spitefully. "Come as early as you can."

The young lady stood still, greatly troubled. Should she—ought she to
report to the preceptress? She had recognized the voice as Clara's; and
soon after, the child crept cautiously from her hiding place, and ran
stealthily toward the house. After some hesitation, she decided that
she was not called upon to mention what she had seen.

In the evening, there was some unusual excitement in the hall, and
presently a child's voice was heard crying bitterly. It was Clara,
who had just reached home, her clothes soiled and torn, and her eyes
swollen with crying.

The preceptress led her forward into the large recitation room, where
most of the scholars were assembled, and commenced an investigation of
the case. It was ascertained that, immediately after dinner, Clara and
a young companion, Annie Mellege, started together for the post office,
being charged with letters from several of the young ladies. At the
door of the office, Clara stopped to tie her shoe, and Annie went in
alone. When she came out, her companion was nowhere to be found.

Miss Gleason started; this was the plan she had heard in the morning.

When questioned why she left so suddenly, Clara sobbed and hid her face
in her apron; but as Miss Salsbury waited calmly for her to speak, she
said at last, that she heard an organ-grinder down a lane near by, and
ran to find him, when a great dog flew at her, and tore her dress. Then
a woman came out of a house and pulled her in and made her stay there.

"That is a very unlikely story," said Miss Salsbury, shaking her head;
"but as you have cried yourself sick, I shall postpone any farther
examination of your case till morning."



CHAPTER XIV.

LIES OF TRADE.

NOT a word was said on the subject of the previous evening until the
lessons for the morning had been recited; and then Miss Salsbury called
upon the young ladies to resume their seats at their desks.

"I wish to make some remarks," she began, "on a subject of vital
importance to every one of you; that is, the habit, too prevalent at
the present day, of falsifying the word. But first I will relieve your
curiosity concerning Clara by informing you that, early in the morning,
she was overheard planning an excursion which she was well aware was
contrary to the rules of the school. With premeditated deceit and
cunning, painful to think of in one of her years, she carried these
plans into execution, slipped away from the companion she had induced
to join her in a walk, and ran for half a mile to meet a child with
whom I had forbidden her to associate.

"Here she disobeyed another rule and bought a pair of earrings without
permission of any teacher to make such a purchase. This morning, a
lady came to claim the earrings which the wicked child had stolen from
her. I went to Clara's room, where I had left her till she was willing
to confess where she had been, and found the jewelry thrust into her
pocket; but even then she made many excuses before she would confess
the truth. I shudder to think that I have a child under my care so
dreadfully addicted to the sin of lying. And I think perhaps no time
will be so favorable as the present for impressing the enormity of this
offence upon your minds.

"The subject for discussion and essays this week will, therefore, be
the various methods by which persons falsify their word, such as lies
of convenience, lies of flattery, lies of malignity, etc., etc. To aid
you in the examination of the subject, I wish to direct your attention
to Mrs. Opie's excellent work on lying, which you will find in the
library, and more particularly to the word of God. In your essays on
this subject, I wish you to quote and illustrate as many passages of
Scripture as possible."

The bell for the long recess then was rung, and the scholars dispersed
to talk over poor Clara's sin, and to speculate on the punishment she
would receive.

A group of young misses stood together on the lawn, eagerly listening
to Miss Gleason's account of the stolen interview of the morning. When
she had finished, one pupil said,—

"It's horrid to think that such a little girl should be so deceitful!"

"It's so mean to lie!" rejoined another. "I should be ashamed to show
my face if I had told an untruth!"

"God showed his displeasure at the sin," remarked Amelia Davis,
gravely. "I think I shall take the case of Ananias and Sapphira for my
composition."

At this moment, Alice gracefully crossed the lawn and joined the
group. On her head she wore a bewitching straw hat, trimmed with a
long drab plume and tied with ribbon of the same hue. Her complexion
was as delicate as an infant's, the color in her cheeks being somewhat
heightened by her excitement.

"What a fuss Miss Salsbury makes about a few white lies that child has
told!" she said, her lip curling contemptuously. "I doubt whether Clara
is old enough to know that there is any harm in what she said,—such a
little thing as she is!"

"But if the fault is not corrected while she is young," said the lady
who last spoke, "it will grow upon her. I can conceive of no worse
trait than to be a confirmed liar."

"Certainly. Of course lying is vulgar, to say nothing of its being
immoral; but I don't believe the child meant to deceive, or would
have done so, if she hadn't been frightened into it. She wanted the
earrings, and, as the girl offered to sell them, I don't see how she
can be much blamed."

The young ladies seemed rather surprised at this view of the case,
coming as it did from one they admired; and presently the baneful
influence began to work; for one of them said, playfully,—

"I think Miss Salsbury is making quite too much of it."

"Of course she is. I dare say she would call me a liar for sending
word 'not at home' to a caller whom I wish to avoid, as if it were not
everywhere understood that it means you are engaged; or because I reply
that 'my tablet is full of engagements,' when a disagreeable gentleman
wishes to dance with me. If she knew anything of fashionable society,
she would understand that such white lies are unavoidable. It would be
an insult to a gentleman to refuse to dance with him."

"Oh, how I wish I could go to a ball!" exclaimed one enthusiastic young
lady. "I don't think there would be much danger of my having to tell
white or black lies; I'd dance with every one who asked me."

"I shall never go into fashionable society if such deception is
necessary," remarked Amelia Davis, in a serious tone.

Friday afternoon was devoted to the composition, each young lady
signing hers with a mark known only to the teacher. These were placed
in a box, and pupils, generally the highest class, were called to the
platform in succession to read them. As some of these explain the
different kinds of lying I shall copy them.

The first read was entitled "Lies of Trade," and was as follows:—

   "The sin of lying is denounced in the Bible in the same catalogue
   with the most heinous crimes. In the Revelation we read, 'For
   without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers,
   and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.' The
   punishment denounced against them is dreadful: 'All liars shall
   have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone.'

   "There are many kinds of lies; but I shall only mention one of
   them, which I shall call lies of trade. In these are embraced
   all the different forms of deception by which persons dispose of
   the articles they have for sale. I was once acquainted with a
   storekeeper who confessed many of these tricks of the trade, as
   he called them, and insisted they were perfectly harmless. For
   instance, he used to tell customers that calico would wash like a
   piece of white cloth, which was literally the fact, though they
   understood him to mean that the colors were fast.

   "Or he would say, 'I gave a dollar a yard for this silk by the
   piece, and cannot afford to sell it less than one twenty-five,'
   when these very goods had been bought at auction prices, and would
   bring a good profit at ninety cents.

   "Or, when questioned as to quality and durability, he would
   answer, 'This delaine is all wool,' when he knew it to be part
   cotton; 'it will wear like iron,' when he more than suspected it
   to be tender, and, therefore, wished to be rid of it.

   "This storekeeper also told me of tricks by which the grocers try
   to get off cheap or injured articles. They mix sand with sugar,
   adulterate tea and spices, sell barley for coffee, and Indian meal
   for ginger, all the time giving their word that the articles are
   pure and of the best quality."

The next composition began in this way:—

   "What is a lie? By some writers it is explained as an intention to
   deceive.

   "Can a person be guilty of lying who does not speak? I think he
   can; for a single motion of the head will sometimes convey a wrong
   impression.

   "What is the difference between a lie and a falsehood? A person
   may tell what is not true, or a falsehood, without the intention
   to deceive, which constitutes a lie.

   "What does the Bible say of lying lips? 'The lip of truth shall
   be established forever; but a lying tongue is but for a moment.'
   'Lying lips are an abomination to the Lord.' 'He that speaketh
   lies shall not escape.' 'Speak ye every man the truth to his
   neighbor.'

   "Is there such a thing as a lie of flattery? There is; and I will
   give an instance.

   "A girl named Hannah Morrill once lived with a lady as a kind
   of companion. She soon discovered that her mistress had a weak
   mind and was very susceptible to praise. The lady was exceedingly
   homely; but Hannah flattered her with the assurance that she was
   fine-looking and remarkably intelligent. She falsely quoted the
   opinion of others who agreed with her that her mistress was a
   pattern of elegance, taste, and refinement, until she succeeded in
   convincing the lady that her glass deceived her as to her personal
   appearance and that, as to her other qualities, her modesty had
   hitherto blinded her as to her many excellences.

   "In this way Hannah gained many favors, and was so much encouraged
   by them, that she became so gross in her flatteries that at last
   her mistress began to suspect her of insincerity. Wishing to
   try her, she brought from the store an elegant lilac silk, more
   suited to a bride than to a lady past sixty. Expressing, herself,
   a doubt whether this color was becoming to her age, she asked
   Hannah's opinion, when the girl warmly declared that she was
   only slandering herself when she thought the color trying to her
   complexion; for it made her look like a young miss, holding the
   rich folds up before her.

   "Only half convinced, the lady was called from her chamber to see
   company, from which she returned suddenly, unobserved by any one.
   Hearing loud talking and laughing in the next room, she stopped a
   moment to listen, and soon heard Hannah mimic her voice and manner
   before the mirror.

   "'What an old fool she must be to believe you!' answered the cook,
   with a coarse laugh.

   "'I can make the simpleton believe black is white,' urged Hannah;
   'I told her, yesterday, that her old yellow, crooked teeth were
   the envy of half the young ladies, and the silly creature actually
   swallowed the flattery.'

   "'Not quite,' said a low, stern voice; 'that lilac silk I brought
   from the store to test your frankness. If you had told me what
   I knew to be true,—that it was ill-suited to me,—I intended
   to have given it to you. I am glad I have been undeceived in
   season to dismiss both of you from my service. I will give you
   an hour to pack your trunks; and at the end of that time, I will
   have a constable here to search them; for I am not so great a
   simpleton but that I understand that a person who will lie to her
   benefactress will steal from her whenever opportunity occurs.'

   "Many interesting anecdotes illustrating different kinds of lies
   are given by Mrs. Opie in her book on lying."

[Illustration]



CHAPTER XV.

LIES OF CONVENIENCE.

THE composition next in order was scarcely finished when Miss Salsbury
requested the young lady who was reading to pass the copy to her.

Glancing at it with a look of serious displeasure, she took a small
book from her desk, compared the signature with one marked there,
directed the reading to proceed, and then sat more than usually erect,
while attending to the composition which followed.

   "Of all lies," commenced the young lady, "those which relate to
   the character of others are the most to be dreaded. These lies are
   in direct violation of the ninth command: 'Thou shalt not bear
   false witness against thy neighbor.' How often, for the sake of
   telling news, we are tempted to repeat stories to the disadvantage
   of others, even though we know they are untrue.

   "There is a fault of this nature, not quite so common, of which I
   will give an instance.

   "A lady in rather high life was in the habit of underrating her
   own beauty, talents, and taste in order to have others praise
   her. One evening she attended a religious meeting appointed for
   conversation with the pastor. After confessing her own sinfulness,
   she said,—

   "'I scarcely think there can be mercy for such a wicked creature
   as I am.'

