Chapter IV

THREE or four weeks passed away, during which nothing very particular occurred, either in school or at home. There was now an open and acknowledged rivalry established between Kitty and Selina, which extended to all their pursuits. In one respect, perhaps, it had its advantages; for the girls never studied so hard in their lives as they did now, and the improvement in scholarship was very plainly to be seen.

It was only in arithmetic, and perhaps in history, that Kitty could flatter herself that she gained any decided advantages. She had an excellent memory; and even emulation could not overcome Selina's dislike of arithmetic so far as to make her bestow sufficient study upon the really difficult lessons. In grammar, and especially in parsing, Selina had decidedly the best of it. She also persuaded her mother to let her begin drawing-lessons again. And much to Kitty's annoyance, she succeeded quite as well as Kitty herself, and sometimes even better, thus meeting her upon the very ground where she had supposed herself perfectly safe.

But it was in composition that Kitty suffered most. She could not deny the great superiority which became more manifest every day, as Selina began to take more and more pains with her exercises. And every Friday brought her a fresh pang of wounded vanity, and generally a fit of passionate tears as soon as she was alone.

The girls had so far made up their quarrel that they spoke to each other when they met, and now and then walked home together. And when Mrs. Evelyn invited Mrs. Henshaw and her daughter to tea, Kitty constrained herself to treat Selina with all due cordiality, asking her up into her own room and displaying her books and other treasures for her amusement. Selina spied the portfolio containing Mrs. Evelyn's drawings, and asked to look at them, and Kitty spread them all out upon the bed.

"I think it would be very nice to copy some of them for drawing-lessons, Kitty," said Selina. "They are much prettier than the drawing-cards Miss Watson gives us. Do you suppose your aunt would lend them to us?"

"I dare say she would," replied Kitty. "At any rate, I can ask her."

She tripped down-stairs, and presently returned.

"Aunt says we may each take one, if we will be careful of them. Let us lay them out and select what we want. You may choose first."

After some consideration, Selina selected a pretty little pencil-sketch of a thatched cottage, with a well and an old stone wall. Kitty was much more ambitious, as usual, and decided upon rather a wide scene of a river and bridge, with trees and a group of cattle,—nothing which would have presented any difficulty to a practised hand, but altogether too elaborate for an artist of three weeks' standing. Selina remarked it.

"You will never be able to make that look like any thing, Kitty. It is a great deal too hard for a beginner. I thought mine was quite as difficult as I wanted to undertake. But it is not half the work of that one."

Kitty smiled in conscious superiority. "I don't think it is too hard," said she. "You are always looking out for easy things, Selina."

This was partly the case, and was perhaps one reason why Selina's undertakings were apt to succeed so much better than Kitty's; that is, she formed a tolerably just estimate of her own powers, and was careful not to engage in any task to which she felt herself unequal, while Kitty could hardly ever be brought to acknowledge that any thing was beyond her.

When the girls showed their selections to Miss Watson, she pronounced the same opinion which Selina had given, and advised Kitty to exchange her landscape for something easier. But Kitty was, as usual, firm in her own opinion. The consequence was that Selina's sketch was soon finished, and pronounced very successful by Miss Watson; while Kitty, having laboured a week upon hers, finally one day rubbed a bole in the paper in a fit of impatience, and was obliged to give it up, after all.

"What a pity!" said Selina. "After it was almost done, too! Cannot you mend it?"

"No," replied Kitty; "and if I could, I would not. You are welcome to your triumph, Selina, and I hope it will do you a great deal of good."

"It will do me neither good nor hurt; for I don't care any thing about it," returned Selina, carelessly. "I told you when you chose it that it was too hard for you, and advised you to change it. I should hardly have done that if I had been so anxious to triumph as you seem to think."

This was very true, but it did not improve Kitty's humour to be told of it. All her pleasure in drawing-lessons was gone, and she would have been glad to give them up altogether, but Mrs. Evelyn would not hear of it. She thought the desire proceeded from discouragement at undertaking a task too hard for her,—an accident to which young artists are very subject,—and kindly tried to reassure her.

"It is very natural that you should feel so, my dear, but it would be foolish to give up for one failure. I will select something for you more suitable to your attainments. And when you have made a really pretty picture, you will get over this feeling of discouragement. I am sure you will feel mortified to tell Miss Watson that you are going to leave off only for one mistake."

