KITTY went up to her own room and sat down, feeling as if some one had
struck her a stunning blow. Felicia Brandon! She had no difficulty now
in recollecting where she had heard the name. What had possessed her to
take that composition above all others? Yet she could not possibly have
known or guessed that Miss Watson had a sister of that name who had
once attended Miss Burlingame's school; and she felt that, if she had
taken any other, something else would have happened to bring the matter
to light. Her sin had found her out at last, and there was no escaping
the consequences. Detection—probably public disgrace—was hanging over
her head, and she could do nothing whatever to arrest it.
She pictured the whole thing to herself. Miss Watson would probably
keep the discovery a secret till the day of examination, and then
proclaim it before the whole school. Selina would triumph in her
disgrace, and Sylvia and the other girls shrink away from her in horror
and disgust, while her aunt—but she could not endure to think of what
her aunt and, above all, of what her father and mother would say when
it came to their knowledge, as it too certainly must.
"It will kill mother, I know," she said to herself. "She used to feel
worse about my telling a lie than any thing. Oh, what shall I do? What
shall I do? She little thought, when she kissed me good-by—"
Kitty burst into tears and wept bitterly for a long time. Finally, she
dried her eyes, washed her face, and, putting on her hat, she went
quietly out at the back-door and down through the orchard to where she
knew Harvey was at work mending a fence. It seemed a curious choice of
a counsellor for a girl like Kitty, but she had become very fond of
Harvey, and she had learned, moreover, to have a high opinion of his
sense and judgment. She felt as if he would at least be kind to her and
perhaps tell her what to do.
Harvey was busily at work, hammering and whistling. But he stopped when
he saw Kitty coming, and waited her approach. He was amazed, as she
came near, to see how pale she was and how red her eyes were.
"Why, Kitty, what is the matter?" he asked. "What has happened? You
look as if your heart was fairly broken."
Kitty wept anew.
"You won't speak so to me, Harvey, when you hear. I don't believe you
will ever speak to me again, but I want to tell you, and have your
advice about it."
"About what?" asked Harvey, amazed and grieved to see Kitty's distress.
"Come; don't cry, but tell me what is your trouble and how I can help
you. Sit down on this stone, and let's hear all about it."
It was some little time before Kitty could compose herself to speak.
But at last she began at the beginning and went over the whole affair.
Harvey listened without comment, diligently whittling the while.
When Kitty had finished,—
"It is a bad business, Kitty," he said, "a very bad business, and
the last thing I should ever have expected of you. I always thought,
whatever your faults were, you would be open and honest. I don't see
what is to be done."
"But won't you help me, Harvey?" Kitty asked, in distress. "I don't
expect you will ever like me again, but I do wish you would tell me
what to do."
"Who have you told about it?" asked Harvey.
"Nobody but you. I suppose Miss Watson has found it out by this time."
"You must go directly to your aunt and tell her the whole story," said
Harvey, decidedly.
"Aunt Sarah! Oh, Harvey, I never can do that in the world!"
"I don't know what else to advise, Kitty. It is the only right course
to take, in my opinion. You had better confess it yourself than have
Miss Watson tell her first, as she surely will unless you make the most
of your time."
"If I only knew what they would do," said Kitty. "I am so afraid Miss
Watson will tell of it in school. If I thought nobody would know but
Miss Watson and aunt, I should not care so much. But to have all the
girls talking about it,—Selina, above all—"
She paused for sympathy.
But Harvey had returned to his whittling, and did not speak till Kitty
had repeated again, "If it were only aunt and Miss Watson, I should not
care."
Then he said, without looking up,—
"There is One other, who has known it all along, Kitty, whom you don't
seem at all to take into the account."
"Who do you mean?" asked Kitty. "Miss Burlingame? She doesn't know any
thing about it yet."
"No; I don't mean Miss Burlingame, nor Miss Anybody, but One much
higher, against whom you have sinned more deeply than against any one
else, and whose forgiveness is much more important to you than either
Miss Watson's or your aunt's. You don't seem to think any thing about
Him."