   "She expected that these words, wholly insincere on her part,
   would lead the clergyman to express his admiration of her lovely
   moral character; but the good man, either wholly deceived by her
   apparent distress, or wishing to give her a deserved rebuke, said,—

   "'Madam, you are far more sinful than you have described. You have
   offended God's holy laws; you—'

   "'I should like to know what I've done!' she exclaimed, in great
   wrath, rising and standing defiantly before him."

Many of the young ladies laughed on hearing this story, and then Amelia
Gleason responded to the call, and rose with such blushing cheeks to
read a composition, that her companions conjectured it was her own.

   "A young lady, fair and beautiful, sat in a luxuriantly furnished
   parlor. Statues of the rarest art filled the niches, while
   paintings from the old masters adorned the walls. The house was
   evidently the abode of wealth and refinement.

   "The young lady, whose name was Isabel Montgomery, sat, or rather
   reclined, against one of the large cushions of the divan, with an
   elegantly bound volume open before her.

   "Suddenly the outer door was heard to open. Isabel started, her
   cheeks flushing, and her eyes beaming with pleasure. The servant
   entered, bearing a beautifully embossed card on a silver salver.

   "The lady's breast heaved. It was evident a crisis in her young
   life was approaching; but suddenly the scene changed.

   "'Pshaw!' she exclaimed, angrily. 'It's that tiresome old maid.
   Why didn't you tell her I was out? You're a stupid piece not
   to know I didn't wish to be disturbed! But I wont see her. Go,
   directly, and tell her I'm not at home, and don't expect to be for
   a month. How provoking!' she said petulantly, when the servant had
   retired. 'I was sure it was Mr. Clayton.' Then, glancing at her
   jewelled watch, she added, with a pout on her red lips, 'He prides
   himself on his punctuality; but it is already one minute past the
   time.'

   "The moments lagged wearily, now, until they lengthened themselves
   into hours; but the expected one did not make his appearance, and
   at last, disgusted with her lover, with herself, and with life in
   general, she retired to her own chamber where she indulged in a
   flood of tears.

   "Indignation at last gave way to anxiety. Some accident must have
   happened to the loved one. This was the morning which was to
   decide her fate for life. Frederic Clayton, the most elegant as
   well as the most wealthy young man in the city had sued for her
   hand. An appointment was made for him to meet her hither at his
   counting room at an early hour; and then he begged leave to come
   and receive his answer from her own sweet lips. No doubt what that
   answer would be. Something awful must have occurred, or he would
   have flown on the wings of love to her presence.

   "At last, the thought flashed through her mind that not one
   visitor had called during the entire morning with the exception of
   the tiresome old maid, as she invidiously termed her; and this was
   so unusual a circumstance that she rang the bell furiously to ask
   the servant whether any callers had presented themselves.

   "The servant-girl entered, a glance of low cunning gleaming from
   her half-closed eye. Before her mistress could speak, she advanced
   rapidly with the salver upon which lay several cards.

   "Isabel eagerly clutched at one bearing the name, 'Frederic
   Clayton,' and screamed, in a voice of passion—

   "'How came this here? Why wasn't he admitted? How long since he
   went away?'

   "'He was in the ante-room, ma'am,' said the girl, 'when I went
   back with the message to the old lady. He looked very much
   disappointed, and asked me two or three times if I was sure you
   were not at home; that he had an appointment with you, and it was
   very important he should see you this morning. I told him you went
   off all of a sudden, almost as soon as it was light, and said you
   shouldn't be back for a month.'

   "Isabel put out her hand and tried to speak, but her passion
   choked her voice; then she flew at Bridget and tried to scratch
   her face.

   "'You old wretch,' she screamed, 'you shall be punished for this!
   You did it on purpose. I know you did!'

   "'I haven't told you all,' said the girl, in a triumphant tone.
   'The old lady was Mr. Clayton's aunt, and he came with her in her
   carriage. If she had gone, I should have given him a hint that you
   were in the parlor expecting of him; but as you bid me say you
   were away, I valued my character too much to take back my words
   while she was there. They talked mighty earnest together for a
   time. Once I thought he'd faint, he looked so pale; and he kept
   repeating, "I can't believe it! The blow is too sudden! Only a
   half an hour ago, and I was so happy!"

   "'His aunt pitied him a sight; but it didn't do him a mite of good
   till she said, "Be a man, Frederic. I acknowledge your future
   looks dark now; but the day will come when perhaps you will thank
   the Lord for this." Then they looked around and saw me still
   standing there, and went away.'

   "Isabel had stood like a statue; but when Bridget stopped talking,
   she sank back in the divan, and with one shriek of agony buried
   her face in her hands. The hour which followed was the darkest her
   life had ever known; but darker moments still were yet before her.
   At six o'clock, her father returned to dinner, and sent Bridget to
   her room to say that he wished to see her immediately.

   "'What does this mean?' he asked, angrily, when, noticing the
   dreadful pallor of her countenance, his wrath changed to pity.

   "'Where is he—Frederic?' she gasped, trembling in every limb.

   "'On his way to Smyrna with his sick brother. I found him waiting
   at my office when I reached it, impatient to gain my consent
   not only to your engagement, but to an immediate marriage, in
   order that you might accompany him abroad. They would wait, in
   that case, until the next vessel, which sails in a fortnight. I
   mentioned the trousseau, but he said all that could be attended
   to in Paris before your return. I found out, too, that Elise
   Bosworth, your mother's old friend, is Clayton's aunt, and was
   waiting to bring him here to use all the influence she possessed,
   through her love for your mother, to induce you to forego all
   the ceremony so natural to the occasion, be married at once, and
   accompany him abroad. She brought a casket of diamonds which were
   her sister's for her wedding gift. After some hesitation, I gave
   my consent, and expected, on reaching home, to find the house in
   an uproar of preparation, when, just before I left my office, I
   received this letter from poor Clayton, together with an enclosed
   note directed to you.'

   "Isabel, who had sank back almost fainting, mechanically stretched
   out her hand for the letter. The one to herself was as follows:

   "'Isabel, farewell. Hope whispered a different result to my
   wooing; but I have deceived myself. I am not yet calm enough to
   write; the shock was too sudden. Your father will explain. You are
   to be absent a month. Before your return, I shall be thousands
   of miles away. Perhaps I shall never return. May God bless you
   and give you a worthier, though you can never have a more loving,
   friend!

                           "'FREDERIC CLAYTON.'"

   "As my composition has already extended far beyond the
   contemplated limits, I will only add that a long and dangerous
   illness followed Isabel's lie of convenience. Near the close of
   the year, she persuaded her father to accompany her abroad, where,
   in a gay party in Paris, she met Mr. Clayton and his beautiful
   young wife. Having heard, through friends in his native city, the
   story which Bridget, dismissed in disgrace, had so diligently
   circulated, he had learned to thank God for preventing his union
   with one who could thus trample on the commands of his holy word
   which says, 'Lie not one to another.'"



CHAPTER XVI.

LIES OF AUTHORSHIP.

SOME of the young misses had noticed Miss Salsbury's displeasure when
one of the compositions was read, and wondered at the cause. They did
not have to wait long for an explanation. The next morning, just before
the preceptress struck the bell for school to be dismissed, she said,—

"Young ladies, I would like your attention for a few moments.
Yesterday, among the compositions I noticed one which sounded strangely
familiar. I at once examined the private mark by which I identify the
writings of each of my pupils, and immediately after the close of the
session, I took a book from my library and compared the two. They were
precisely alike. Not a comma or semicolon wanting in one which was not
in the other. You may imagine my surprise and displeasure when I found
that I had one scholar who could thus be guilty of a lie of plagiarism,
in attempting a composition on the sin of lying.

"I will not at present expose the young lady, whose punishment I have
not yet decided upon. As for the rest of you, the consciousness that
you have been guilty of no wrong in this respect will uphold you under
the common blame which the sin of one of your number has caused you to
bear. This crime is as truly a sin as any other lie. The scholar here
virtually says to her teachers and schoolmates, 'These are my thoughts
and opinions,' when she has been guilty of the meanness of stealing
them from others.

"I remember once," added the lady, "of travelling in a stage-coach,
when one of the company produced a book to while away the tedious hours
of travel. It was a work which had been published anonymously, and had
by its merit caused quite an excitement in the reading public.

"'Ah,' exclaimed one lady present, 'you have the new work I see. May I
ask you how you like it?'

"I noticed that another lady in the corner seemed greatly confused
by this remark; and when the one addressed replied that she greatly
admired it, remarked,—

"'You do me too much honor.'

"This of course was as much as saying to the company that she was the
author of the book; and from that moment every one of them regarded her
with great interest.

"In due time, I reached the end of my journey, and found my friend
had invited a large party to do honor to the author of the new work.
I entertained not a doubt but I should meet my acquaintance of the
stage-coach. Imagine my surprise when I was led forward by my hostess
to a seat in the corner, where sat a youthful matron, blushing at the
attention paid her, and begging my friend to allow the fact of her
being an author to remain, at least for the present, a profound secret.

"In great distress for the truthfulness of my stage companion, I
withdrew my friend to another room, and asked her what ground she had
for believing Mrs. Gordon, the lady present, to be the author.

"'The very best of reasons,' she said, smiling: 'I read the work in
manuscript, and subscribed for a dozen copies of the first edition,
before I could persuade my modest friend that the public would regard
her work with favor.'

"Now, I ask you, young ladies, what is your opinion of the traveller,
who, by her manner, led her companions to believe her the author?"

"It was mean!" "I should die of shame!" "She was guilty of a wicked
lie!" exclaimed one and another from different parts of the school.

"And is not that young lady equally guilty who appropriates the words
and thoughts of another, and claims them as her own?"

"She is. I'm glad I didn't do it," "And I'm glad," was the echoed
response.

"Young ladies," said the preceptress, "before you are dismissed, I
have only to add the inspired words, 'These six things doth the Lord
hate, yea seven are an abomination to him: a proud look, a lying
tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that deviseth
wicked imaginations, feet that be swift in running to mischief; a
false witness that speaketh lies, and him that soweth discord among
brethren.'"


For the next fortnight, there was great curiosity among the scholars to
know who was the guilty individual referred to; but as Miss Salsbury
maintained the most profound silence on the subject, nothing certain
could be learned. Several times when the topic was mentioned in the
presence of Alice, a contemptuous curl of the lips was her only answer.
By this time, however, her sentiments on ethics were pretty well-known,
and shrewd conjectures began to be whispered about as to the author of
the plagiarism.

Alice found the moral atmosphere of Miss Salsbury's establishment so
entirely uncongenial that she would, long ere this, have resorted to
some method of leaving, had it not been for private plans which could
not be carried out if she were removed to another school.

She had so far conducted herself with the strictest regard to propriety
while in her own room, and Miss Farley, her room-mate, though often
questioned by her aunt, answered most favorably of the new scholar.
But there were methods by which she disobeyed the rules and evaded the
laws which her teachers dreamed not of. Neither did they imagine what
an influence for evil this heartless, deceitful girl was constantly
exercising over one of her young companions.

Ella Morris was a girl of only thirteen years, warm and ardent in
temperament, of generous noble impulses, but easily influenced by those
she loved. When Alice first entered the school, Ella regarded her with
admiration. Miss Saunders's beauty and style were her constant theme
out of study hours. The least notice from the handsome stranger was
reported to her companions with emotions of pride and pleasure.