Without perhaps intending it, Mrs. Evelyn had touched the right string. "What would Selina say if she were to stop now?"

She went back to her lessons with renewed energy, and was rewarded by hearing her next effort highly commended by Miss Watson, Selina's being criticized at the same time. She darted a glance of triumph at her former friend, but Selina only smiled.

"You will soon draw as well as your aunt, or as her teacher, Kitty," she observed, carelessly. "He was a Polish exile, you know." And she cast a sly glance at one of the other girls.

Miss Watson, who had forgotten all about Kitty's first composition, and who, moreover, was not so quick-sighted but that many things went on under her eyes of which she had no idea, was astonished to see Kitty's face glow with a crimson flush, while she threw at Selina a glance of absolute hatred and defiance.

"What is the matter, Kitty? What makes you look so angry?" she asked, in surprise.

"It is nothing, ma'am,—only a joke, and Kitty is not angry," said Selina, more quick-witted than Kitty, and willing to prevent an explosion. "Come, Kitty, don't be vexed again," she said, after Miss Watson had gone. "It was only in fun, but I won't tease you any more about it. Oh, don't cry," she continued, really sorry for what she had said, as she saw the tears,—those provoking tears, which would come whenever Kitty was angry. "I am sorry I spoke so: it was very foolish."

But Kitty refused to be comforted. She walked home alone, brooding over this new affront, and all the other insults, real and fancied, which she had received from Selina, till a feeling of real hatred took possession of her, and she felt as though she would give any thing in the world to be revenged.

"But I will manage it some way," she said, aloud. "I will have a better composition than she does, if I die for it."

And she suddenly paused, for a thought flashed across her mind,—a thought which she would have rejected with scorn two months before, but which seemed to show a ready way for the accomplishment of her purpose. She did make some feeble efforts to put it away, but they were neither very firm nor very honest. And the very next day, some new success or affront of Selina's fixed the evil seed in her heart, where it flourished and grew day by day. What sort of fruit it bore, we shall see by-and-by.

"Kitty, would you like to go to town to-morrow?" said Mrs. Evelyn, a few days afterwards.

"I should be very glad to go, aunt," replied Kitty. "I want to go to our house and get some of my books and things, and I should like to go and see Miss Burlingame. Are you going?"

"No, but Harvey is, and you may go with him,—if you can be up early enough; for he will set out by six o'clock."

"Will he take the carriage, aunt?" asked Kitty, doubtfully.

Mrs. Evelyn laughed. "No, Kitty: we don't send butter to market in the carriage. He is going to take the spring-wagon, which is very easy to ride in, and, I hope, sufficiently good-looking to save your pride. However, you may do just as you please about it. It will probably be the last opportunity you will have for some time, as we shall be busy harvesting for the next fortnight."

Kitty was not long in making up her mind, and the next morning found her ready to set out as Harvey came round to the door.

Three jars of butter rather disturbed her sensibilities, but she reflected that they should arrive very early and probably dispose of their load before anybody would see them,—anybody, in this case, meaning anybody that Kitty Maynard knew. The air was cool and delightful, the sun partly obscured by clouds, and every thing was in the dewy freshness and beauty of early morning.

Harvey was a very entertaining companion, and did all in his power to make the ride pleasant to his young friend.

"Harvey," said Kitty, during their ride, "what do you mean to be when you are grown-up?"

"Why, Kitty, I think I am pretty well grown-up now: don't you? I hope I shall not grow any more, unless cloth gets cheaper."

"Yes, you are tall enough,—nobody can deny that: but you know that is not what I mean."

"Well, Kitty, I think I shall be a farmer."

"I wouldn't," said Kitty, with decision.

"Why not?" asked Harvey.

"Oh, because it is such a stupid life, and it is so hard. Farmers never have time for any thing, only just work, work, from morning to night and from one year's end to another!"

"That is a great mistake of yours, Kitty. Farmers have as much time to read and study and improve themselves as any people in the world who have to work for a living, if they choose to use it. You have only been in the country during the busy season. Think of the long winter evenings."

"I think they must be awfully dull," said Kitty.

"I never find them so. There are always a dozen things that I want to read and study. Last winter I studied astronomy, and every clear night, Mrs. Evelyn used to go out with me and help me trace the constellations. And I read all through the 'History of England' 'loud' to her. Next winter, if I live, I mean to study chemistry, or perhaps geology. I will venture to say that is more than your father finds time for."