Kitty made a movement of impatience.
"Now, Harvey, please don't begin to preach about it, but tell me what
you think I had better do. I want advice, and not a sermon."
"I think," said Harvey, getting up from the stone and returning to
his fence-mending, "that you had better go to your own room, confess
your sin and ask God's forgiveness, and then go to your aunt and tell
her all about it; and try to do this, not because you want to escape
exposure and disgrace, but because you have committed a great sin and
feel your need of pardon."
"Suppose I don't feel the need of it?" said Kitty.
"Then pray that you may," replied Harvey, shortly.
"It was as much Selina's fault as mine," said Kitty. "If she had not
teased me so about my composition, I should never have thought of doing
it."
"I suppose if you had got angry and killed her, you would have made the
same excuse," remarked Harvey. "Don't you remember what I told you that
evening in the cow-yard,—'He that despiseth little things shall fall by
little and little'? You did not think then that vanity was a matter of
any consequence; and just see what it has led to. First, envy, hatred
and malice, then theft, then lying—"
"You should not speak so to me, Harvey!" interrupted Kitty, with
crimson cheeks and flashing eyes. "You as much as call me a thief and a
liar!"
"What else do you make of it?" asked Harvey, coolly. "You took what was
not your own, that was theft: and then you pretended that it 'was' your
own, that was lying,—according to my dictionary. And if any one had
done so by you, you would have been ready enough to call the thing by
its right name. I don't want to hurt your feelings, Kitty, and I would
help you if I could, I am sure, but I want you to see matters just as
they are,—because, till you do, you can never do any thing towards
setting them right again. That is the very best advice I can give you."
This was cold comfort, and Kitty returned to the house feeling worse
than ever. Angry with Harvey, with herself and the whole world,
trembling under the fear of detection and disgrace, tormented by the
conscience which would no longer be silenced, she was indeed wretched
enough. She took a few hasty morsels at the tea-table, and then excused
herself under the plea that she wanted to go up-stairs and look over
her lessons.
Meantime, Miss Watson had carried home all the compositions, wishing
to give her sister an opportunity of looking them over before reading
them in public. There was quite a parcel of them; for all the girls had
written, and they were all to be read if there was time.
"There is one which I think is a little out of the common course," she
observed, as Miss Brandon was laying them out upon the table. "It is
Kitty Maynard's, and is really remarkable for a girl of her age. You
will find her name upon the back of it."
"'The Last Night of the Old World,'" repeated Felicia, as she opened
it. "I wrote a composition with that title myself, once upon a time."
She began to read, but before she had half finished it, she uttered an
exclamation of astonishment.
"Curious, isn't it?" remarked Miss Watson, who was busied over
something else.
"I should think it was!" said Felicia. "Why, Sophy, this is my own
composition, word for word! I wrote it at Miss Burlingame's the last
year I was there; and here it is, literally copied! I don't think there
is one expression changed or left out."
Miss Watson looked perfectly confounded.
"But Kitty certainly gave it to me for her own: she showed me the first
draught, and it had every appearance of being an original document."
"I cannot help that," persisted Miss Brandon. "It is my composition. It
took Miss Burlingame's fancy greatly, and she had it read at the next
examination. I never thought so very much of it myself. But here it is:
there can be no mistake about that."
"Kitty has been at Miss Burlingame's school a long time, I know," said
Miss Watson; "but how could she come by this composition?"
"Very easily," replied Felicia. "The compositions used to be kept in a
great box in the closet, and I presume they are to this day,—for the
customs of that school are like the laws of the Medes and Persians. She
had only to get the key of the closet and help herself. And that, I
presume, she has done, taking the precaution to select old ones which
would not be missed. Have you any more of her productions?"
"I have all the compositions she has written since she came to school,"
replied Miss Watson.
And she forthwith placed them before her sister, who proceeded to look
them over. She selected six or seven from the pile and laid them aside.
"I remember all these," she said, "as having been read that winter.