Ella had a brother in Dr. Bowles's school who called upon her soon
after Alice's first appearance at church. Ned Morris told his sisters
to invite Miss Saunders to the parlor, as he wished to be introduced
to her. He was a tall youth of eighteen years, with small, effeminate
features, going among his companions by the name of "Our Dandy." He
was good-natured to a proverb, with a weak mind, but entirely moral
in his character. He had been dazzled by Alice's beauty, and now was
just shallow enough to imagine her as intelligent as she was lovely
in person. Even during that first interview, he had to put a constant
constraint on himself to keep from betraying his warm admiration.

After this, Ella had no need to complain of want of attention from her
brother. He was constantly sending her notes with presents of oranges,
figs, or pine-apples,—all of which he directed her to share with her
new friend.

The little girl was almost intoxicated with delight at the praises
bestowed upon her by her new friend, until Alice, who one day heard her
boasting of some favors, cautioned her not to do so, lest others of her
companions should expect the same notice.

After a few weeks, a small perfumed envelope came, enclosed in Ella's
letter from her brother, directed to Miss Saunders. Alice would not yet
trust the sister sufficiently to confide an answer to her care, but
dropped a sentimental epistle into the office with her own hand. After
this, the correspondence became very frequent, sometimes Ella's letters
and sometimes the mail being the medium of communication between the
friends.

Alice now found the benefit of having liberty for early walks;—indeed,
it was this very reason that had induced her to write her father to
intercede for that privilege with the preceptress. Every morning she
was up and dressed before many in the household were awake, and met by
appointment Ned Morris, when they walked and talked together.

At last the frequency of Ella's letters and her brother's unusual
devotion to her interests began to excite suspicion; and one of the
under teachers reported to the preceptress that when Mr. Morris called,
he always asked for Miss Saunders to play to him.

The same evening, Miss Salsbury summoned Ella to her private parlor,
and made careful inquiries whether there was any correspondence between
her brother and any of the scholars.

Alice had already anticipated this question, and bade Ella, as
she valued her friendship, never to reveal anything that she knew
or suspected on the subject; so that the child at once denied any
knowledge of such letters.

But the evils attending wicked companionship had only just commenced.
Before this, Ella, though sometimes equivocating, had not told a
downright falsehood since she came to the school. Now, unless she would
criminate herself, she was obliged often to repeat the sin. From being
a merry, contented child, she soon became peevish and ill-tempered.
Alice was obliged to employ all her arts of fascination to retain what
she considered necessary influence over her.

Through other young gentlemen from Dr. Bowles's seminary, who visited
their sisters, the story of Ned Morris's admiration for Miss Saunders
began to be circulated through the school, and at last reached the ears
of the preceptress.

Summoning Alice to her parlor, she put the question directly to her:

"Are you acquainted with young Morris?"

"Slightly," answered the young girl, in the most indifferent tone. "I
was passing the hall door when Ella met me going out with her brother
and introduced him; but I was in haste and did not stop long."

"And how many times have you seen him since?"

The lady gazed searchingly in her pupil's face, but could detect
nothing to induce the suspicion that the young miss was trying to
deceive.

"Really," said she, with a smile, "I cannot remember, as I did not
consider it a circumstance of any importance. I suppose I may have seen
him four or five times."

"I do not ask the questions from curiosity," added the teacher, "but
because your father placed you in my care, telling me that you were a
motherless child, and needed special watching. You are well aware that
the rules of my school absolutely forbid all correspondence, or special
attention even, between my pupils and those connected with Dr. Bowles's
seminary. Have you ever violated these rules?"

"Never to my knowledge," was the unhesitating reply.

"I heard a rumor of a communication to you through his sister," said
the lady.

"I have not received any such. If Ella knows of a communication, she
has not delivered it to me."

"I am relieved to know that such is the fact. Both you and the young
gentleman are far too young to form any attachment at present."

In recalling this interview at a later hour, Alice did not feel one
qualm of conscience in regard to the dreadful untruths of which she
had been guilty; but she was somewhat vexed that anything should
have excited the suspicion of the teachers, as now it would be more
difficult to evade them.

That very evening, she wrote a note to Mr. Morris, begging him to be
more careful what he said of her, and consenting to ride with him the
next afternoon which was a half-holiday.

Throwing a veil over her head, she stole softly out to the garden to a
place in the hedge accessible from the street, where of late she had
placed her letters.

Miss Salsbury acknowledged to her niece that she felt much easier
after her interview with Alice, who appeared wholly indifferent to the
admiration of Mr. Morris, if indeed any such feelings existed. She even
owned that she had been prejudiced against the young lady ever since
the affair of the composition; but Alice had explained that, if not
to her satisfaction, at least so as to prove that she might have been
guilty of such a plagiarism without understanding that it was improper.

It was true that soon after the event occurred, Alice was summoned to
account for her misdemeanor. She told the preceptress that in Mrs.
Lerow's school, the young ladies all made selections from favorite
authors; that the teachers were not only aware of it, but often
referred them to particular passages when they found it difficult to
select for themselves. This, like most of her other statements, since
her arrival at the seminary, was wholly false.

When the teacher explained the deception, she thanked the lady warmly
and declared she would never be guilty of copying again.



CHAPTER XVII.

LYING CONTAGIOUS.

THE next morning, when school was dismissed, Miss Salsbury and her
niece, Miss Farley, started immediately for the next town, where they
had business. It was near night before they were able to return, and
they were driving through a retired street which shortened their
distance about a mile, when they saw in front of them a buggy upset,
and a crowd rapidly gathering about it.

"I am afraid some one is injured," remarked Miss Farley, as they drew
nearer. "See, they are lifting a lady from the ground."

"John," said Miss Salsbury to the driver, "stop here. We cannot get
through the crowd and I wish to get out."

The man, who was on the front seat, went on a few yards, stopped, stood
up in the carriage to see better, and then said,—

"That's one of our young ladies, ma'am, the one I hear 'em call the
beauty."

At this moment, Mr. Morris limped away from the buggy, trying to walk
to a house near by. He was evidently suffering, and his face was
deathly pale. A horrible suspicion flashed through Miss Salsbury's
mind. Miss Saunders, her pupil, had deceived her,—had taken advantage
of her absence to break the rules of the school, and ride with Mr.
Morris. Without waiting for John to open the door, she turned the
handle herself and got out. Two men were assisting Alice up the steps
to the house, when Miss Salsbury stopped them.

"You needn't take the young lady up there," she said; "I have a
carriage here and will convey her home. If one of you will go for the
doctor as quickly as possible, and ask him to call at the Ladies'
Seminary, you will do Miss Saunders a great favor."

The men turned and lifted the young miss down the steps.

"John," called his mistress, "take Miss Saunders in your arms and
lift her into the carriage as carefully as you used to lift your sick
mother. My niece will support her, and I will sit in front."

Mr. Morris stood with his hand to his head, viewing all these
arrangements with a stupid gaze of astonishment. It seemed so strange
that, of all persons in the world, the preceptress should happen to be
there.

Just as they started away and while the crowd stood gazing after them,
Miss Salsbury said,—

"Mr. Morris, you will do me a favor if you will request Dr. Bowles to
call at the Ladies' Seminary this evening."

Dr. Wilson reached the hall nearly as soon as the preceptress was ready
for him. With the proffered assistance of John, Alice was conveyed to
her room, where she was laid on the bed, groaning terribly.

"A sad accident, miss!" said the doctor, bending over her.

She opened her eyes and said feebly, "I have broken my arm. I—"

"Get me some camphor or sal volatile," urged the physician, "she is
faint; or stay, I have some ammonia."

When she revived, the young lady complained of severe pain in the side
and difficulty in drawing a breath. The doctor soon discovered that, in
addition to her broken arm, she had broken two ribs.

It was more than an hour before the jacket he wished for a support to
her side could be prepared. And then her poor arm must be carefully
splintered, so that a second message came from Dr. Bowles before he
could leave.

As yet Miss Salsbury had found no time to inquire into the particulars
of the accident; but after the patient, under the influence of an
anodyne, had fallen asleep, she learned that soon after she rode from
the door, Alice and Ella started from the hall for a walk; one of the
teachers remembering the fact from the circumstance of Miss Saunders
wearing her dress, hat, and mantilla.

Ella returned in less than an hour, saying her companion had extended
her walk to the village. Miss Salsbury instantly sent for Ella, who,
since the accident, had sat in her room crying bitterly. She was now
completely humbled and ready to confess everything.

The preceptress listened with horror as the child unfolded a long
tissue of falsehoods into which she had been led by her artful friend.

"I haven't been happy at all as I used to be," sighed Ella. "I wanted
to confess to you how wicked I have been, and how wicked Ned was
growing, for he has told Dr. Bowles a great many lies; but Alice
wouldn't let me."

"Poor child," said her teacher, "I ought to have guarded you from such
influences; but I never knew you were intimate."

"Alice told me not to speak to her when others were by. She was afraid
you would suspect about Ned," sobbed the weeping girl. "Oh, how sorry
my mother will feel! Do you think Ned is hurt so he will die?"

"No, Ella; I do not imagine either he or Miss Saunders are in any
immediate danger; but I am more shocked than I can tell you at what I
have heard. I hope, dear child, you will learn by this sad experience
how dangerous it is to trifle with God's commands. Solomon says, 'A
lying tongue is but for a moment.' Sooner or later a liar will be
put to confusion, and his words, even though he speak the truth, be
distrusted."

"My mother taught me to tell the truth," faltered Ella, her lip
quivering; "and I don't believe Ned ever told lies till he knew Alice."

The next morning, when the doctor came, he told her that Alice was
far more comfortable than his other patient, who had struck his head
against a stone, and had been delirious all night. On first reaching
home, however, he had frankly confessed to his teacher his sorrow at
having broken the rules of the school, taking all the blame of the
accident on himself, saying he was struck with the beauty of Ella's
friend, and had repeatedly invited her to ride with him, which she
had constantly refused until the occasion when this dreadful accident
occurred.

From one of his classmates, the doctor learned that he confessed
to have hired the buggy professedly to carry his sister to ride,
but always intending to take Alice, and thought the accident a just
punishment for the deception he had practised toward his teacher. They
rode about ten miles to a neighboring town, and were returning to the
place where Miss Saunders wished to alight, when the horse took fright
and ran backward against a stone wall, upsetting the buggy and throwing
them both to the ground.

During the night, his thoughts ran upon his mother, who he seemed to
imagine was standing over him, and whom, in the most heartrending
terms, he implored to forgive him.

The first moment of returning consciousness, he begged the nurse to
ask his teacher to come to his bedside, and when Dr. Bowles instantly
complied, entreated that his mother might not hear of his sad conduct
until he could write and confess it to her.

"I am her only boy," he said, feebly putting his hot hand on the
doctor's, "and it will not hurt her so much if she hears it from me."

Dr. Bowles readily promised this, offering to send for Mrs. Morris if
he wished, only stating that he had met with an accident.

The young man hesitated for a moment, and then said,—

"If I'd done my duty, I shouldn't have been hurt. I ought not to make
her suffer for my fault. No, I'll try and do without her, though I
never was sick without her being by me."