"What is the use of your learning all these things if you are to be only a farmer?" asked Kitty. "You will not do your work any better for knowing all about history and stars and rocks."

"Asking your pardon, Kitty, I do not believe that. My notion is, that the more things a man exercises his mind upon, the better he can do any one thing that he undertakes. And, besides, I think that ploughing and mowing would get to be very dull work after a while, if I had nothing else to think about."

"But would you not rather be something else if you could,—a lawyer, for instance?"

"No, indeed! Not I!" said Harvey, with emphasis. "I should die in a year,—to be shut up in a little seven-by-nine room, with dust and old papers, and hardly breathing fresh air from one week's end to another. I love to be out in the open fields and under the sky, where I can look around me and see something of God's works, which are much better worth looking at than man's, in my estimation. I am like that man in your 'Scotch History': 'I would rather hear the bird sing than the mouse squeak.'

"And, besides, I like to hear my own voice now and then. And what would your fine city-people say if I should begin to sing and shout in the streets as I do out in the pasture sometimes?"

Kitty laughed at the idea. "Well, Harvey, I don't know but the country is best for you, and as long as you mean to live there, I am glad you like it. But I should not."

"Oh, you would get used to it after a while, and wonder how you could bear to live anywhere else. But now tell me where I shall leave you and where I shall find you. You know we must start for home again by a little after two. Can you be ready by that time?"

"Oh, yes!" replied Kitty,—"Easily. You may leave me at our house, I think, Harvey; and I will come back there when I get through. The will save you any trouble in looking for me."

"That is a very good plan," said Harvey: "only be sure you are there in time. But how will you get in?"

"Our wash-woman lives in the basement, and keeps the keys. I want to get some of my books and things."

Kitty was accordingly left at the house in Carroll Street. She could not but acknowledge that it looked very warm and "tucked up," as she expressed it, after the wide view to which she had been accustomed. The parlours, too, seemed very desolate, with the furniture all covered up, the chandelier in a brown linen bag, and all the books and ornaments put away; and her mother's room was so forlorn that she sat down and cried a little.

"Oh, I do hope she will be better when she comes home!" she said to herself. "How I do want to see her!"

And then the reflection crossed her mind, "What would mother say if she knew what I was thinking of doing?"

She started up almost as if something had stung her, and went into her own room to select her books, almost making up her mind to abandon the plan she had formed. How much trouble and disgrace she would have saved herself if she had only listened to these suggestions of her good conscience! But evil purposes, so long nourished as Kitty's had been, are not so easily put away; and the thought of composition-day so near at hand again revived her half-abandoned purpose.

"Pshaw!" she said to herself. "There is no harm in it. I am not going to use them now, but only to read them and learn how to write. Miss Burlingame used to tell us to pay attention to the compositions of the older young ladies, that we might improve."

She then went to work to collect her books together, and having packed such as she wanted in a carpet-bag, she brought them down-stairs, and then set out to pay her visits.

She went first to the store where Mr. Burgess, her father's partner, gave her a hearty welcome; for he had no family of his own, and was very fond of Kitty. He went out with her to a bookstore, where they had often been together before, and bought her three or four new books, besides a nice drawing-case, containing pencils, India-rubber and penknife. Then they called at a confectioner's, where Kitty had some ice-cream and sponge-cake, besides a huge packet of candy to carry home. And then, giving her a bright little gold dollar to spend as she pleased, Mr. Burgess returned to his counting-house.

Kitty did some errands for her aunt, and then bought several things,—a pretty sewing-bird for her aunt, a book for Sylvia and a nice inkstand for Harvey, who she knew wanted one. She directed that all her parcels should be sent to her father's house, and then went to visit Miss Burlingame. On her way, she met her former playmate and school-fellow Josephine Powers.

"Kitty Maynard, I declare!" said Josephine, stopping her. "Where have you been this age?"

"I am staying with my aunt in the country," replied Kitty, "and only came in for a few hours. I am going back at two."

"Don't you find it awfully dull?" asked Josephine. "I think I should die in a week. What 'do' you find to employ yourself with from morning till night?"

"Oh, I am busy enough. I do a good many things for aunt; and besides, I go to school."

Josephine indulged in a not very refined laugh.

"You don't say you go to a district-school? That must be delightful! I hope you have learned to make your manners when any one goes by?"

"It is not a district-school, exactly," said Kitty, colouring with anger and false shame. "Miss Watson, the teacher, is very accomplished, and I am taking drawing-lessons of her. I have been buying some paper and pencils to-day."