This was Lucy McNair's, and that was Augusta Hyde's, and these three
were poor Anna Crampton's. The authors of the others I do not remember,
but I have a perfectly distinct recollection of the compositions
themselves. Upon my word, I think Miss Kitty must be a remarkable young
lady. I know girls frequently use over their own compositions when they
go from one school to another, and I believe most teachers consider it
allowable. But this case goes beyond any thing that has come within the
range of my experience."
Miss Watson looked very much distressed. "I do not know what to do
about it, Felicia," she said, after some painful consideration. "Of
course, I shall not read it, and I must take notice of it in some way,
but how best to do it is the question."
"She deserves a public disgrace richly," said Felicia, indignantly.
"There is no doubt of what she deserves," replied Miss Watson, "but the
question in my mind is, not what she deserves, but what will do her the
most good? I wish to take such a course as to make her sensible of her
fault and penitent for it. I seldom or never punish for the mere sake
of punishing."
"Nor I," said Felicia,—"though I know I used to when I first began to
teach. But who is this Miss Kitty, and who does she stay with?"
"She is Mrs. Sarah Evelyn's niece, and has been spending the summer
with her. Her mother, Mrs. Richard Maynard, has always been sick, and I
suppose poor Kitty has grown-up pretty much as it has happened. Mr. and
Mrs. Maynard are travelling this summer, and Kitty is under her aunt's
care."
"Then why not consult Mrs. Evelyn before doing any thing? I used to
think her one of the wisest women in the world. And as Kitty has
deceived her as well as you, it seems perfectly proper to tell her the
whole story. Suppose, as there is not much time to lose, you go over
there after tea and hold council with her?"
Miss Watson considered a little and finally decided upon the course
which her sister recommended.
Kitty's room was at the back of the house, but she heard the gate shut
and the knock at the door, and she felt certain at once that Miss
Watson had come to tell her aunt. Bitterly she repented that she had
not taken Harvey's advice at once and forestalled the story by her own
frank confession, but it was too late for that now.
It seemed to her an age, as she sat in the deepening twilight, before
her aunt came to the foot of the stairs and called her. She descended
slowly and paused a moment before she opened the door. Her aunt and
Miss Watson were sitting together at the table. And Miss Watson held in
her hand, not only the examination-composition, but all the others.
"Come in, Kitty, and shut the door," said Mrs. Evelyn, gravely.
Kitty obeyed in silence.
"I have been hearing very bad news about you, Kitty," Mrs. Evelyn
continued,—"news which I should never have believed had not the proofs
been absolutely incontestable. I wish now to hear from your own lips
the story of the transaction, and very glad shall I be if you can
produce any thing in extenuation of your fault. Where did you get these
compositions?"
Kitty was silent.
"Answer me, my child: where did you get them?"
"If you know all about it," Kitty answered, sullenly, "there is no use
in my telling you."
"I know that you have used as your own what did not belong to you,"
said Mrs. Evelyn, sternly, "and I wish to hear whether you obtained
them in any honest way in the first place, or whether you stole them.
If you refuse to answer me, I shall take other means to ascertain,
which may be less agreeable to you than if you made a full confession."
Kitty paused a moment, and then said, "I got them out of the
school-house the day I went to town with Harvey."
"How did you get into the school-house?"
"I asked Miss Burlingame for the key, and then took the key of the
closet out of her little drawer."
"Where are the originals now?"
Kitty would not answer.
Mrs. Evelyn lighted a candle and went up-stairs. She was gone some
time, but finally returned with the bundle in her hand, and opening the
door of the next room, she called in Miss Brandon.
"Miss Brandon, will you please to look at these papers and tell us if
you recognise them?"
Miss Brandon looked them over, and then said, "These papers are
compositions written by the class of which I was a member, and which
left Miss Burlingame's school in the fall and winter of 18—. They
were all read publicly, and were then, according to the custom of
the school, put away in a place appropriated to such things. I was
acquainted with all the writers, and recognise the signatures."