Miss Salsbury was much affected by this account, and sighed as she
remembered that her pupil had, as yet, manifested no penitence. Indeed,
she replied to any question that was asked her only in monosyllables,
whispering that it hurt her to talk.

The physician pronounced her free from fever, and, ordering that the
bandages on the arm should not be disturbed and that the patient should
live on gruel for a day or two, he took his leave.

On his departure, the preceptress sat down to her desk, and wrote as
follows:

   "MR. SAUNDERS.

   "Dear Sir:— When you confided your daughter to my care, you
   mentioned that she was addicted to falsehood. I, therefore, placed
   her in the room with my niece, and thought that if she did not
   receive good impressions from the influences around her, she
   certainly could do no harm to my other pupils; but I was mistaken.
   Alice, beautiful and accomplished, soon acquired an influence with
   her schoolmates which, I am deeply pained to tell you, she has
   used for evil. She has set her will in defiance of the rules of
   the school, and brought pain and sorrow, not only upon herself,
   but upon others.

   "Yesterday she was thrown from a carriage while riding stealthily
   with a young man, a member of an academy near us. She induced the
   sister of this youth to be the medium of communication between
   them, and what was far worse, to tell repeated falsehoods when
   questioned on the subject.

   "Your daughter was fortunate to escape with a broken arm and two
   broken ribs. The doctor reports her this morning as doing well;
   and I have provided a nurse to take the exclusive care of her.

   "Under these circumstances, it is my wish that she should be
   removed as soon as she is able to bear the journey. I will
   instantly report to you if there is an unfavorable change, unless
   you should wish to visit your daughter immediately.

                        "Yours respectfully,
                                   "M. A. SALSBURY."



CHAPTER XVIII.

PARTY LIES.

SIX months later, let us glance into Mr. Saunders's pleasant parlor;
and we shall see whether Aunt Clarissa's prophecy—that when her nieces
are older, they will be ashamed to indulge in falsehood—had been
fulfilled.

The lady sits midway between the window and the cheerful fire in the
grate, earnestly discussing the merits of a gentleman who, after a
somewhat prolonged call, has just taken his departure.

Alice is warm in her praises of his moustaches, his white teeth,
and his graceful figure. Aunt Clarissa, suddenly awakened to her
responsibility as the chaperone of a marriageable young lady, has
become strangely cautious.

"Mr. Coleman may be a fine young man for aught I have heard," she says,
earnestly; "but we really know nothing of him. I doubt whether your
father would approve the acquaintance until he can learn something of
the gentleman's whereabouts."

"Pshaw!" murmured the cherry lips. "It's so vexatious to be treated
like a child! I'm old enough to judge for myself about my friends, and
I'm positive that Mr. James Duncan Coleman is a gentleman in every
sense of the word!"

Miss Saunders rose, took a card from the salver, and examined it
critically, as if she would read the owner's character from his address.

"Did you notice how gracefully he left the room, and how well he talked
about the pictures?" asked Alice, after regarding her aunt for a moment
with a smile. "Then none but a real, high-born gentleman would have
been so respectful in his address to you. Really, Aunt Clarissa, if I
liked him particularly, I should be jealous of you; for he admires you
exceedingly." This was lie the first.

The spinster's cheeks were suffused with the least tinge of crimson,
and her niece, noticing it, was satisfied that the lever was placed in
the right position, and that force was all that she needed in order to
raise the burden.

"What do you mean by that remark, Alice?" was asked, with assumed
dignity.

"I wonder," said the young girl, laughing "whether women ever outgrow
their curiosity? Why, when you were gone to the library to get that
piece of mosaic, he said,—

"'What an elegant lady Miss Saunders is! She must be a perfect treasure
to your father.'" Lie the second.

"I acknowledge he is singularly pleasing," remarked Aunt Clarissa,
after a brief pause. "The next time he calls, I will ask him to stay to
dinner. I think your father would be pleased to meet him; and then he
could soon find out his antecedents."

Alice pouted. "I don't want him asked for papa to criticise," she
exclaimed, rudely. "I care nothing at all about him—" lie the third,
"only that he makes an hour pass agreeably. Very likely I shall never
meet him again." Lie the fourth.

"Ah, Alice, didn't you engage to dance with him at the ball to-morrow
night?"

Days glided into weeks until the spring opened, and Alice by her
judicious and well-timed flattery had so well managed her aunt, that
nearly every morning found Mr. James Duncan Coleman sitting familiarly
in Mr. Saunders's parlor, while that gentleman had as yet to be
informed that there was such a person in existence.

The young lady had an indefinite idea that her father would disapprove,
certainly in the light of a suitor for her hand, of a man who had no
regular employment, except to spend his mornings in detailing gossip
and small talk in a lady's parlor, while his evenings alternated
between the theatre, opera, and ball-room; and indeed, sometimes a
doubt intruded itself into her mind whether such a man could render
her happy; but then he was so fond of her, and his moustaches were so
splendid. At the very nick of time, as Alice termed it, Mr. Saunders
announced his intention of improving Ellen's vacation by taking her and
her cousin on a trip to the West.

"If I were pious, like Aunt Collins," exclaimed the young girl, "I
should say that papa's journey really seems providential. I have put
off inviting Mr. Coleman to dine, on one excuse and another, until I am
almost ashamed to look him in the face."

Aunt Clarissa looked grave. She was growing uneasy with the
responsibilities resting upon her; and would gladly have shared them
with her nephew. Once or twice of late she had noticed that Mr. Coleman
started when she had proposed an interview between him and Alice's
father; but this her niece readily explained by saying that they
were having such nice times together, she presumed he didn't like to
have them disturbed. She assured her aunt, again and again, that Mr.
Coleman's society was eagerly sought in the best families: that many
of her young friends were dying of envy on account of his attentions
to her, and that every one she had asked spoke in the highest terms of
his moral character. Lie the fifth. She had repeatedly heard dark hints
respecting his integrity; but these slanders of course she did not
believe.

But for once the spinster was firm, and would not consent that Mr.
Coleman should be invited to dine unless there were other guests.
On the third day, therefore, after Mr. Saunders's departure, four
gentlemen found themselves seated around his hospitable board.

On this occasion, Alice had interfered with the appointments of
the table sufficiently to order the servant to display to the best
advantage all the rich plate that the house afforded.

"It is so vexatious," Alice exclaimed, with well-acted sincerity, after
the guests had partaken of the first course, "that papa did not return
to-day as he expected! The house seems so dreary when he is away." Lie
the sixth. Oh, Alice!

"Yes," murmured Aunt Clarissa, "he ought to have been at home by the
noon train; but on his visits to his daughter, he never knows when to
leave. I wish he were here with all my heart."

The last words were true, and were suggested by a sudden start from
one of their guests, who sat opposite Mr. Coleman, when the latter
gentleman addressed a laughing remark to Alice. There was something in
the manner of the former which made her suspect this was not the first
time they had met, though they had been introduced half an hour earlier
and had shaken hands like strangers.

She watched them until quite assured that the continued gaze of
the stranger was far from pleasing to the other, and only waited a
favorable opportunity when they had returned to the drawing room to
make inquiries on the subject. Only one circumstance helped her to go
through the different courses with any degree of comfort, and that was
the fact, that her niece, turning from the fulsome compliments of Mr.
Coleman, paid marked attention to the other guests.

She might have known Alice well enough to suspect that she was acting
out lie the seventh.

Miss Saunders's plot of discovery was, however, prevented by a
circumstance which occurred after dinner.

Mr. Coleman was standing under the chandelier, where the strong rays
of the gas-light fell directly on him, looking carelessly over a book
of choice engravings, while Alice was talking with a gentleman by the
window, when the stranger suddenly stepped toward him and, touching his
arm, said in a low voice,—

"I think, sir, I have met you before."

"I—I hardly think I have had that honor," returned Mr. Coleman, with an
evident struggle to retain his composure.

"It was while on a tour to the lakes," persisted the stranger, "you
were in the employ of government."

"Ha, ha! That's a good joke!" Mr. Coleman exclaimed, with a forced
laugh. "I wish I had been so fortunate; but, ha, ha, ha! Government has
never deigned to notice me."

"Excuse me, sir," replied the other, turning to Miss Saunders who stood
near, devouring every word; "but these resemblances are very striking."

At a later hour, the stranger begged Miss Alice to give them some
music; and while helping her choose a song, took the opportunity to
say,—

"Are you much acquainted with the gentleman yonder calling himself Mr.
Coleman?"

"Scarcely at all," she answered, in the same low tone. "He is one of my
father's friends, not mine." Lie the eighth.

"I am glad to hear it," he murmured, more as if he were speaking to
himself.

The next morning the servant who took care of the silver reported to
Miss Saunders that three of the largest forks and a heavy gold-lined
pudding spoon were missing.

The spinster's character, as housekeeper, was touched at once. She
called all the servants together, and insisted upon an instant and
thorough search for the missing articles, threatening, if they were not
found, to deduct a sum necessary to replace them from their wages.

"I can answer, for one, that I'm innocent," said the girl who had
reported the loss. "I went to the dining hall as soon as I heard the
gentlemen go to the parlor, and found Miss Alice's beau there, picking
up his handkerchief he said he'd dropped under the table. I began
collecting the silver at once; but didn't miss anything until I had
washed the forks and was counting them to put them away."

Much displeased, Miss Saunders ordered them not to give up the search;
saying of course the forks are somewhere in the house; and then was
returning to her chamber when her niece called out from the parlor,—

"Aunt Clarissa, have you seen my bracelet anywhere? I suppose it must
have coma unclasped in the evening; for I can't find it in my room."

"What bracelet did you wear, Alice?"

"My new one of course," was the petulant reply, "the one I had to tease
papa so long for. It's enough to vex a saint," she added, looking
under a large chair. "I don't recollect missing it from my arm in
the evening; and I was so tired when I went to bed, I can't remember
whether I unclasped it then or not."

"Then it is certain there are thieves about!" shrieked Miss Saunders.
"I'll send for a detective at once, and put him on the track. I sha'n't
dare to look your father in the face. Why, that bracelet cost sixty
dollars, the forks were three apiece, and the pudding-shovel fifteen! I
paid for them with my own hands."

A man, plainly dressed in citizen's clothes, soon made his appearance
and announced himself as a member of the detective police, to whom Aunt
Clarissa gave in detail an account of the missing articles.

"I dare say there is a great deal more stolen," she said, casting her
eyes searchingly around the room; "but we have discovered no other
loss."

The officer smiled, and after receiving from aunt and niece rather a
confused account of the dinner party, during which the spinster freely
owned that she wished it had never taken place; and having taken the
name and residence of each gentleman carefully down in his note-book,
he said he "should like to examine the servants."

Half an hour later he left the house satisfied that the thief, if such
there were, did not reside within its walls, promising to give the
subject his immediate attention, and report to them at the earliest
moment.

One week, two weeks passed, and Alice, in the excitement of present
scenes, had almost forgotten her loss. But not so Aunt Clarissa;
for several other articles of more or less value had disappeared as
remarkably as the first.

Mr. Coleman now had become quite domesticated, as often as two or
three times a week stopping to dine, so that nothing but the parting
injunction of the detective—that they should say nothing of the
theft—prevented the old lady from claiming sympathy from her guest.

