Confession.
“IT is vexatious, my Dora, very vexatious,” said Miss Clare, in a tone
of condolence; “it is trying to you, after all the pains which you have
bestowed on your work, to see that work suddenly spoiled. But still
take comfort, dear child, in the thought that no labor undertaken for
our Master can really be lost.”
Dora sobbed more bitterly than before, for she knew that hers had not
been labor undertaken for the Master, and she felt that her time and
toil had been worse than lost.
Miss Clare did all that she could to comfort her favorite niece. She
showed Dora the beautiful brooch which she herself valued so greatly;
she told her that she had brought it as a birthday remembrance; but,
much to the lady’s surprise, Dora only shook her head sadly, and sobbed
forth, “Not for me—not for me! Oh, that model, I wish that I never
had touched it—I wish that I had never set a stitch in one of those
curtains!”
“I see that you are distressed, very naturally distressed, by the
mishap which has befallen your curtains, fearing that thereby the
whole model may be spoilt,” observed Theodora. “You are thinking of
the disappointment of your brother and sisters, of the Ragged-school
children who are coming to-day, of my friends who are invited to see
the model. You think that there is no time to repair the effects of the
spilling the scarlet ink; but I think that I see a way to remedy the
mischief;” and Miss Clare, as she spoke, placed before the weeping girl
her beautiful embroidered scarf. “I had intended to give this to Agnes
when I gave you the miniature brooch, but I will now alter my plan. I
will try to find out, or purchase, some other remembrance for Agnes;
and, with a little alteration, do you not think, my sweet girl, that
this work will do nicely for the inner curtains and veil?”
“A thousand times better than mine could have done!” exclaimed Dora,
darting a glance of almost fierce dislike at the embroidery, now
stained and marred, which she had once surveyed with such proud
admiration.
“No, indeed,” said Miss Clare, very kindly; “for though the Indian
scarf may be—certainly is in itself more beautiful than your curtains,
we cannot see in it the same token of patient perseverance in making
what was intended to be a humble offering of love to the Lord.”
“Oh, Aunt Theodora, I can stand this no longer!” exclaimed Dora, almost
choking with the violence of her emotion; “you must know all, I can
hide it no more; you must hear what a naughty, naughty girl I have
been!”
Then, as well as she could through her tears and her sobs, Dora
relieved herself of the burden of concealment which had become at
last intolerable. She told everything to her aunt—the first fault, the
breaking of the fourth commandment; then the falsehood, the deceit
which had followed, for when did an unrepented sin ever stand alone!
Dora concluded by passionately exclaiming, “You cannot, you must not,
give me the brooch—Agnes has deserved it much better; she has been
conquering her temper and doing all that she can to please mamma, while
I have been only a hypocrite! Please give the brooch to Agnes, and the
scarf for the model; I could not bear now to take either—I who have
only deserved to be punished!”
Miss Clare was surprised, pained, disappointed by what she now heard;
yet there was comfort to her in seeing that now at least her poor
niece was heartily repenting.
“I cannot tell you, my child, how thankful I am that this accident has
happened to your work, and that you have been led to speak out bravely
at last,” said her aunt, putting her arm round Dora, and drawing her
tenderly towards her, so that the poor girl could weep on her bosom.
“Then you don’t despise me—you won’t give me up?” murmured Dora, crying
still, but much more softly.
“Give you up—never!” cried the aunt, and she pressed a kiss upon Dora’s
brow. “It may be a question, indeed, whether I had not better reserve
the brooch till next birthday.”
“Oh, I never could take it, never!” cried Dora, excitedly; “let it be
given to Agnes.”
“Do you think, Dora, that by giving up the brooch you are winning a
claim to forgiveness—that by this sacrifice you are atoning for what
you have done wrong?” asked Miss Clare. “If so, I am bound to tell you
that you are mistaken.”
“No, aunt,” replied Dora, for the first time raising her eyes, heavy
with weeping, and looking her godmother full in the face; “I know
that nothing that I can do can atone for my sin—that there is but one
Atonement; but I feel as if I could not take the brooch which you meant
to give to a good girl, and which I have so little”— Dora could not
finish the sentence, tears came again, and she hid her face on the
bosom of her aunt.
Miss Clare hesitated no longer. She felt that it would deeply impress
on the mind of Dora the painful lesson which she was learning, if she
saw the brooch in the possession of her elder twin. What Theodora had
heard from Mrs. Temple of the marked improvement in the character of
Agnes, convinced her that she was the sister who best deserved to
receive the miniature of her mother. Miss Clare made a sacrifice of her
own inclination in thus deciding to follow her judgment, but she was in
the habit of doing what she thought right, instead of what she thought
pleasant.
“I will confess all to mamma, now, just as I have done to you—I won’t
be a hypocrite any longer,” murmured Dora, as soon as she had recovered
power to speak.
“And there is Another to whom my child must also confess,” said Miss
Clare, still with her arm round her niece, still with Dora’s head
on her breast; “there is One who is ready freely to forgive every
penitent who approaches the Mercy-seat pleading the merits of Christ.
We have no power to remove one spot from our souls;” the eyes of Miss
Clare chanced to rest, as she spoke, on the embroidery, stained and
destroyed; “but there is the Lord’s promise to comfort the broken and
contrite heart, ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as
snow—though they be red as crimson, they shall be as wool.’”
Dora and her aunt knelt down together and together prayed, but in
silence. When Dora rose from her knees, though she was still very sad
and subdued, there was a peace in her heart, a sense of sin forgiven,
which she had not experienced for months.
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