_LOST AND FOUND._
The children were just ready to start for school the next morning,
and papa had promised to walk as far as Mrs. Ashton's door with them,
when there was a violent ringing at the hell; and, when the front
door was opened, in rushed Gracie Howard, flushed and excited, and
with her face wearing the marks of a hard fit of crying.
Her father followed her.
"Oh," exclaimed Gracie, without waiting to say "good-morning"
herself, or allowing any one else to do so, "have you seen it? have
you seen it?"
"Seen what?" asked Maggie and Bessie in a breath.
"There!" said Gracie, bursting into tears again; "I knew it! oh, I
just knew it! I told you I was sure I brought it away with me, papa."
"What is the trouble?" asked Mr. Bradford, shaking hands with Mr.
Howard.
"She has lost her composition," answered Mr. Howard. "It seems she
brought it here yesterday afternoon, with the purpose, I am sorry to
say, of making a display of it to her young companions; and this
morning it was missing. She is quite positive she had it in her
hands when she left your house, but does not recollect bringing it as
far as our own; and her mother, who took off her cloak as soon as she
came home, says she is quite sure Gracie carried no composition.
But, although the child is so confident, I thought she might be
mistaken, and find she had left it here. Good-morning, madam:" this
to Mrs. Bradford, who had been called into the hall by Gracie's
cries; and the difficulty was next explained to her.
"I believe Gracie is right," said the lady. "She left the paper
lying on the library table, and, seeing it there just as she was
going away, I brought it out and gave it to her. I do not think she
can have left it here; but I will inquire if the servants have seen
it."
The servants were questioned, but all declared they had seen nothing
of the missing paper; and it seemed that Gracie must have lost it in
the street. She moaned and sobbed and cried as if she had lost all
the world held dear for her, and would not listen to a word of
comfort. She thrust the children from her when they would have
offered her their sympathy, saying she knew they were "glad, because
now Maggie could have the prize;" nor would she listen to her
father's entreaties and commands that she should be silent, although,
at last, he spoke very severely to her, and was obliged to take her
home, in spite of its being nearly school-time. She was in no state
for school just then.
Maggie walked slowly by her father's side on the way to Mrs.
Ashton's, not skipping and jumping as usual; and, when they reached
the stoop, she seized hold of him, and said,--
"Papa, I'm afraid I feel glad about Gracie's composition. Do you
think I am dreadfully awful?"
"No," said papa, smiling; "I do not. But if I were you, Maggie, I
would not say 'awful' so much. That is something you have learned at
school, which I should be glad to have you unlearn as soon as
possible. But as to the composition--well, I suppose you could
scarcely be expected to feel otherwise;" and Mr. Bradford smiled
again as he thought that if he were questioned he might be obliged to
confess to a share in Maggie's feelings. "I believe it is only
natural, dear; but I hope you will not let Gracie see it."
"Oh no, papa!" said Maggie; "I hope I wouldn't be so mean as that. I
do feel sorry for Gracie, even if I am glad for myself to have a
better chance."
"And we'll try to be kinder to Gracie too, so she'll have no reason
to think we're not sorry for her," said Bessie.
All this had made our little girls rather later than usual; and they
had to take their places immediately, so that there was no
opportunity to tell the news until school had been opened, when Miss
Ashton, seeing Gracie was not present, turned to Maggie and said,--
"Gracie is absent. Did you make her sick at your party last night,
Maggie?"
Then Maggie told of Gracie's loss; and two or three of the children
said they remembered quite well that Mrs. Bradford had come into the
hall, and handed Gracie her paper just before she went away.
The child came in a little later, looking the very picture of woe,
and bringing an excuse for tardiness from her mother. But she was in
no mood to meet any extra kindness in a grateful spirit; and showed
herself altogether so pettish and disagreeable that Miss Ashton was
more than once obliged to call her to order. Then she cried afresh,
and said that every one was "hateful," and no one cared for her, and
that she just believed they would not tell her if they knew where her
composition was.
"Come here, Gracie," said Miss Ashton; and Gracie went slowly and
reluctantly to her teacher's side. "Do you really think, if any of
your schoolmates knew where your composition was, they would not tell
you?" said the lady.
Gracie put up her shoulder, hung her head, and fidgeted from one foot
to another; but Miss Ashton repeated her question.
Then, her ill-temper getting the upper hand of all her better
feelings, she answered sulkily,--
"I don't believe Maggie or Bessie would. I know they are just glad
enough."
"O-o-o-o-h! o-o-o-o-h! What a shame!" and such exclamations broke
from the other children. But Miss Ashton commanded silence.
"That is a grave charge to bring against any one, Gracie, and
especially against those who have been your friends for so long,"
said the lady. "I am ashamed of you."
And Gracie was ashamed of herself, though she would not acknowledge
it; but only pouted the more at Miss Ashton's gentle reproof.