One morning in the early part of April, the stranger we met at Mr.
Saunders's table was busy in his counting room, when a man entered and
asked for five minutes' conversation with him. To what this referred
the reader must guess, as they talked with closed doors; but one thing
is certain: when the officer emerged from the office, he looked as
unlike the man who went in as can well be conceived. His eye flashed
and his nostrils dilated in an alarming manner.

The same evening, Alice, having in vain plead with her aunt to allow
her to have a ball, had assembled around her a few gay friends, and was
in the midst of a merry frolic, when Mr. Saunders unexpectedly returned.

He was an indulgent father, and soon was joining in the conversation,
when a ring at the door-bell announced more company.

The stranger entered, and neither aunt nor niece could repress a start
of astonishment as they saw he was accompanied by the detective.

But the surprise had scarcely commenced; for Miss Saunders was debating
with herself whether she had better take her nephew aside and state
that the officer was in her employ, when her hesitation was cut short
by seeing the detective suddenly lay his hand on Mr. Coleman's arm,
with the words,—

"You are my prisoner."

It is needless to tell of the shrieks of Alice, the horror and secret
remorse of Aunt Clarissa, the surprise and displeasure of the host, and
the despair of the convicted thief.

In vain the latter exclaimed in accents of terror, "You have mistaken
the man!"

The stranger referred in explicit words to a meeting in Sing Sing:
while the officer informed him that, as the stolen articles had been
found in his trunk, he might as well prepare for a return to government
service.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE ART OF LYING.

THE mortification of Alice at the degradation of a man who had dared
sue for her hand did not speedily pass away. The intimacy had advanced
much farther than Aunt Clarissa ever dreamed of. The young miss
shuddered as she realized what might have been her doom if she had
yielded to his entreaties and been privately married in the neighboring
city.

For several weeks, she was more thoughtful than ever before. She could
not rid herself of the bitter reflections that were forced upon her;
and sometimes confessed to herself that truth and frankness were more
to be relied upon than deceit and art.

"I have a great mind—" she exclaimed, one day after there had been a
long pause in which neither the young lady nor her aunt felt inclined
for conversation, "I have a great mind to set up for a saint, end marry
a minister."

The old lady dropped her crocheting, and stared at her niece in
amazement.

"It makes me sick of society every time I think of Mr. Coleman,"
remarked Alice, with a faint smile at her aunt's continued gaze. "I
would follow Ellen's example and discard fibbing, or lying, as she
bluntly calls it; only truth-telling is often so inconvenient."

"I think Ellen's rule would be a profitable one for all of us,"
returned Miss Saunders with a heavy sigh. "I mean if it were not
carried to an extreme."

"Just so, aunty. Now you are at one extreme and Nelly at the other,
while I maintain the happy medium."

"Alice Saunders! What are you talking about?" cried the old lady,
growing very white about the mouth. "I insist that you explain yourself
immediately."

"Certainly, aunt."

She turned away to conceal a smile, a bitter, scornful smile, and then
began suddenly,—

"I can but just remember mother's death. The room had been dark; but
all at once nurse fastened back the heavy damask curtains, and a flood
of golden light from the setting sun poured into the room, making
everything beautiful. I remember just how it shone on mother's face,
giving it an unearthly beauty; and how eagerly she gazed through the
window at the gorgeous spectacle.

"'See there!' she said, pointing her thin finger toward the illuminated
heavens. 'Before the sun rises again, I shall be where there is no
darkness, where the Sun of righteousness shines forever and ever.'"

"I didn't know you remembered that, Alice," faltered Miss Saunders, in
a softened tone; "but I have heard your father tell of it again and
again. Your mother was a good Christian, Alice; but I don't see what
that has to do with the subject we were talking about."

"It has everything to do with it; for after mother died, you came; and
then our education commenced. I wonder whether I should have been good,
if my mother had lived." The last words were uttered softly, as if to
herself.

The old lady's face flushed; but she remained silent.

"I'm going to tell you the truth for once, aunty, and I think you'll
agree with me that lying is vastly more agreeable. You remember how I
praised you to Mr. Langworthy last Sabbath, telling him what a blessing
you had been to us motherless children? That was all a fib,—a white or
black lie, just as you please to call it, manufactured for a variety of
purposes; such as to make you appear to the best advantage, and thus
reflect credit on your niece; and to insinuate that I had been under
the very best of influences. I thought that course justifiable, and
even praiseworthy. Nov I'm going to tell you the plain, unvarnished
truth. You are a liar, Aunt Clarissa,—one of the extreme kind, who
flinch at nothing to carry out your plans. I can remember I first began
to doubt your word when you gave me a dose of rhubarb, telling me it
was nice like sugar. That was when you first came to us; and since that
hour, I have never known you tell the truth when a lie would suit your
purpose better."

"How dare you talk so, Alice?" gasped Miss Saunders, her chin quivering.

"Wait a minute, aunty; I haven't done yet; but I will do you the
justice to say that I suppose fibbing has become so confirmed a habit
with you that you yourself are scarcely aware of it; and then you
have naturally a kind heart which prompts you to make everything as
agreeable as possible. This is the reason why, when a visitor comes in,
you say flattering things, such as, 'What an exquisite color your silk
dress is!' and 'How charmingly suited to your delicate complexion!'
or 'How well your children behave, Mrs. So-and-so! I wish Mrs.
This-and-that would follow your example;' when, the moment their backs
are turned, you laugh at their easy credulity, and want of good taste
in the selection of colors."

"Stop! stop, child! I wont hear you talk so! I say it's shameful, after
all I've done for you, slaving myself so many years, when I might have
lived quietly by myself without any care!"

Alice shrugged her rounded shoulders, saying, archly,—

"Truth isn't pleasant; is it? I wonder what you'll do when Ellen comes
home. Why I've only begun to enumerate the ways in which you have
taught us to tell white and black lies. Why, there was poor little Jo,
who knew as well as I did, when you threatened him with punishment, or
promised to tell father some of his tricks, that you never intended to
keep your word. Wasn't that a good lesson for a bright, imitative boy
to learn? And didn't he learn it to perfection? Perhaps he would have
been alive now, if he had been taught to be truthful."

Miss Saunders sprang upon her feet, and caught her breath with
difficulty.

"And so you charge me with murder,—the murder of one I loved so
dearly that I would have had my hands cut off to save his life! Alice
Saunders, I'm telling the truth now if I never did before; and I say
that you'll repent of this. You shall repent of it!" Then, with a burst
of tears, she left the room.

Five minutes later, the young lady sauntered to the piano and began to
play a new and favorite opera. The scene had made little impression on
her.

The next week, however, she was delighted to receive an invitation
from a former schoolmate to visit her in the country, and gaining the
consent of her father, was soon on her way.

Ada or Adeline Morrison was a simple, unassuming girl, who had been
easily won to admiration by Alice's beauty of person and ease of
manner. She was at this time in need of a confidant, and chose one she
supposed possessed of qualities of mind and heart corresponding to her
outward appearance. We shall see whether she chose wisely.

Squire Morrison, as he was always called, lived in a handsome house in
the village of W—. He was what is sometimes styled a denominational
man; that is, he was strongly attached to his own church, and unwilling
any of his family should attend any other, or associate with members of
other societies.

Now it so happened that a young, unmarried clergyman was about to
settle over the new church, and that Ada, in visiting a poor servant
of her father's, had met this gentleman, and considered him singularly
interesting. Nay, she carried her admiration so far that she would
willingly have forsaken the associations of her childhood and youth,
for the pleasure of hearing him preach. Twice, indeed, she had enjoyed
that privilege, unknown to her parents, while visiting a young friend,
and fancied that the clergyman's eyes expressed pleasure at seeing her
there.

Alice had scarcely been in the house an hour before she was acquainted
with every thought of her friend's heart on this subject. And when
Ada with flushing cheeks exclaimed, "Now, if I can only manage to get
acquainted with him, I shall be perfectly happy!" she was ready with
the answer,—

"Nothing can be easier, my dear; I shall tell your father that I always
attend the Presbyterian Church, and of course he will not object to
your accompanying your guest. Then if your clergyman is a gentleman, he
will inquire us out and call upon us."

Ada clapped her hands and gave her friend a warm demonstration of
her affection. It never entered her heart that Alice was planning a
deliberate lie, having never entered a Presbyterian church in her life.

Squire Morrison gave his consent when his guest hinted her desire that
his daughter should escort her to church. Ada, influenced by real
feeling, would have chosen a retired seat, where, unobserved, she could
listen to the teaching of the man who occupied so large a portion of
her thoughts; but this was not agreeable to Alice, who requested the
sexton to show them to a slip near the pulpit.

During the service, the clergyman's eyes rested frequently on those
two apparently earnest hearers of the word, causing a thrill of such
delight in the heart of poor Ada that she could scarcely conceal her
emotion.

Her companion meanwhile was charmed with the intellectual countenance
of the preacher, with the elegance of his form, and the rich, mellow
tones of his voice. She no longer wondered at the infatuation of her
companion, nor hesitated one moment to violate their friendship by a
determination to win him for herself if she could.

While Ada was moved to tears by the touching appeal from the pulpit,
and forming earnest resolutions of profiting by the discourse, Alice
was making her plan for her new conquest. Henceforth the subject
of amusements, the theatre, operas, etc., etc., must be tabooed as
forbidden pleasures. Religion must be the order of the day; and the
artful girl did not hesitate one moment before assuming the sacred
guise, nor doubt she could effectually cover the deceit.

After a lingering glance at the desk, the strangers were about to leave
the slip, when Ada's friend, Miss Locke, stepped from an opposite pew
and welcomed her; then followed an introduction to Miss Saunders, a
ceremony Alice never went through in a hurry; and by that time Mr.
Barton had reached the aisle on his way out of church.

Nothing was more natural than for his parishioner to introduce him to
the strangers, nor for him to walk by their side two-thirds of the way
home, as his path was in the same direction. When they parted, Alice
was sure she had made an impression.

"Oh, how thankful I am that you came!" cried Ada, pressing her
companion's arm. "Didn't it all happen beautifully? And isn't he a
splendid preacher?"

Alice smiled complacently.

"He is a gentleman and a scholar," was her cool reply; "and perhaps, if
I had not a beau ideal of my own, I might admire him as much as you do.
Now I am free to aid you, all in my power."

Two weeks passed, and Mrs. Morrison, a sincere, trusting person,
considered her guest a young lady of earnest Christian character;
for she not only was present at the three regular services of the
Sabbath; but Tuesday and Friday, in company with Ada, wended her way
to the vestry, where the weekly lectures were attended. As they went
alone, Mr. Barton, as a matter of course, escorted them to Squire
Morrison's door, and sometimes entered the parlor for a few minutes.
On these occasions, Alice carried on the most of the conversation with
the clergyman, while Ada, whose innermost soul had been moved by his
pungent appeals, was abundantly content to listen to his instructive
remarks. She sometimes envied her friend that she so readily entered
into the feelings of the pastor, who, only by an occasional glance,
acknowledged her own presence.