"Would Miss Burlingame have been likely to give them to anybody?"
"I think not. I never knew of her doing so. She has burned up a great
many, but I think she never disposes of them in any other way."
Miss Brandon returned to the other room and shut the door after her.
"You see, Kitty, the matter is proved against you," said Mrs. Evelyn.
"It seems clear that you obtained the key of the school-house upon
false pretences, and then stole these papers, in order that you might,
by making use of them, obtain credit for more talent and industry than
you possess. You went so far as to lay your plans to take a prize at a
public examination by the same means."
[Illustration: _Kitty Maynard._
"Come in, Kitty, and shut the door."]
"I did not mean to take the prize, either," replied Kitty, breaking
silence at last. "I meant to tell Miss Watson that I did not want it,
and would prefer to have her give it to Selina."
"Very generous in you, no doubt," said Mrs. Evelyn, "to give away that
which was not your own! If you wished Selina to have the prize, why did
you not give her a fair chance of obtaining it by simply writing as
well as you could and not availing yourself of any assistance?"
Kitty remained silent; nor could she again be induced to speak. She
would not say that she was sorry for what she had done, nor ask Miss
Watson to forgive her. And wearied at last with her obstinacy, Mrs.
Evelyn ordered her to go to her room and not leave it again till she
gave her permission.
Kitty obeyed, glad to escape from the parlour and shut herself up with
her own thoughts,—which, however, as may be imagined, she did not find
very agreeable companions.
Mrs. Evelyn had said nothing of writing to her father,—which was what
Kitty most dreaded. And she persuaded herself that she would not dare
to do so, for fear of agitating Mrs. Maynard, who had not been so well
lately. She decided in her own mind that she would not go to school
on Monday unless she were carried by force, and after that, she did
not care what became of her. Sometimes she thought of running off,
sometimes even of making way with herself; and she occupied her mind
for a while with imagining how badly they would all feel when they
found her dead, and how her aunt would reproach herself for being the
cause of such a sad catastrophe!
She had wrought herself up to an agony of weeping over the details of
the tragedy, when she was disturbed by the entrance of Mrs. Evelyn, who
was glad to find her in tears, hoping that it was a sign of repentance.
But she soon found out her mistake: Kitty was more sullen than ever,
and Mrs. Evelyn was fairly at her wits' end.
"Shall I write for your father to come, Kitty?" she asked, at last.
But Kitty would not answer.
And with a heavy heart, she determined to wait till morning, hoping
that Kitty's feelings might change in that time, or that some plan
would occur to her by which the obstinate child might be brought to
repentance.
Kitty passed a restless and uncomfortable night, tormented by all
sorts of disagreeable dreams, and awoke in the morning with a violent
headache.
Annie, meantime, was in great trouble at her cousin's disgrace.
"What makes Kitty stay up-stairs?" she asked of her grandmother.
"She has been a very naughty girl," Mrs. Evelyn replied, gravely, "and
she will not say she is sorry."
Annie looked very much distressed; for Kitty had been her model of
perfection, and the idea that she could do any thing wrong was quite
new to her.
"Cannot she come down to breakfast?" she inquired, as she saw her
grandmother preparing a tray to take up-stairs.
"No," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "She cannot come down till she has said she
is sorry. You may go up with me if you please, and carry some of the
things."
Annie followed her grandmother, who set the tray down upon the table
and arranged it comfortably without receiving a word of acknowledgment
from Kitty, who was dressed and apparently engaged in looking out of
the window.
Annie lingered till the door was shut, and then stole timidly to
Kitty's side and took hold of her hand.
"Kitty," said she, softly, "why won't you say you are sorry?"
"Because I am not sorry," replied Kitty, still unmoved.
"But, if you are not sorry, grandmother won't forgive you."
"I haven't asked her to forgive me," replied Kitty, proudly: "I don't
care whether she does or not."
"But God won't forgive you, either," said Annie, very much grieved and
puzzled to find her dear Kitty in such a state of mind.