"Now, my dear," said the lady, "I cannot have you behaving in this
way. You are interfering with the peace and comfort of the whole
class; and, unless you can make up your mind to be reasonable, you
must go and sit by yourself in the cloak-room."
Foolish Gracie! she chose the latter, and went away by herself to
nurse her ill-humour and disappointed vanity.
There was no time now to write another composition. The rough sketch
of the first she had thrown into the fire, thinking she would never
need it again; and Gracie did not find her trouble easier to bear
because it was, as her father had told her, the result of her own
love of display.
Maggie and Bessie were both hurt and indignant at her injustice; but
they knew she would be sorry for it when she was in a more reasonable
humour, and would not agree to Belle's proposal that "the whole class
should be mad with her as long as they lived."
Although Mrs. Bradford felt almost sure that Gracie had taken the
missing paper away with her, and lost it on the way home, she had a
thorough search made for it, but all in vain.
Harry and Fred, the latter especially, were openly jubilant over the
loss, imagining, as every one else did, that this left a clear field
for Maggie; and declared that "it served Miss Vanity right, and they
were not a bit sorry for her."
That evening Mr. and Mrs. Bradford went out to dinner, leaving the
children quietly amusing themselves in the library. Harry was
reading aloud to his little sisters; while Fred was busy with some
wax flowers, at which pretty work he was quite expert.
Flossy, not quite approving of such quiet doings, sat on the corner
of Maggie's chair; but, had any one of the four been at leisure to
notice him, they would have seen that he was watching his chance for
any bit of mischief which might lead to a frolic.
Fred had spread a paper upon the table, so that the blue cloth with
which it was covered might not become soiled with the wax and other
materials with which he was busy. He was generally ready enough to
indulge Flossy with a game of play; and the dog, finding that he
could attract attention in no other way, suddenly jumped up, and
seized the corner of the paper, dragging it half off the table, and
upsetting a little saucer of pink powder with which Fred was
colouring the rose he was making.
Fred was provoked, and sent him off with a cuff upon his ear, instead
of the romp he had been looking for; then set about repairing the
damage he had caused as speedily as possible, his brother and sisters
coming to his help.
Some of the pink powder had gone upon the table, and, though Harry
took it up carefully with a paper-knife, it left its traces behind.
"Oh, won't Patrick be in a taking when he sees the table?" said Fred.
"It will come off, I guess," said Harry. "Let's brush it up, so as
not to vex his old soul. Bessie, run and bring the whisk brush out
of the drawer in the hall table, that's a pet."
Away ran Bessie into the hall, and, going to the table, pulled open
the drawer. As she did so, she heard something slip, with a little
rustle like that of paper; but she did not pay much attention to it
till she tried to shut the drawer, and found that there was something
in the way which prevented it from closing tight.
Many children would have run away without waiting to see what was
wrong, but that did not suit at all with Bessie's neat, orderly ways.
Once more she pulled out the drawer, which moved stiffly as if it
caught upon something, and peeped within. At first she could not see
anything; and she drew it farther out. Again there came that rustle
of paper; and, as she peered in, there, over the back of the drawer,
half in, half out, was something white, with--Bessie could not see
very distinctly, and she would not venture another glance--with
something that looked as if it might be an end of scarlet ribbon
hanging from it. She started, shut up the drawer hastily, thrusting
it as far in as she could, and ran back to the library with her heart
beating fast.
"Hallo!" said Fred, as he put out his hand to take the brush from
her, "what has frightened you? You look as if you'd seen something."
"You have no right to say I saw anything," said Bessie, in a tone so
sharp and angry that her brothers and sister looked at her in great
surprise.
"Whew!" said Fred. "You seem to have picked up a fit of crossness
any way. I'd like to know what has come over you so suddenly."
"You can just hush and let me alone," said Bessie, "I'll never bring
you a brush again, Fred;" and then she ran out of the room, and
up-stairs as fast as she could go.
"Well, did you ever?" exclaimed Fred.
"What can ail her?" said Harry. "She surely did not mind going for
the brush?"
"Why, no," answered Fred; "she seemed ready enough; but she came back
the next moment in such a fume, and looking scared out of her wits."
"I'm going to see," said Maggie: "she'll tell me;" and she ran after
Bessie.
But Maggie was mistaken.
She found Bessie in their mother's room, her angry mood passing away;
but she still looked flushed and troubled, and to all Maggie's
anxious questioning she would give no satisfactory answer.
"You must have seen something that frightened you, didn't you,
Bessie?"
"I don't know," answered Bessie: "I was frightened; but I don't know
if I saw what I saw,--I mean I don't know if I saw what I _thought_ I
saw,--and I didn't want to look again."
"Was it a robber?" asked Maggie.