Alice had never been so excited and happy as during this visit, which
was prolonged from week to week by the cordial invitation of both
mother and daughter.



CHAPTER XX.

LIES ABOUT RELIGION.

ONE evening, when Alice had been in W— nearly a month, Ada was so
unwell that Mrs. Morrison would not consent to her leaving the house.
This was a severe disappointment; for, aside from her interest in the
preacher, the young girl was deeply affected by the preaching. Indeed,
sometimes she thought the desire to live a new life a life of holiness
and happiness such as he described that of a Christian to be—was
paramount to her wish to gain his friendship. She plead earnestly with
her mother; but Ada was an only daughter,—a tender, well-beloved plant,
needing constant culture,—and the lady was firm in her refusal.

"I will tell you about the lecture," said Alice, secretly rejoicing in
this opportunity to be alone with the pastor, "and perhaps he will call
as we return."

There was a peculiar expression on her countenance as she said this,
which awoke the first suspicion in Ada that her friend was not sincere;
and when left alone, she recalled many circumstances leading to the
conviction that Alice was more interested in the clergyman than she
would acknowledge.

True, the latter had freely described Mr. Mortimer, a gentleman to
whom she declared herself engaged to be married; but the distrust once
awakened could not be removed; and the startled girl speedily arrived
at the very unpleasant conclusion that her friend had proved unworthy
of her confidence.

It was nearly an hour later than usual when the visitor returned; and
by this time Mrs. Morrison had become so alarmed for the safety of her
guest that she was pressing her husband to go in search of her, when
her voice was heard at the door.

She entered, smiling, wholly unprepared for the searching glance with
which Ada met her. Her cheeks were brilliant with excitement, and as
she stood under the chandelier, toying with her gloves, the light
shining full on her beaming features, Mrs. Morrison thought she had
never seen a prettier picture, and wondered whether the clergyman
did not entertain the same opinion, and whether he could long remain
insensible to such charms.

When the young girls retired to their room—for Ada, though weary, had
insisted on remaining down-stairs till her friend's return,—Alice
evidently labored under some great excitement, which she in vain
endeavored to subdue.

"I have so much to tell you," she began: "but your mother has forbidden
us to talk long. Mr. Barton inquired after you, and when I told him you
were quite ill, was very uneasy."

"Why didn't he come in, then, to see me?" asked Ada, turning aside her
face.

"He was detained by some persons in the vestry. Only think how
mortifying to me to have to wait there for him, as if I expected of
course he would come home with me but there was no alternative, as I
dared not come alone."

This was only partly true. Mr. Barton stopped a moment on his way out,
and the rest of the time had been passed walking in the moonlight at
the young lady's suggestion. She was artful enough to see that, as
the clergyman was deeply interested in the duties of his profession,
an appeal to him about her own heart would best secure his attention
to herself. She commenced, therefore, by telling him that, although
she had professed religion (lie the first), she had grown cold and
worldly,—that his preaching had roused her to a sense of her danger,
and that it was solely to enjoy the privilege of his ministration that
she had prolonged her visit from week to week.

Mr. Barton heard her in silence, and then gave her some solemn advice
upon the danger of trifling with conscience.

This was not exactly what the young lady had calculated upon; but,
disguising her real feelings, she spoke of Ada, and found the gentleman
all attention. Vexed at his indifference to herself; and indignant that
she had not secured the first place in his esteem, she determined to
prevent his forming a particular attachment for Ada.

This was not quite so easy a task as she imagined; for the gentleman
was a keen judge of character, and before he had ever seen Alice,
formed a high opinion of Ada's merits. Then he often met her friend,
Miss Locke: and somehow the conversation always turned on the absent
one. The apparently careless remark of the young lady, therefore, that
she greatly regretted Ada's want of seriousness (lie the second); but
that her mind seemed wholly absorbed in an attachment she had formed,
did not weigh as much with him as she expected.

Mr. Barton was too anxious a pastor not to discern the signs of real
feeling; and he had too often witnessed the tear of penitence in the
eye of Ada to believe the first charge.

The second statement rather startled him, though he gave no outward
sign of it, and presently remarked,—

"Miss Morrison has been so tenderly nurtured that her parents will be
careful, I suppose, to whom they consign her future happiness."

"Yes," was the artful reply; "and in this case, unfortunately, they do
not approve her choice."

Squire Morrison and his good wife had not the slightest idea of any
attachment which their daughter had formed, and therefore this was lie
the third.

"Indeed!" remarked the minister, not caring to pursue the subject at
present. "But just see how brightly the moon is shining upon the water."

He then gave his companion an account of a lake near his father's
house, hundreds of miles away; and how the moon, shining on it,
converted it into a sheet of burnished silver. Thoughts of home so
softened his heart toward his companion that when he left her at Squire
Morrison's door, the parting was almost tender.

The next day, Ada was unable to leave her bed; and Alice, who had
repeatedly declared that she could not longer postpone her return home,
exclaimed that she would not leave her.

The sick girl was glad that her mother's presence prevented her making
any reply; for Alice's absence was now as earnestly desired as her
presence had formerly been.

A day or two later Miss Locke called and was shown at once into Ada's
chamber, where Alice found them after an hour deeply engaged in
conversation. Her entrance was followed by a sudden silence, during
which her usual sang-froid entirely left her, and she could not conceal
her embarrassment and vexation. This was Saturday, and she had been
prevented from attending the lecture alone the previous evening by Mrs.
Morrison's remark,—

"If I were your mother, Miss Saunders, I should advise you not to go to
lecture to-night; though your motive may be excellent, it seems like
courting the attention of the clergyman. I have resolved that when you
leave, Ada shall never put herself in so awkward a situation."

This suggestion, taken in connection with Miss Locke's long call, led
Alice to fear that her remark concerning Ada had been repeated, and
that it had excited the mother's displeasure; for, notwithstanding her
statement that Ada's parents disapproved her attachment, she believed
they would be delighted to have their daughter secure the affection of
so good a man as Mr. Barton.

To do Alice justice, she had sense enough to see that the young
clergyman was vastly superior to any of the gentlemen she had
heretofore dignified with the name of lovers, and, though vexed that
he never praised her beauty, yet her heart was touched as it had never
been before. The thought that Ada loved him, and that her affection was
reciprocated, roused passions in her of whose existence she was wholly
unaware. An angry flush, therefore, distorted her features on observing
a quick glance of caution from Miss Locke to her friend, and she turned
to leave the room, but, with a sudden resolve to prevent all farther
private communication, she took a seat near the window, and presently
saw Mr. Barton walk deliberately up the front avenue toward the house.

In a moment the thought occurred that he had called to inquire why she
was absent the evening previous; but this pleasant fancy vanished at
once when the bell rang, and she heard him, through the open door, ask
whether Miss Locke was ready to accompany him.

The young lady started, exclaiming,—

"There he is!—There's Mr. Barton! I must go, now!"

This was followed by some earnest, whispered remark to Ada, and the
parting words,—

"You'd better follow my advice, dear; frankness is always best."

Ada arose from her chair to watch them walk away, and then returned to
her seat.

"Alice," she began, timidly, her pale cheeks flushing crimson, "how
could you tell Mr. Barton that I had an attachment which my parents
disapproved; and still worse that this attachment prevented my feeling
any interest in serious subjects?"

"Did he report that I said so?"

"That is not answering my question, and I have often heard you
pronounce it ill-bred to answer one question by asking another. I only
asked why you did it. The fact I know very well."

Perceiving that she could not avoid it, Alice smilingly replied,—

"It was all for your good, my dear. You know it is true that you have
an attachment, and that your father is so strictly denominational
that only his civility to a guest influences him to allow you to hear
Mr. Barton preach. How could I infer otherwise than that he would be
displeased?"

"But why speak on such a subject to him?" Ada inquired, earnestly. "It
appears to me strange and indelicate, besides violating a friend's
confidence."

For one moment Alice's thoughts recurred to the scene in Aunt
Clarissa's chamber, when the truth made the old lady tremble, and
she said to herself, "Truth is certainly very disagreeable;" but she
quickly rallied and answered, in a grieved tone,—

"I see. Ada, it is time for me to leave you. You have listened to the
counsels of others, and have begun to distrust your old friend. I could
explain entirely to your satisfaction; but you are not in a state of
mind to listen unprejudiced."

"If you knew how sad I felt when I heard it, you would not say so,
Alice. Now justice to yourself demands that you should speak. There is
enough of our old friendship left in my heart to plead for you."

"Perhaps I was imprudent," Alice began; "but it was all through my
affection for you. I saw you were becoming so much absorbed in your
attachment that your health was affected, and that your seriousness
was yielding to love; and I wished to convince myself whether the
attachment was mutual."

Ada's mild eyes flashed her indignation.

"I was convinced," Alice went on, "that Mr. Barton is heart whole. I
don't believe he ever wasted a moment's thought on such a subject."

At this moment Mrs. Morrison entered, and, noticing that her daughter
was unduly excited, recommended that Miss Saunders should retire to the
parlor where she would soon join her.

After persuading Ada to lie down for a while, the lady went to her
guest and requested a few moments' conversation.

"I am sorry to have occasion for what I feel constrained to say to
you; but duty to my daughter requires it. I fear we have been deceived
in you. A lady visiting in W— informs us that your father has always
attended the Baptist church; that your mother was a member there, and
that you had never made a profession of religion. She said many other
things which I will not repeat. I was aware of this when I advised you
not to go to lecture last night; but I was not aware, until within
an hour, of the manner in which you have returned our hospitality.
I was sewing in the next room, and heard my daughter question you
concerning a conversation with Mr. Barton, and I agree with her that
it was equally unladylike, unchristian, and ungrateful for you to
converse with him as you did. Ada, I am happy to say, agrees with me
that it would have been safer for her to confide in her mother, and in
the desire you expressed to terminate your visit, which, after these
events; must be far from agreeable to either party."

Ten o'clock the next day was the earliest hour that Alice could leave.
The entire evening she busied herself in packing her trunk, but in the
morning was obliged to join the family at breakfast.

Perhaps the reader can imagine her chagrin when, as they arose from
table, the servant brought in an elegant bouquet to which was attached
a card with the words, "Miss Ada, with the regards of Charles Barton."

Her surprise was equal to her vexation when she heard Squire Morrison
read the card and taking the flowers from the servant, carry them
himself to his daughter's room, with the laughing remark,—

"So that's the way the wind blows!"

Alice's parting with the Morrisons was rather constrained. Her journey
home was enlivened by reflections that, though truth may sometimes be
disagreeable, falsehood proves much more so. Certainly lying had in her
case not tended to her happiness or prosperity. She made a half-resolve
to turn over a new leaf; but she made it in her own strength, and we
shall see that evil habits proved too strong for her.



CHAPTER XXI.

CLERICAL LIES.

ALICE SAUNDERS had always been called amiable. She certainly thought
herself so; but the propensity to falsify her word prompted a line of
conduct far from amiable.

Not many weeks after her return home, she was in a large party, when a
lady asked her how she had enjoyed her visit to W—.

"Very much," was the indifferent reply.

"Miss Morrison is a charming girl."

"Yes; but I feel anxious about her."

"What can you mean?" inquired the lady. "Is not her health firm?"