"I can't help that," said Kitty, still looking out of the window. "I
shall not say I am sorry when I am not. I shall not tell a lie for any
of them," she added,—not choosing to remember how many she had already
told upon her own account.
"But you can ask Him to make you feel sorry. Oh, do, Kitty!"
"'You' can ask Him if you choose, Annie," replied Kitty,—a little
softened, and wishing to get rid of the child's importunity.
Annie took the permission quite literally.
She kneeled down where she stood, and repeated, with touching
seriousness,—
"Our Father in heaven, please make Kitty sorry that she was naughty,
and make her a good girl!"
Then she kissed Kitty, and went slowly down-stairs.
The morning was wearing slowly away, and Kitty began to get very tired
of being left to herself, and to wish that somebody would do something.
She tried to read, to sew, to draw, but nothing answered the purpose
of diverting her attention. She had always been accustomed to spend
part of Saturday morning in writing to her mother and in learning her
Sunday-school lesson. But, as may be imagined, she did not feel very
much inclined to either of those employments at present.
Towards noon, she heard a horse come pretty fast up the road and stop
at the gate, and then a knock at the door, which sounded as if some one
were in a great hurry. She opened the door to listen, and she thought
she heard her aunt utter an exclamation of surprise and grief.
Could her father have come? An undefined feeling of some calamity made
her heart beat fast. But moment after moment passed by, and she heard
no more. Her head ached very severely, and she thought she would lie
down on the bed and try to sleep. She was just falling into a dream
when the door opened, and Mrs. Evelyn came in with a note in her hand
and sat down upon the side of the bed. Her face was pale and her eyes
swollen with weeping; and a second glance showed Kitty that the note
was telegraphic despatch.
"I have just heard from your mother, Kitty," said Mrs. Evelyn, in a
trembling voice.
"Is she worse, aunt?" asked Kitty, starting up in terror. "Oh, I am
sure she is very sick, or they would not have telegraphed."
"No, my poor child," replied Mrs. Evelyn, taking Kitty in her arms:
"she is past all suffering now. She is at peace."
"Not dead?" said Kitty, in a hoarse whisper.
Mrs. Evelyn nodded. She could not speak.
Kitty turned deadly pale, and would have sunk to the floor but that
Mrs. Evelyn sustained her in her arms. She laid her back on the pillow,
and would have risen to seek some restorative. But Kitty held her hand
tightly with both hers, and whispered,—
"No, no! Don't go!"
Mrs. Evelyn kissed and caressed her tenderly, and after a few moments,
was relieved to see her burst into an agony of grief.
"Oh, my mother!—Oh, my dear mother! Oh, what shall I do?" she repeated
between her sobs.
Mrs. Evelyn let her have her way and wept with her for some time. But
at last she began gently to hush her, and by slow degrees, she became
somewhat composed.
"When was it?" she asked, at last.
"Last night, about ten. It was very sudden. She had not been considered
any worse."
Kitty remembered what sort of thoughts and feelings had occupied her
at that very time, and she wept again as if her heart would break.
Her pride and ill-temper had all given way beneath this heavy and
unexpected stroke, and she thought, with tears and shame, of the way in
which she had behaved.
"Oh, I do hope she will never know what a wicked girl I have been!" she
sobbed. "Do you think she will, aunt?"
"I don't know, Kitty. I hope not. But you know," she continued, gently,
"that 'there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one
sinner that repenteth;' so that, if you are really and truly sorry—"
"I am, aunt!—Oh, I truly am! I was all the time,—only I was too proud
and too obstinate to say so. Oh, please forgive me, and ask Miss Watson
to forgive me!"
"I forgive you with all my heart if you are penitent, my child. But,
Kitty, there is One whose forgiveness you need more than mine or Miss
Watson's. Will you not ask Him to pardon you too?"
"Please to ask Him for me, aunt," Kitty replied, in a faint whisper.