"No," said Bessie. "If it had been a robber, I'd have said, 'Thou
shalt not steal,' and then run for Patrick to take him to the
policeman."
"I guess he wouldn't have waited till Patrick came," said Maggie.
"But tell me about it, Bessie."
"Not now, Maggie. Maybe I'll have to tell you some other time; but
you wouldn't like to hear it, and I'll have to think about it first.
Oh, I do _wish_ mamma was home!"
"Is it a weight on your mind?" asked Maggie, who, as well as her
sister, was very fond of this expression.
Bessie nodded assent with a long and solemn shake of her head.
"I think you might tell _me_," said Maggie.
"I don't mean to keep it secret from you for ever and ever," said
Bessie; "but you see I'm not quite sure about something, and I'm
'fraid I ought to make myself sure. And if I was sure, I would not
know what I ought to do. It is very hard to think what is right
about it."
Maggie looked wonderingly into her sister's puzzled face. What could
have happened to trouble her so in that moment or two she was out in
the hall? But, anxious though she was, she asked no more questions,
knowing that Bessie would tell her this wonderful secret when she was
ready.
"There's the bell for our supper," she said. "Come down, and don't
bother yourself any more about it."
Bessie obeyed the first injunction, but the second was out of her
power. She was no longer cross, however, and begged Fred's pardon
for having spoken so pettishly to him; but she sent away her supper
almost untasted, and continued thoughtful and rather mournful till
her bed-time. She was really glad when that hour came, and she was
safe in bed, when she could think over this troublesome matter in
quiet, and ask for the help which never failed her.
She thought she should stay awake till her mother came home; and, as
she lay tossing and restless, it seemed to her that mamma was staying
away half the night. But, although it was not really so very late,
she had dropped off to sleep before her mother came to see if her
little girls were all safe and quiet for the night; and mamma was
sorry to find Bessie's face and pillow wet with tears.
Nurse could not tell what the trouble had been, only that Bessie had
seemed dull and out of spirits when she put her to bed, and would not
say what ailed her.
The little girl woke very early the next morning, and, finding Maggie
still sleeping, she lay quietly thinking.
Thinking of that which had troubled and puzzled her so last night;
but now it seemed all clear.
She feared that the paper which she had seen in the drawer was
Gracie's composition; but she was not sure; and she had had a hard
struggle with herself, trying to believe that it was not her duty to
go and find out.
A voice had whispered to her, "What is the good of looking? You only
saw a paper which may be Gracie's, and may not be; and it is none of
your business. Just let it alone, and trouble yourself no more about
it. If you found it was really the lost composition, what would you
do then? Go and tell every one, and take away Maggie's chance for
the prize? Remember what your uncle and the colonel said. And does
not every one say that Gracie is only properly punished for her
vanity? Why should you interfere? If you did know that was the
missing paper, is there any reason why you should tell where it is?
If you injure Gracie by keeping it back, do you not injure Maggie by
bringing it to light? Maggie is your sister, your own dear little
sister; and surely you ought to consider her first, and do what is
best for her."
"But," said conscience, "is it right, is it just? How would you feel
towards any one who did this to Maggie? Would you not say they had
acted unfairly and meanly towards her? Would you like your papa or
mamma or any other person to know it? Will Jesus be pleased with
you, and think you are acting as His own little child should do?"
Poor little thing! She was really sorely puzzled. She could not
make it seem right to do what she wished to do, and what seemed to be
best for her sister; and yet how could she make up her mind to do
what appeared so unkind to her own Maggie? Oh, if mamma were only
there to help her to know what was right and best! Well, all she
could do was to tell her all her doubts in the morning.
Such were the thoughts which had disturbed her last night, and called
forth the tears with which mamma had found her pillow wet; but this
morning the struggle was over, and Bessie felt quite sure that there
was only _one_ right thing for her to do.
She lay still till Maggie woke, and then said, "Maggie, are you wide
awake? 'cause I have a bad news to tell you."
Maggie, who was always very wide awake and ready for the day's
business the moment her eyes were opened, answered, eager with
expectation, "Oh, yes! very wide indeed. Is it about what troubled
you last night, Bessie? Tell me quick."
"Yes," said Bessie slowly; "but first I want to ask you something,
dear Maggie. If I had to do a very unkind thing to you, or to some
other person, what would you think I ought to do?"
"Why," said Maggie, sitting up in her little bed, "I would think you
ought to choose that other person to do it to. I'm your sister, you
know," in a tone as if this quite settled the question.
"Yes," said poor Bessie, with a sigh. "But then, Maggie, what if I
thought it most right to do it to you?"
"Well," said Maggie, hugging up her knees, and leaning her chin
against them, while she gazed in surprise at Bessie,--"well, if you
thought such a queer thing as that, why, I'd have to think you were a
little bit crazy, Bessie."