Instead of answering directly, Alice inquired,—

"Did you ever hear of Mr. Barton?"

"No, I don't remember the name."

"He is a young clergyman residing in W—. Ada is interested in him;
but—" She checked herself, and arched her splendid eyebrows.

At this moment a lady joined their group, and stood arm in arm with the
companion of Alice.

"Is he not correct in his morals?" urged the other, judging from her
friend's manner that something was amiss.

"I do not call any man correct, who trifles with the happiness of a
young lady."

"Certainly not!"

"I have heard other remarks prejudicial to him; but it was sufficient
for me to know that after deliberately winning the love and confidence
of a beautiful girl, he left her on the appearance of a wealthier
rival."

"A man that will do that is a rascal!" exclaimed the new-comer, warmly.

"Are you sure it is not a mistake?" queried the other lady.

"I wish for Ada's sake it could be doubted. Imagine my situation as a
guest, knowing what I did, yet not wishing to wound her feelings by
telling her."

"You ought to have told her frankly."

"It might have been better; but I had not the moral courage. Really,
the worry I had between expediency and a fear of losing Ada's
friendship almost spoiled my visit. If I but hinted at the truth, she
would at once communicate the fact, with the authority for it; and I
should either have been obliged to bring proof, or have been thought
officious."

"Either course would have been trying, but if she really loved you, and
was worthy of your friendship, she would have appreciated your motives.
Could you not hint the facts to her parents in a letter?"

"Oh, no! You cannot be acquainted with Squire Morrison, or you would
never think of such a thing. To tell the truth, he was not at first
over-pleased with Mr. Barton; but Ada is an only daughter, and he would
not thwart her wishes. If he thought the gentleman had been guilty of
such meanness, he would set all W— in a blaze."

"What is the name of the deserted lady?" inquired the younger miss.

Alice answered decidedly, "I am not at liberty to tell."

A day or two after, the servant announced Miss Perry and Mrs. Mark,
the two ladies with whom the conversation had taken place. After a few
moments, the latter said,—

"I have thought much about poor Ada Morrison. Suppose she should marry
Mr. Barton and find afterward that he had deceived her."

"I have thought of that," murmured Alice, vexed that the subject was
renewed; "and I have determined to do nothing about it."

"What else has he been guilty of?" asked Miss Perry, bluntly.

"They say there are things which would depose him from the ministry, if
generally known."

"He must be a villain," returned the young lady. "I don't see how he
can be such a hypocrite as to write sermons! I heard him once; but I
little thought what a vile creature he was."

"That is the worst of the whole," continued Alice. "If I'm not very
much mistaken, whole pages of his fine oratory may be found in the best
English divines."

"Shocking! Terrible!" ejaculated Mrs. Mark.

While Miss Perry held up her hands and raised her eyes in silent
horror, and said, "I'm going to W— to-morrow. My aunt belongs to Mr.
Barton's church. What will she think of him when I tell her what a
rascal he is! Why, the state prison is too good a place for him!"

Alice's cheeks burned like fire.

"Remember," she said, "that all I have told you about Mr. Barton or
Squire Morrison's family was in strict confidence. I would not have my
name connected with such scandal for the world."

"Oh, certainly," remarked Miss Perry.

"I have a doubt whether such iniquity ought to be covered up," rejoined
Mrs. Mark.

Three months after her visit to W—, Mr. Saunders pointed out to Alice a
paragraph in the paper. It read as follows:

   "On the 8th inst., by the Rev. Giles Moody, Rev. Charles Barton to
   Ada, only daughter of Squire Morrison, of W—."

The young lady read the notice with vexation that her friend had
married the man in whom she was interested, and pleasure that her
falsehoods troubled her not as she feared they would. Mechanically she
ran her eye over the paper, when it fell on the following:—

   "We regret to say that Rev. Charles Barton has asked a dismission
   from his people in W—. This unhappy result has been brought
   about by slanderous reports concerning the gentleman's moral and
   clerical character, put in circulation by some evil-minded person.
   On the first intimation of these, he called a meeting of the
   church, when he told them frankly of the slanders current in the
   community, and requested them to co-operate with him in searching
   out the author, or examining the proof of such statements. He told
   them he knew nothing how they, individually, or collectively, felt
   regarding his innocence or guilt; he asked nothing but justice,
   and justice, with the help of God, he would have.

   "A council of the neighboring churches was therefore called, which
   most thoroughly examined the grave charges. Mr. Barton urged the
   investigation. The result contained these resolutions:—

   "'Resolved, that our beloved brother has been foully and wickedly
   slandered, but has come forth from this trying ordeal like silver
   refined in a furnace.

   "'Resolved, that we have no terms in which to express our cordial
   and unqualified approval of Mr. Barton's course during the whole
   examination. We commend him anew to the love and confidence of
   his church and congregation, with the hope that his useful labors
   among them may long be continued.'

   "Yet Mr. Barton immediately proffered a request to his people for
   a dissolution of their connection, giving it as a reason, that a
   pastor's name should be above reproach; that, however unjustly,
   his name, both as a gentleman and Christian, had been connected
   with crimes at which his soul revolted; and that he never again
   could labor here in the cause of his Master. If the event was to
   any a sorrowful one, it must be charged to the person or persons
   who originated the slander."

Alice scarcely breathed until she had read every word. Her hot blood
burned like fire. Seizing the paper, she rushed to her own room, locked
the door, and threw herself in a chair, covering her face with her
hands. Conscience was aroused, and set before her the effects of her
own lies.

"Was this the way to return Ada's love and Mrs. Morrison's kindness?
How did Mr. Barton offend me that I so shamefully slandered him?"

She began to think she had suffered enough to atone for her crime;
that what was done could not be undone now; and therefore that it was
useless to mourn longer. But the end was not yet.

Scarcely a month passed before Mrs. Mark called one day and requested
to see her alone.

"Do you know," she asked quickly, "about poor Ada Morrison?"

"I know she is married."

After a searching glance, the lady asked,—

"Will you have the goodness to tell me the name of your informant
concerning the rumors you heard about Mr. Barton?"

"I regret that I cannot oblige you. I'm sorry I ever mentioned the
silly affair."

"Miss Perry is almost frantic at the trouble she has brought upon
herself. She was actually brought before the council of ministers, and
was forced to give your name as her authority for all the reports. Ada
was there; as his betrothed wife, she insisted she had a right to be
near him. When she heard your name, she fainted and was carried out of
church. She was scarcely able to stand during the wedding ceremony,
which she would not consent should be postponed, because Mr. Barton
needed her more than ever; and now there are alarming symptoms of a
hasty decline from the shock."

The lady paused as she noticed the blanched countenance of her hearer,
but presently added, "If you could give me the name of your informant,
it would relieve you from the terrible burden now resting on your
shoulders."

With a shriek she could not suppress, Alice rushed from the room.



CHAPTER XXII.

REWARD OF TRUTHFULNESS.

LET us, now, look forward to a period when Ellen has remained with her
aunt four summers, and is almost seventeen years of age. She has grown
taller by two inches than her elder sister, and is a fine, rosy-looking
girl.

In her studies she has advanced until, at her graduation from an
academy in P—, she attained the highest rank. And yet there is nothing
especially brilliant about this young country maiden, except her
flashing black eyes and the rich plaits of her abundant hair when the
sun strikes upon them. She is a simple, warm-hearted, enthusiastic
girl, as unlike her quiet Cousin Mary as possible, and yet bound to her
in the strong love which both of them cherish for their Saviour.

During all these years, she has never once returned to her city home;
but she has not remained a stranger to her father. He has spent long
weeks with her, and two years in succession has accompanied her and her
Cousin Mary to a distant State, where they had relatives. But now, he
wrote his sister, his health was feeble, and he absolutely yearned for
the company of his daughter at home.

Ellen shed some tears at the thought of parting from friends who had
become so dear, but realized at once that duty required her to do all
she could for her father's comfort. How she was to conduct herself away
from the influences for good which now surrounded her; how she would
resist the temptations to worldliness it a large city, were questions
which frequently arose in her mind, but which, like all other trials,
she left at the foot of the cross.

At this time, it was decided that at the close of another week, her
father was to come and conduct her home. She had begged for this
postponement because it was just at the commencement of Frank's college
vacation, a time long anticipated for the execution of many cherished
plans.

The cousins had, during the day, been very busy in tying straw around
their favorite bushes, digging up dahlia-bulbs, and preparing the
garden for the approaching frost, but had now finished supper, attended
family prayers, and had drawn up around the cheerful fire, presenting a
home scene reminding one of the familiar words of Cowper:

   "Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast;
    Let fall the curtains; wheel the sofa round."

"Now, Frank, don't forget to make my garden during your spring
vacation!" exclaimed Ellen, with a laugh. "Because I shall be here for
a long visit in the summer, and I shall want it to look beautifully."

Frank, for a wonder, looked absorbed in his own thoughts; but she was
not the girl to let him off.

"If my garden don't look as handsome as Mary's," she went on, after
giving his sleeve a playful pull, "I shall know you've forgotten all
about me, and I shall—"

A quick, peculiar, earnest glance from under his long lashes rather
confused the laughing miss, and she stopped abruptly, with a deep blush.

"It's altogether likely we shall forget you," he said, with an air of
perfect gravity. "We shall have so much in P— to distract our thoughts
from our friends. You, in the city, going constantly into company,
receiving attention from nobody knows who, and going to no one knows
how many parties a week, will probably think of us more frequently and
remember us much longer."

"You may joke about it as much as you like, Frank," she rejoined,
rather more warmly than the occasion called for; "but I know you don't
believe any such thing! I'm sure you and Aunt Collins and Mary and
everybody knows that this is the dearest home I ever had: and that
nothing but my feeling that father needs me makes me happy at all,
when I think of leaving it. I love every old stump of a tree and every
brown cottage in this dear quiet country place better than all the fine
houses and parks there are in the city. And, beside all that, here is
Uncle Collins always ready to pull my teeth when they ache, and aunty,
dear aunty, to tell me my faults so kindly that I'm afraid I don't feel
half bad enough about them, and Mary to love, and you to—"

"To tease," he added, gravely, interrupting her.

"No,—infinitive mode, present tense, passive voice,—'to be teased,' if
you please," she added, gayly. "You'll be sorry, sir, when I'm gone,
you didn't appreciate my society better; and you'll be glad, if you
have any feeling left, to come to B— and see me. Oh, Frank, I hope it
isn't wicked, but I really wish you were my own brother! I should be so
glad if you were obliged to go with me to the city; for I shall so need
somebody to tell me a great many things."

The young collegian made a wry face, and, during the remainder of the
evening, scarcely spoke.

The few days which intervened before she was to leave passed rapidly
away. Together the cousins visited every nook, hill, and streamlet
of their favorite haunts. They talked much of the past, but spoke
little of the future. Mary, in her own peculiar way, was continually
suggesting some pleasant and improving theme for conversation, and
Ellen was constantly regretting that she had not profited better by
this dear friend's lovely example.

Frank's conduct was variable: sometimes he was very lively and full of
fun; and then, again, his sister's eyes would be fixed upon him with
tender reproach, as he answered some question of hers or Ellen's with
impatience or bitterness.