Mrs. Evelyn kneeled down, just where Annie had kneeled, and in few
and simple words confessed Kitty's sin in her behalf, and prayed for
forgiveness and comfort for the penitent and now afflicted child.
It was with all her heart that Kitty answered "Amen" to this prayer.
She lay quite still for some little time after it was concluded, and
Mrs. Evelyn thought she had fallen asleep, but she was mistaken. At
last, as she was rising to leave the room, Kitty asked,—
"Were there any particulars in the note, aunt?"
"Only that she died quietly and in great peace. Her last words were of
you."
Kitty wept again, but her tears were not so bitter as at first. She
felt as if a great load was gone from her heart,—as if she had now a
right to mourn for her dear mother.
Mrs. Evelyn left her to herself while she went down-stairs to give
some necessary directions. And when she returned, Kitty was asleep. As
she stood by the bed and noticed the child's flushed face and quick
breathing, she feared that the excitement of the last few days had been
too much for her, and so it proved.
When Kitty awoke, she had a terrible headache, and was so ill by night
that Harvey was sent after the doctor, who said that she was threatened
with fever and must be kept very quiet for a few days.
Harvey brought up a letter from Mr. Maynard, giving a more particular
account of his wife's death. It was his intention to bring the body of
his wife home for burial. And he desired that Mrs. Evelyn and Kitty
might be at the house ready to receive them.
Mrs. Evelyn did not mean to show this letter to Kitty, but she asked
for it, and it was thought best to indulge her. After reading it
through, she put it under her pillow, and desired Mrs. Evelyn to bring
her pen and paper, that she might write to her father and tell him the
whole story about the compositions. But her aunt finally dissuaded her,
by telling her that such a letter would only add to his grief, when he
had already enough to bear, and that it would be better to tell him at
another time.
Her mind wandered frequently all night and part of the next day. But
towards night on Sunday, she had a good sleep and awoke much better.
Miss Watson was sitting by her, Mrs. Evelyn having gone to lie down.
Kitty would have spoken, but Miss Watson put her finger on her lip.
"You must not talk now, my dear; indeed you must not. I know all that
you would say, and I assure you I forgive you entirely."
"But the girls,—" said Kitty; "do they know?"
"No," replied Miss Watson; "and I shall not tell them. I do not think
it desirable to have the matter talked about; and it will never be
mentioned out of the family."
Kitty seamed much relieved, and sank into another slumber. She passed a
tolerably comfortable night, and though the fever returned on Monday,
it was much less violent and lasted but a short time.
Still, it was very evident that she would not be able to go to town
on the morrow to meet her father as he had desired. She was naturally
very unwilling to give up the idea; and it was not till Tuesday morning
came, and she found herself quite unable to stand up long enough to
dress herself, that she was willing to allow that it would not do to
try.
Mrs. Evelyn was at first rather unwilling to leave her, but Kitty
begged her so earnestly to go that she at last consented to leave Kitty
in charge of Miss Watson for two days, in order to attend the funeral.
Kitty behaved very well about it, though she cried bitterly as she
bade her aunt good-by, and tried to send some message to her father.
But upon Miss Watson's representations that Mr. Maynard would probably
return with Mrs. Evelyn, and that he would be very much grieved to find
her worse, she restrained her tears and lay very quiet all the morning.
The subject of the examination had not been mentioned. But in the
afternoon, Kitty herself adverted to it and asked how it had gone off.
"Very well," replied Miss Watson. "There was not a single mistake made,
except one or two in the arithmetic-class."
"I suppose Selina got the prize?" said Kitty.
"It lay between her and Harriet Ashton," returned Miss Watson. "Their
compositions were so nearly upon an equality that I really could not
decide between them; so I procured a second premium, and the girls drew
lots for them. Selina drew the desk."
"I am glad of it," said Kitty. "She wanted it very much, I know. And
who got the arithmetic-prize?"
"Sylvia; but she says you would have been sure to take it if you had
been there, and she thinks you ought to have it, at any rate. I told
her she might settle it with you."
"I don't want it," said Kitty. "I would much rather she had it."