"Yes, if I _wanted_ to do it, Maggie; but, you know, I would rather
do an unkind thing to any one than you. But if it seemed the
_truest_, the _honestest_ way, would you think I was crazy then?"
"Well, no," said Maggie, rather doubtfully; "but I don't see how that
could be, Bessie; and I can't judge much if you don't tell me more
about it."
"Maggie, last night when I went to the drawer in the hall-table, I
saw something there, 'way far back, that looked like a rolled-up
paper."
"Well?" said Maggie.
"And I _think_, but I am not _sure_, that it had a piece of red
ribbon on it; but I did not wait to look again, and shut up the
drawer very quick."
"Oh!" said Maggie, as she released her clasp on her knees, and rolled
over on her pillow; "then that was what ailed you last night, I
s'pose."
"Yes," answered Bessie piteously; "and you know what I thought it
looked like, don't you, Maggie?"
"Well, yes," said Maggie, taking the news much more coolly than
Bessie had supposed she would. "I s'pose you thought it was Gracie's
composition; and it was."
"How do you know?" asked Bessie, starting up.
"'Cause last night I went to put the brush back in the drawer, and
when I pulled it open I heard something rustle, and I peeped in, and
poked till it fell out on the floor; and it was Gracie's paper, all
mussed up and crumpled; I guess it came so, being squeezed up in the
drawer. So you see she didn't take it away with her after all; but I
do wonder how it came there."
"But why didn't you tell me?" asked Bessie.
"Why, I thought you had one unhappiness in your mind already," said
Maggie; "and I knew you would feel rather sorry about this, so I
thought I would not tell you till this morning. But, Bessie, why
didn't you tell me, and why didn't you look again and be sure?"
"'Cause I didn't want to be sure. O Maggie! you were a great deal
better than me. I tried to think I did not know what the paper was,
and that I need not find out if I did not want to, and that it was
not mine to do anything about, and that it would not be right to do
such an unkind thing to you. But all I could do, it would seem as if
it was a kind of a cheat, not very true; and I had to feel as if I
ought to look again, and if it was really Gracie's paper to give it
to her. But I could not help praying a good deal that our Father
would not let it be the composition if He did not think it was very
much the best. I think it was worse than about the hospital bed,
Maggie. I did feel so sure yesterday that you would have the prize
now."
"You darling, precious ducky!" said Maggie, "That was an awful
temptation for you. Oh, I forgot! papa told me not to say 'awful.'
But then that was _really_ awful; so I can say it this time."
"Didn't you feel a bit like hiding it, Maggie?" said Bessie.
"Why, no," said Maggie. "I never thought about its being the
composition, till I picked it up, and saw it was. But I felt as
provoked as anything for a moment--I'm sure I don't know who at;--but
I just felt that if it would not be so awfully--I mean so
dreadfully--mean, I'd just like to tear the composition up. But
after that I was more sensible; and then I remembered about you, and
how you'd be provoked too; so I put the paper back in the drawer, and
thought I'd tell you and mamma this morning, and then we'd take it to
school for Gracie."
"I believe you're just the best, darlingest girl that ever lived!"
exclaimed Bessie, looking at her sister in great admiration and
relief. "And now, dear Maggie, I suppose you know what the unkind
thing was I had to do to you; and you won't think me a bit crazy,
will you?"
"Why, no," said Maggie; "you couldn't help it, you had to do it, so
that I don't see that it was unkind. And, Bessie, you see it was a
great deal harder for you about the temptation than it was for me.
If it had been you that had a chance for the prize, I don't know if I
could have stood it--no, I don't, Bessie. There! mamma is awake. I
hear her talking. Mamma! mamma! can we come in your bed? We have a
discovery to tell you."
Mamma said "yes," and, jumping up, they ran into the other room, and
scrambled into her bed, where the "discovery," and the story of
Bessie's temptation and struggle, were soon told.
"My dear little girls!" said Mrs. Bradford fondly. "I am so
thankful!"
"For what, mamma?" said Maggie, in surprise "You are not glad that
Gracie's composition is found, are you? I thought it was rather a
misfortune; but then, you see, we could not help it?"
"I am not _sorry_," said her mother, "since it has shown me that my
fears were without cause; and that all your anxiety for these prizes
could not make you unfair or ungenerous towards another, or lead
either of you from the ways of truth and uprightness. Yes; I would
rather know this, than that my Maggie and Bessie should gain a
thousand prizes."
It never was found out exactly how the lost paper came in that
drawer. No one could recollect putting it there; and Mrs. Bradford
said Gracie must have laid it on the table after she brought it out
to her, and some person have caught it up with other things, and
thrust it in without noticing it. That drawer had been searched with
other places, but the paper had been pushed out of sight, till Bessie
heard the rustle and discovered it.