To both the doctor and his wife, it was with keen regret that they
parted with one who had become to them like an own child. They gave
her much good advice; her aunt, especially, talked with her long and
earnestly of the duties that were before her, and the necessity of
keeping her own heart with all diligence, if she would hope to show
those around her that she loved her Saviour.

Of Alice, too, they spoke, and of Aunt Clarissa. Mrs. Collins advised
her niece to be obliging and attentive to these relatives, to convince
them by her conduct of her desire to please them, so far as she could
do so without violating her own conscience, or the duties she owed her
God.

On the evening Mr. Saunders arrived, her uncle commended her—

   "The child who is to leave those who love her so fondly—to the
   kind care of her heavenly Father." Asking him to be her protector,
   her guide, her portion for evermore.

Then they retired to her aunt's chamber, where, with a burst of tears,
Ellen exclaimed,—

"To-morrow night I shall hear no prayer! Oh, how shall I act when left
to myself?"

"You will have an ever-present Friend, my dear child," said her aunt,
suppressing her own emotion. "Go to him freely with all the trials that
afflict you. Ask his help as you would ask that of your earthly father.
Remember you are his child, adopted into his family, and have a claim
upon the promises for support and protection, with which the Bible is
filled."

"Dear aunt, what do I not owe you?" sobbed the weeping girl. "Think
what I was when I came here! No one but you would have loved a wicked
liar. I cannot bear to think of it!"

"There was One who loved you far better than I did; One who gave his
life that you might be saved from the consequences of all your sins;
One who will go with you to-morrow, and remain with you as long as you
desire his presence. Oh, Ellen, keep near to him by prayer! He knows
all the trials to which you will be subjected in your Christian course.
For your sake, he became a Man of sorrows that he might know how to
succor you when you are tempted. You are very, very dear to all of
us, Ellen. We shall miss you every hour of the day; and every time we
gather around the family altar we shall implore a blessing for you."

Morning dawned,—a blustering, November morning, the dull leaden sky
adding to the gloom which surrounded the family as they gathered, at an
unusually early hour, around the table for breakfast.

"You must remember your promise, Mary, to make us a long visit this
winter, and we'll have a very pleasant time," said Mr. Saunders, as he
uttered a few parting words and waited for the carriage. "And Frank has
a standing invitation to make our house his home whenever he can leave
his studies."



CHAPTER XXIII.

END OF TRUTH AND OF LYING.

THE parting was over, and they were fairly on their way; but Ellen
could not so suddenly repress her tears, though her father's voice fell
soft and lovingly on her ear. His heart was filled with pleasure at the
praises of his child to which he had been listening from Dr. Collins;
and, as they hurried on after the iron horse, a smile played on his
lip, while she, stealthily wiping her eyes, read again and again a tiny
note which Frank had crowded into her hand.

   "Forgive, dear cousin, the fretfulness and peevishness I have
   manifested since the day we dug up the dahlia roots. I meant to
   have made this last fortnight of your stay in P— so pleasant that
   you would always have remembered it. My only excuse for my foolish
   conduct is a remark you made to me that night, but which, at
   present, I cannot repeat. I know, Ellen, you will try to do right
   wherever you are; and I hope you will be happy.

                             "FRANK."

The evening of the same day found our young friend seated at her
father's table, Aunt Clarissa, primly dressed in a rich, rustling black
silk, behind the urn, and her own beautiful sister Alice opposite.

Here, in the old familiar rooms, more than she had ever done, did Ellen
miss her brother Joseph; but she felt that this was not the time to
cherish sad reflections.

"I am in my own dear home," her heart kept repeating, "with a fond
father and aunt ready to indulge every wish, however foolish, and a
sister more beautiful than I ever dreamed of to be the companion of my
every day life."

And yet, before Ellen retired, she felt that she would give all she had
for just one glimpse of the friends she had left.

"What are they doing, now?" she asked herself. "Does Frank really miss
me as he said he should? I can't imagine what remark of mine he alludes
to."

Alice and Ellen had each of them a room fitted for their use in
as tasteful a manner as their father could devise. Aunt Clarissa
accompanied the latter to her chamber,—for Ellen found, before the
first evening had passed, that her handsome sister loved no extra
exertion,—and inquired whether she needed any assistance.

"No, indeed," she answered, laughing. "You are just the same dear, kind
Aunt Clarissa you were four years ago. You must teach me to help you,
and not wait upon a great healthy girl like me."

Miss Saunders took a seat, unasked, and began to explain how carefully
she and her nephew had arranged everything for her niece's comfort.

Then Ellen, after expressing her thanks, and saying, "I hope you'll
find I'm not ungrateful," took out her small Bible, the gift of Cousin
Mary, and began to read.

"Just see how far Mary and I have read together," she said, warmly.
"Let me read aloud to you. Here, please take this easy seat."

And, having arranged everything to her satisfaction, she began the
ninety-first Psalm, which she read in a manner which proved that she
relied upon its blessed promises.

"Good night," said Miss Saunders, rising, when her voice ceased. "You
are a very good reader. I shall ask to come in again."

Ellen jumped up and gave her a fervent kiss, which made the spinster's
heart warm all night.

The next morning, the sisters were sitting together in Alice's room,
when Aunt Clarissa entered; Ellen was just saying,—

"No, I never learned to dance, and I don't expect to go to balls; but I
love singing dearly."

Alice arched her splendid eyebrows with astonishment. "What will people
think?" she asked in her own soft voice.

"I'm a school-girl, yet, you know," said Ellen, slightly blushing.
"Father says I'm to attend Mr. Adams's classes in the city; but that is
not all," she added, conquering a momentary hesitation. "I don't think
I should enjoy myself in parties of that kind. I had rather go where I
should meet with society that would do me good."

A scornful smile curled Alice's lip; but she said nothing.

"Let me thread your needle, Aunt Clarissa," cried Ellen, running to the
window near which her aunt was trying in vain to do so. "I shall always
love to do it for you."

"La, dear child! I can generally see very well; but this morning is so
dark." Nevertheless, she smiled and looked pleased at the attention.

At this moment a servant knocked at the door.

"Miss Alice," she said, "Mr. Mansfield has called and asked for you."

"Tiresome creature!" exclaimed the beauty. "What possessed him to come
here so early? I have a great mind to say I'm too ill to see him."

Ellen started. "Oh!" she began, and then checked herself.

"Come, Ellen, I wont go and entertain him alone. Besides, he's just one
of your kind."

Alice, half-pouting, brushed her hair until it shone, and accompanied
by her sister, left for the parlor.

Mr. Mansfield was a gentleman whom she had met at a concert, and who,
though a wise man, and near thirty years of age, experienced some
quickening of the pulse, as he gazed upon her lovely countenance.

"If the mind and features correspond," he said to himself, "I will win
her, if I can."

Ellen was astonished at the warm reception her sister gave one whom
she had appeared so reluctant to meet. Alas, she soon learned that all
with Alice was appearance! There was no reality, no sincerity, even in
the most simple words or actions. They sat and talked upon a variety
of subjects until the young girl felt quite proud of her sister, who
seemed a prodigy of learning.

Before he rose from his somewhat lengthened call, Mr. Mansfield
congratulated the sisters upon meeting after so long a separation; and
then looking at them he said, smiling,—

"One would be puzzled to know which is the elder."

"I am two years older than Ellen," quickly responded Alice.

"You forget," exclaimed the other, laughing; "I am three years younger
than you."

The beauty cast a glance of displeasure at her sister, which was not
unperceived by their visitor, and which gave him a keen pang. He bowed
rather gravely, and wishing them good-morning, took his leave.

"Now, Ellen," said Alice, when he had scarcely shut the door, "we may
as well understand each other. Once for all, I wont have you correcting
me in company! It's bad enough to have father watching me, without your
breaking in with, 'You're mistaken, sister. It's so;' or 'it's so.'"

"But," interrupted Ellen, "I didn't suppose,—I never thought you wished
to deceive him."

"I can't help what you thought; I wont submit to it!"

"But if I said nothing, I, too, should be guilty of falsehood; and I
wouldn't tell what is not true. I had rather cut off my right hand."

She spoke warmly, as if she meant what she said.

"Nonsense!" cried Alice, now really provoked. "What do you suppose I
care for your Puritan notions. You'll find you can't carry them out in
fashionable society."

"Then I'll renounce it forever; nor will it cost me one pang to do so.
I am only grieved because—"

She stopped suddenly; there was a noise of something falling near
the door. Springing forward, she found herself face to face with Mr.
Mansfield; his cane had dropped from his hand.

Alice, after one glance into his face, made her escape through a back
door.

Ellen, her cheeks burning with excitement, and her kindling eyes
bearing marks of the indignation her sister's unkind words had called
forth, frankly expressed her astonishment at finding him there.

"I was drawing on my gloves in the entry," he began, gravely, "when
it occurred to me that it might be pleasant for you both to attend
Mr. E—'s lecture this evening. I stepped back toward the door when I
heard your remark, 'But if I said nothing, I, too, should be guilty of
falsehood.' Then followed your sister's retort, when— In fact, I don't
think after that I knew exactly what I was about."

She did not answer.

"I may never see you again, Miss Ellen," he added, with an expression
of pain; "but I do not like to go until you say you will excuse me for
what I involuntarily heard."

She blushed painfully, but after an effort, said,—

"Mr. Mansfield, you are a great deal older than I am, and perhaps will
not understand my frankness. As far as I am concerned, I excuse you;
but don't you think it would have been better for you to walk right
away?"

"Yes, if I had been responsible for my own actions; but to tell the
truth, I was stunned with what I heard. And then it may affect the
happiness of my whole life. But I feel that I have gained a friend, if
I have lost one. I thank you for your candor, and the more as I know
what an effort it cost you. As you value your own peace and that of
your friends, retain your truthfulness at whatever cost. Truth is a
priceless jewel, and I am delighted to see that you, at least, possess
it."



As our story has already exceeded its limits, I can only add that
Alice, though acknowledged to have more beauty of features and more
ease of manner, was neither loved nor respected like her sister. She
married at the age of twenty-six a man whom she had deceived into
believing her to be four years younger, and for whose position in
society she had made one dreadfully false oath at the altar, when she
promised to love and cherish him till death.

Ellen remained with her father in B— until her school education was
completed; and then, as Alice was in Philadelphia visiting one of her
fashionable friends, accompanied him to Europe, where they remained two
years. At the end of that time, they returned, and were soon welcomed
by Dr. Frank Collins, who had gone into partnership with his father in
P—.

"Ellen," he said, on the evening of her arrival, "I have one question
to ask you; and as I know you to be truthful, I expect a candid reply.
Will you be my wife?"

"Yes, sir, I will."

"Ah, Ellen, then you are not sorry I am not your brother?"

"No, sir, not at all sorry now."

After the marriage of Alice, Mr. Saunders sold his property in the
city, and went to P— to live with his daughter, Ellen Collins, in
a beautiful house he had built for them. Where every year that he
witnessed her truthful, conscientious life, he became more convinced
that, in the words of the poet, though:

                  "The grave's dark portal
      Soon shuts this world of shadows from the view
   Then shall we grasp realities immortal,
      if to the truth within us, we are true."








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