She hesitated a moment, and then said, "Did the girls ask after me?"
"Yes; there have been many inquiries about you. The girls knew that
you were sick and in trouble, and there was a great deal of sympathy
expressed for you. Some of them are very anxious to see you, and Sylvia
and Selina have called twice. I told them I would ask you if they
should come up next time."
"I should like to see them," said Kitty, "only—"
She hesitated, and Miss Watson said, kindly,—
"You know, Kitty, they do not know that any thing else has occurred."
"I was not thinking about that, Miss Watson," said Kitty, earnestly. "I
would rather they knew than not. It seems, somehow, like cheating to
have them think so much of me."
She paused a moment, and then said, hesitatingly, "Miss Watson, if I
should come back into school again next term, do you think you could
ever trust me again, as if I had never done any thing?"
"I should not feel exactly the same towards you as though you had
never deceived me, Kitty," replied Miss Watson: "that would be out
of my power. Nevertheless, I should give you every opportunity of
re-establishing your character; and I should always be ready to believe
you, unless I saw some good reason to the contrary. Why do you ask?
Would you like to come back into school again?"
"Yes, ma'am," replied Kitty, frankly, "I should. I hope it is not a
wrong feeling, but I should like very much to have an opportunity of
showing you that I mean to be a good girl. I don't know whether I shall
succeed or not, but I mean to try."
"If you try, depending only upon your own strength, Kitty, you will be
sure to fail," said Miss Watson. "Your good resolutions will come to
nothing unless you rest for strength upon a higher power."
"I know it," replied Kitty, in a low voice. "I have tried that, but I
hope I have learned better now. I used to think I could do every thing
I chose to do. I might have been wiser,—for I was always wishing to be
a good girl and doing the same wrong things right over again. I hope it
will not be so this time."
"You must not be discouraged if you fail many times, Kitty," said Miss
Watson, kindly. "Almost everybody does that. You must begin again and
again. And if you are sincere in praying for help, you will find that
you gain something every time. We must 'run with "patience" the race
set before us,' you know."
"Isn't there something in that verse about besetting sins?" asked Kitty.
"Yes: 'laying aside every weight and the sin which doth so easily beset
us.' What do you think is your besetting sin?"
"Vanity, I have no doubt," replied Kitty, blushing. "Every one used to
tell me so, but I never could see that I was vain. But, since all this
happened, I have thought a great deal about it; and I can see that that
was the beginning. I could not bear to think that Selina wrote better
than I did, and so—" Kitty paused.
"You have thought a great deal since last Friday, Kitty," Miss Watson
observed, after a little silence.
"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Kitty, with a deep sigh. "It seems as though
I had lived a whole lifetime since then: I feel so much older. I do
hope," she added, earnestly,—"I do hope I shall be a good girl."
The next day, Sylvia and Selina called to see Kitty, and were admitted,
as she was so much better as to be able to sit up half the day. Miss
Watson had given them a strict charge to keep her quiet, and they
obeyed her very well, though Kitty shed some tears at seeing them. As
they rose to go, after quite a long visit, she detained them.
"Girls, I want to tell you something," she said, blushing very much. "I
don't know what you will say or think, but I would rather you knew."
She then went on with the history already known to the reader, and
ended by saying, "I shall not ask you not to tell. You may do as you
please about it."
"What should I want to tell for?" asked Selina, abruptly. "You don't
think, now, that I would like to see you in disgrace, do you, Kitty?"
"No, I don't believe you would, Selina."
"And, besides, I was as bad as you," Selina continued. "If I had not
teased you so, you would never have thought of it. I am as much to
blame as you."
"I should not say that, Selina," observed Sylvia. "I think it was very
wrong to tease Kitty, however; and you know I have always maintained
that it was wrong for the girls to plague and torment each other as
they do. It leads to nothing but ill will and bad feeling, and I am
sure I cannot see what fun there is in it. But I am sure, Kitty, we
shall neither tell of you nor lay it up against you. So don't fret
about that, but get well as fast as you can. I think, Selina, we had
better go now, lest Kitty should be tired."