"Well, if that isn't queer! Going into the country to take drawing-lessons! And what else do you study?"

"Oh, I am only reviewing in other things, except history."

"And are there any genteel girls in the school?"

"They are all nice girls enough, especially Sylvia Grey. I like her the best of any one; and her family is really genteel, though they are not rich. On the whole, I like it almost as well as Miss Burlingame's. And, by-the-by, Josephine, do you know whether she is at home? I want to see her."

"She is, I know, for I saw her yesterday. But what in the world do you want to see her for? She is the last person I should want to visit: I see enough of her in school. Come, don't go there: come home with me, and let us have some fun!"

But Kitty was not to be diverted from her purpose. And bidding Josephine good-by as they came to the gate, she inquired for Miss Burlingame, and was admitted to her presence.

It may be proper to say that she was a thin, upright little lady, rather precise in her manners and dress; and some of her pupils considered her very exact, and sometimes out of humour. Withal, she was an accomplished scholar, a conscientious Christian, and possessed one of the warmest and truest hearts that ever belonged to a woman. It was almost always observed that Miss Burlingame's "good scholars," especially those who had been long with her and had left the institution with credit, valued her friendship in afterlife, and constantly spoke of her with affection and respect. It was, for the most part, only the incorrigible idlers and mischief-makers (two characters almost invariably united) and their too partial friends, who treated her with disrespect in school and spoke disparagingly of her out of it.

Kitty had always maintained a pretty good character both as to scholarship and demeanour. And she was fond of Miss Burlingame,—who, on her part, felt much interest in the all but motherless child, and did all in her power to supply, so far as a teacher could do so, the want of that maternal care of which Kitty was unavoidably deprived.

She now received her with great kindness, and asked her many questions about her school and her employments; to all of which Kitty returned rather constrained answers, though she tried to appear at her ease.

"Miss Burlingame," said she, as she rose to take her leave, after rather a short stay, "will you let me take the Academy keys a little while? I want to look for something that I left in the school-room."

Miss Burlingame made no objection, but handed her the keys, with an injunction to be careful of them and return them before she left town. "I shall be out; but you may give them to the girls: and be sure to lock both doors."

Kitty promised to be careful, and proceeded to the school-house. She felt a guilty sensation as she applied the key to the lock, and still more as she closed the door behind her and found herself alone in the large empty building. She looked into the drawing-room and the wardrobe, and spent a few minutes in the library, running over the names of the books which she had seen a thousand times. But the striking of the church-clock warned her that she had not much time to lose, and she hastened up-stairs. The room looked desolate, with its rows of desks and empty chairs all turned round with their fronts towards Miss Burlingame's table, which stood in its usual place, with the chair behind it, the little bell, the Bible and the dictionary, just as usual.

Kitty felt as though some one must be sitting in the chair; and she unconsciously went round the outside of the room instead of across the middle of the floor, just as she would have done if Miss Burlingame were present. She looked into her own desk, and then tried the closet-door. It was locked.

"Dear me!—How provoking!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't I think to ask her for the key to the closet? Now my trouble will all be for nothing! I may as well go back again, for I shall not get what I wanted. How stupid I was!"

She was half-way down-stairs when a sudden thought struck her, and she turned back and opened the table-drawer. There lay the key she was in search of, and she snatched it hastily and applied it to the lock. It turned easily enough; yet something seemed to hold the door back from opening, or her hand trembled, for it shook in her grasp. She thought she heard some one down-stairs, and she imagined that Miss Burlingame had come to see what she was about. She stood still and listened. It was only a footstep on the pavement outside, echoing through the empty building.

"Pshaw!" said she to herself. "What a fool I am to be so afraid!"

Fool enough, Kitty, but not for being afraid. However, she hesitated no longer, but opened the door and entered the spacious closet, which was almost filled up with old school-books which had been left behind by successive generations of scholars. With these, Kitty had nothing to do. She went straight to a large box which stood in one corner, and began to remove the bundles of papers with which it was filled up. While doing so, she paused more than once to listen, for she still fancied that she heard some one about the building.

Finally, without waiting to take them all out, she thrust her hand down to the very bottom, and pulled out a large bundle, yellow and stained with dust. A paper wrapped round them bore the date of eighteen hundred and —.

