THE BROKEN KNIFE.
SCHOOL commenced again the beginning of the week; but Ernest was not in
his place. He was a good scholar, obedient to the rules of the school,
and therefore a great favorite With his teacher.
"Henry Drake, do you know why Ernest Monroe isn't here?" she asked,
when the class to which he belonged came out to recite.
"He's sick, ma'am."
"I must go and see him," said the teacher.
After recess, she learned the story as it was told by Henry to the
scholars.
"Ernest stole father's keys, unlocked his tool chest, and cut his hand
with a new adze."
"That does not sound true. I wont believe such a story till Ernest
tells me himself," said the lady. "I'll call at Mrs. Monroe's on my way
home."
She did call; and Henry, who saw her enter the house, slunk away
feeling very much like a thief.
The next half hour was a very pleasant one to the sick boy. He frankly
confessed to his teacher his fault; but when she asked who unlocked the
chest, answered,—
"Mother knows. I'd rather not tell anybody else."
"Well," said the lady, rising at last to leave. "You must hurry and get
well; for my first class miss you sadly. Can't you have your books at
home, and keep up with the lessons?"
"Yes, ma'am. I should like it. Mother can hear me every day."
At the end of a fortnight, Ernest was in his desk, looking rather thin
to be sure, but pleased to be back in school. His right hand hung in
a sling, and his companions were very careful the half-healed fingers
should receive no injury by their carelessness.
To the surprise of some of his class, Ernest went on with the lesson,
which happened to be review, as if he had not been absent a day. At the
close of the recitation in spelling, he unexpectedly found himself at
the head of his class.
"Mother and I had a school at home," he exclaimed joyfully to his
teacher at recess. "We took turns in hearing the class recite. She said
I was very strict."
At the end of another week, the teacher one afternoon told her pupils
to lay aside their books as she wished to talk to them.
"Two days ago," she began, "I lost a little knife, with a pearl handle.
I used it in my desk, and felt quite sure I left it here; but, after
searching in vain, outside and inside the desk, I made up my mind I had
taken it home in my pocket by mistake. I would not suspect one of my
scholars of so mean a thing as borrowing my knife without leave; and I
dared not for a moment entertain the thought that any one here would
steal from the teacher.
"I looked for it at home without success; but what was my surprise this
afternoon, when I opened my desk, to find the knife lying directly
before me, the blade broken so badly that it was useless!"
She held up the knife, while her eye glanced rapidly from one scholar
to another.
All were very curious; some expressed indignation at the deed; but no
one seemed particularly moved except Ernest Monroe. His usually pale
cheeks were dyed with blushes, while tears trembled in his eyes, and he
covered his face.
"What can it mean," thought the teacher. "I'm sure Ernest is not the
guilty one; and yet he looks so embarrassed."
"Can any of you tell me how my knife came to be broken?" asked Miss
Fosdick. "I will readily forgive the offender if she or he will
confess. It is a wicked thing to steal; don't add to the sin by a lie.
Come up to the desk bravely, and tell me the whole truth."
No one moved, but several of the scholars noticed how much Ernest tried
to hide his confusion. He opened and shut his desk, and held his face
closely over his books.
"Don't he look guilty?" whispered Henry Drake, touching his companion
under the seat.
"Ernest," Miss Fosdick said at last, "have you nothing to say to me?"
"No, ma'am." And then, to the surprise of the whole school, the little
boy began to cry, sobbing as if his heart would break.
Ernest was known to be a favorite. Most of his companions thought he
deserved to be so; but now there were whisperings among the older boys,—
"Oh, if Ernest Monroe took the knife, nothing will be said about it.
Miss Fosdick is partial to him."
The teacher knew very well what was said; and, though her heart ached
sadly, she resolved to treat Ernest exactly as she would have treated
his cousin had he been the thief.