The girls kissed her affectionately and took their leave.
They walked some distance in silence, which was broken by Sylvia's
saying, after a deep sigh,—
"Who would ever have thought of Kitty's doing such a thing?"
"I never should," replied Selina; "and yet I used to think there was
something queer about those compositions of hers. They were so good,
and yet not the least like each other. I wonder Miss Watson did not
have some suspicions,—only she never does suspect anybody. After
all, it is not so much worse than some things the girls very often
do, especially in geography,—write the beginnings of the names and
boundaries upon little bits of paper, to hold in their hands in the
class."
"I am sure I never did that," said Sylvia.
"I have," returned Selina, "and never thought there was any great harm
in it, because all the girls did it. But I don't see now why it is not
as bad as stealing a composition. And another thing: I know I have
talked about people behind their back as I never would to their face. I
have about you, Sylvia. I have laughed about your being so proud."
"I know it, Selina, and so have other people. But I do not think it is
a wrong pride which makes one unwilling to be helped so long as one can
help oneself; do you?"
"No, indeed; and I never did. But I have such a bad habit of laughing
at and about people. Poor Kitty!" she added, after a little silence.
"How sad to lose her mother just at such a time! I don't believe she
will ever be the same girl again."
"I believe she will be a great deal better one," said Sylvia; "and so I
hope shall all of us."
"I hope I shall, for one," replied Selina. "It won't be for want of
trying if I am not."
Mr. Maynard returned from the city with Mrs. Evelyn the day after the
funeral, and found Kitty a great deal better, though still looking pale
and thin.
At her own request, Mrs. Evelyn had given him an account of the affair,
adding that she believed Kitty to be truly penitent. Mr. Maynard did
not allude to the subject for several days. But one Sunday evening, as
they were walking in the fields, he talked it over with her, and was
glad to find that her sorrow for sin and her good resolutions seemed to
have been strengthened rather than weakened by time.
A day or two afterwards, a consultation was held as to what should be
done with Kitty for the winter. Her father naturally felt desirous to
have her with him. But, at the same time, he saw many difficulties in
the way, as she would necessarily be left very much to the care of
Huldah, who, though kind-hearted and conscientious, was not exactly the
best guide and director for a girl of fourteen.
Mrs. Evelyn at last proposed that they should consult Kitty herself.
And she was accordingly called and the case laid before her.
Kitty was silent for a few moments, evidently considering deeply.
"I should like to be with you, dear father. But then—"
"Well, my daughter, what then?" asked Mr. Maynard.
"Who would there be to take care of me? You are in the store so much."
"You think you could not take care of yourself?" said Mrs. Evelyn.
"No, 'indeed,' aunt, I don't," replied Kitty, with such grave emphasis
that Mrs. Evelyn and her father both smiled.
"There would be Huldah, you know," said the latter.
"Yes, I know, and she is very good. But still—I do really think that,
if Aunt Sarah is willing to be troubled with me, I would rather stay
here. At least, I think it would be better for me to stay."
Mrs. Evelyn smiled again at the distinction—more truthful than polite,
perhaps—which Kitty made between her convictions and her inclinations,
and assured her that she should be very glad to keep her, if she could
make up her mind to stay contentedly.
"What would you do with yourself all day?" she asked.
"I should go to school, I suppose," replied Kitty, blushing. "I should
like to go another term to Miss Watson. I should like—"
She did not finish the sentence. Mr. Maynard and his sister exchanged
glances.
"You would like to show Miss Watson that you are in earnest in meaning
to be a good girl?" said Mr. Maynard.
Kitty assented.
"I think you have made a very wise decision, my daughter. I shall feel
perfectly safe about you if you are here, and you will be near at hand.
And though I may be lonely sometimes, yet it will be a great comfort to
me to think that my little girl is in good and kind hands, improving in
mind and making daily progress in virtue and godliness of living."