A WOUNDED CONSCIENCE.
MRS. PAGE and Marcus were riding in the outskirts of the town, one
afternoon, when they stopped a few moments at the door of an
acquaintance—a lady named Blake. She was a widow, and had a large family
of children. One of them, a girl named Ellen, was standing near the
horse, when her mother remarked—
“I wish I could find a place for Ellen, this winter. If she couldn’t
earn anything more than her board, it would be better than nothing.”
“How old are you, Ellen?” inquired Marcus.
“Thirteen last spring,” replied the girl.
“Do you want to go away to live?” asked Mrs. Page.
“I don’t know,” replied Ellen, with considerable hesitation.
“No, she would rather stay at home,” interposed her mother; “but I think
she is getting old enough to do something for herself. She could make
herself quite useful to any one, if she tried.”
“So I should suppose,” said Mrs. Page. “Perhaps I can think of some one
who would like to take her this winter—I will let you know, if I do.”
“Mother,” said Marcus, on their way home, “wouldn’t it be a good plan
for you to take Ellen to help you, this winter? Our family is so large,
now, that I think you and Aunt Fanny ought to have some help. Ellen
could make the beds, and set the table, and wash the dishes, and do a
good deal of other work. Mrs. Lane says she is quite handy about
housework. She had the whole management of the family affairs nearly a
fortnight, last summer, when her mother was sick.”
Mrs. Page did not then make any very definite reply to this proposition,
although the same idea had occurred to herself, when Mrs. Blake spoke of
Ellen. After thinking and talking the matter over for a few days, and
making the necessary inquiries about Ellen, it was decided that she
might come to live with them for the winter, if she chose. Marcus was
accordingly despatched to inform Mrs. Blake of the opening they had made
for her daughter. The offer was gratefully accepted, especially as
Marcus assured her that Ellen would probably have time and facilities
for continuing her studies, the same as if she were attending school. It
was agreed that she should be in readiness for her new home, the next
week.
The district school which Ronald attended was now near the end of the
fall term. It was to close with a public examination and exhibition, for
which considerable preparation had been made. Several prizes were to be
awarded, for good behavior and scholarship. Among others, a favorite
book was to be given to the boy who showed the neatest kept and best
executed writing-book at the close of the term. A similar prize was
offered to the girls, and another to the scholar whose book showed the
greatest improvement, during the term. For the first-named prize Ronald
had been a candidate, until the unfortunate blotting of his book, which
threw him out of the contest. On the day before the exhibition, as the
teacher was making a final examination of the writing-books, she was
surprised and vexed to observe several fresh blots upon the book which
she supposed would take the prize. It belonged to Lewis Daniels, a boy
who sat by the side of Ronald. He denied all knowledge of the matter,
however, and could hardly believe that it was his book that was
disfigured, until he had seen it for himself. When told that these blots
had probably lost him the prize, he did not manifest much emotion; and,
indeed, he seemed to take the affair so coolly, from first to last, that
Mrs. Benham, the teacher, did not know what to think of it. She at
length determined to have some further conversation with him on the
subject, and with this purpose detained him after school was dismissed.
“Lewis,” she said, when they were alone, “to-morrow is probably the last
day that I shall ever be your teacher. I want to part pleasantly with
all my scholars, and to carry away agreeable recollections of them. But
I feel a little troubled about you. I am afraid you have not told me the
truth about your writing-book, and I can’t bear to think you are going
to bid me good-by with a falsehood in your mouth. Now if you have tried
to deceive me, I want you to confess it all, and be forgiven, for I
shall not punish you, as we are about to separate.”
Lewis colored deeply, and replied in a husky voice—
“I told you all I knew about it.”
“But you told me nothing about it,” replied Mrs. Benham, whose
suspicions were further excited by this reply.
“I know nothing about it,” added Lewis.
“Lewis Daniels,” continued the teacher, mildly, after a slight pause,
“can you look me calmly in the eye, and say that? No, I knew you could
not. You cannot act out such a black falsehood. Your manner betrays you.
Now will you acknowledge the whole truth?”
“I blotted the book myself” said Lewis, bursting into tears.
“How did it happen?” inquired Mrs. Benham.
“I did it on purpose, because I didn’t want to take the prize,” sobbed
the boy.
“That is a very singular reason—I hope you will not tell me any more
untruths about the matter,” replied the teacher, mildly, a shade of
anxiety flitting across her face.
“It is nothing but the truth, as true as I’m alive,” continued Lewis; “I
didn’t want to get the prize away from Ronald—that’s why I did it.”
“That was very generous in you, if you are telling the truth,” replied
the teacher; “but was it just to yourself? If you fairly earned the
prize, why should you give it up to another?”
“I didn’t earn it fairly,” replied Lewis, amid fresh tears and sobs. “I
thought he would get the prize, and so I blotted his book one morning,
before he got to school. You punished him for it—don’t you remember?”
Mrs. Benham did remember, and it would be hard to say whether she or her
conscience-stricken pupil suffered most at the recollection of the
trying scenes thus recalled, the mystery of which was now unfolded to
her. It was not strange that her own tears mingled with those of the
sobbing boy, for she felt that she too had erred, though she hoped
innocently.
“My poor boy, you have been most severely punished for your fault,” at
length resumed Mrs. Benham. “Conscience is a stern judge. ‘A wounded
spirit who can bear?’”
“Yes, ma’am, when you punished Ronald, and when he got up before the
school and asked your pardon”—but the penitent boy’s emotions were too
deep to allow him to finish the sentence.
“And I suppose you have been suffering more or less from this concealed
sin, every day since, now about six weeks,” said Mrs. Benham.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Lewis. “I felt so mean that I used to keep out of
Ronald’s way as much as I could. I hated to see him. Then I tried to
treat him as well as I could, but that didn’t help me much. So I made up
my mind at last that I would serve my writing-book the same way that I
served his.”
“And did you expect to gain peace of mind in this way—by committing
another fault, and covering it over with a falsehood?” inquired the
teacher. “Your last error was almost as bad as the first. I hope this
will be a lesson to you, as long as you live. By delaying this
confession so many weeks, you have caused yourself a great deal of
suffering, and got further into trouble than you were at first. But as I
promised, I cheerfully forgive all, so far as it concerns me. Do you
think there is any one else whose forgiveness you ought to seek?”
“I suppose I ought to tell Ronald about it, and ask him to forgive me,”
replied Lewis.
“I should do so, most certainly,” said the teacher; “and you had better
see him to-night, if possible, as you may not have an opportunity to
speak with him to-morrow. Is there any one else whose forgiveness you
propose to seek?”
“I don’t know,” replied Lewis, in doubt.
“Don’t you think your Heavenly Father will expect you to confess this
matter to him, and ask his forgiveness?” inquired the teacher. “You have
sinned against him quite as much as against Ronald or me. Are you in the
habit of praying to him?”
“No, ma’am—only I say a hymn sometimes, when I go to bed,” replied
Lewis.
“I am sorry you do not pray to him,” resumed the teacher. “He made you,
and he gives you every good thing you receive, and when you do wrong, he
is grieved. I should think you would thank him every day for the
blessings he gives, and ask him for those things you need; and when you
displease him, I wonder how you can help asking him to forgive you, and
to keep you from falling into sin again. Will you join with me, now, in
seeking his forgiveness?”
Lewis bowed assent, and knelt down with his teacher, who offered a brief
and fervent prayer in his behalf, that his sins might be truly repented
of and forgiven, and that he might be kept from transgression hereafter.
She then urged him to seek the divine forgiveness, in secret prayer at
home, and with a kindly good-night, they separated.
Lewis went directly to Mrs. Page’s, where he found Ronald, in company
with the other children. After a little while, he managed to draw him
aside, saying—
“Come out this way, Ronald—I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Well, tell away,” replied Ronald.
“You know the teacher found some blots on my writing-book, this
afternoon?”
“Yes—how came they there?”
“I blotted it myself.”
“You did? Then you told a whopper.”
“I did it purposely, too.”
“Then you was a fool. Why, you might have taken the prize, if you hadn’t
done it.”
“But I did something worse than that.”
“What was it?”
“I blotted your book the other day, so I might make sure of the prize.”
“You mean——” but the hasty reply was instantly checked by a glance at
the sorrowful face before him, and Ronald stood silent and ashamed.
“I’m sorry for it, and I hope you will forgive me,” added Lewis, the
tears gathering in his eyes. “I told the teacher all about it, and she
has forgiven me.”
“O yes, I’ll forgive you, too, seeing you have owned up of your own
accord.”
“I’ve suffered enough for it to be forgiven, at any rate.”
“You blotted your book so as to be even with me? Well, that was doing
the handsome thing, any way. You might have kept dark, and got the
prize, just as easy as not. I never supposed any one blotted my book on
purpose; I thought it was an accident.”
Lewis repeated his expressions of sorrow for his offence, and received
renewed assurances of forgiveness. He then returned home with a lighter
heart than he had known for many a day.
The examination of the school, the next day, passed off very
successfully. A goodly company of visitors was present, the order and
general behavior of the scholars were excellent, the classes appeared
well, and the singing and declamations were attractive. Ronald,
unexpectedly to himself, bore off two of the honors—one for general
progress in his studies, and the other for the neatest writing-book.
Both prizes were books adapted to his age. As the writing prize was
handed to him, the committee-man who distributed the gifts, remarked
that his book was somewhat blotted; but as it had been ascertained that
it was through no fault of his, and as, saving this fault, his book
stood the highest, they had decided to award him the prize. So ended
Ronald’s last day at the district school. He was now to enter the
academy.
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