"That will do," she said. "They will never be missed. They may as well be in my drawer as lying here, doing no one any good for all these years. I wonder what is the use of keeping all these old things, just to take up room and feed the moths?"

Finally, she restored the rest of the papers and books to their former order, and wrapping up her prize in an old newspaper, she put the key in its place and hastened down-stairs. But as she reached the landing-place, she stopped suddenly, while her heart beat violently and the colour left her cheeks; for there certainly was some one in the library. Kitty was not generally a coward. She had often laughed at the girls for being afraid to stay alone in the school-house because it had been built on an old graveyard and there were foolish stories of skeletons having been found in digging out the cellar. She had declared that she should not be afraid to remain there all night, and had more than once, when playing hide-and-seek, hidden in the dreaded cellar itself. Yet now, at the sound of a light footstep in the library, all her courage left her: she felt as if she was choking to death, and she uttered an exclamation which she had hard work to prevent from becoming a shriek. She would rather have seen almost any one else than Miss Burlingame. And yet it was a real relief when that lady made her appearance at the library-door.

"Why, Kitty, how pale you are!" she exclaimed. "I am sorry I frightened you so. I was passing by, and thought I would save you the trouble of returning the key. You look as though you had seen a ghost."

"I was startled," replied Kitty, with some difficulty recovering her composure. "I did not hear you come in, and could not imagine who it could be."

"And so you thought of all the silly stories the girls tell about skeletons in the cellar below, I dare say," said Miss Burlingame, smiling. "But what have you there?"

"Only some old papers that I left in my desk," replied Kitty, who was in a hurry to get away. "But I must go, Miss Burlingame: I am afraid Harvey will be waiting for me."

Miss Burlingame kissed her and bade her good-by very kindly, hoping that she should see her again when school commenced in the fall. And Kitty proceeded on her way. She had gained her object, but she was far enough from being happy. Her conscience had not become so hardened but that the lies she had told tormented her sorely, and she more than once wished that she had let the papers alone. She almost resolved that she would throw them away without looking at them, as soon as she got home, and be contented to write just as well as she could, letting Selina gain the victory or not, as it happened.

But the revengeful and envious feelings which she had fed and nourished so long would not allow themselves to be conquered so easily. And they now brought up to her mind a picture of composition-day coming round again, her own composition read first, among those of the little girls, and Selina's reserved to the end, as it almost always was. Then came the thought how mortified Selina would look when she saw another composition coming after her own, and what the girls would say, and she no longer wished the deed undone, though conscience still continued, as it were, to pull her by the sleeve and whisper, "Think, Kitty! Think of what you have done, and of what you are going to do." But Kitty was resolved not to think.

Harvey was not waiting, as she feared he would be. But from some undefined reason, she did not sit down in the house, but taking her seat upon the steps in the shade, she opened one of her new books and tried to fix her attention upon it. She had partly succeeded in doing so, and was busily engaged in reading, when Harvey drove round the corner.

"So you were ready first?" said he. "Have you finished all your business?"

"Yes," replied Kitty, rising; "I have been waiting for you half an hour."

"I was detained longer than I expected to be," said Harvey. "I could not find the man that bought my butter, and had to wait at his store for him. But here I am, finally, and if you are ready, we will be off. Have you had a good time?" he continued, as they were finally seated in the wagon and on their way.

"Very good," replied Kitty,—"very, indeed; only I am tired, and it made me feel homesick to go over our house and find nobody there and the things all put away and covered up."

"I don't wonder," said Harvey, sympathizingly. "There is nothing more dismal than a house with nobody in it. But it will be all the pleasanter when your mother comes home strong and well and able to be about. She is a great deal better, isn't she?"

"Yes," replied Kitty. "The last letter said she had walked about a quarter of a mile without being the worse for it. Oh, I do want to see her so much!"

And here Kitty paused suddenly, for the thought would come back, "What would mother say if she knew what I have done to-day?"

Harvey saw that she was agitated, and thinking it was caused by the remembrance of her mother, he considerately turned away, and began to whistle and to talk to his horses, that she might have time to recover herself.

But Kitty was not silent long, for she did not like the company of her own thoughts. And Harvey had never seen her merrier than she was the rest of the way home.

Kitty had been intrusted by her aunt with a number of little commissions, which she had performed with much judgment. And the praises of Mrs. Evelyn, as well as the thanks bestowed upon her for her well-chosen presents, did a good deal towards restoring her self-complacency, and she almost forgot that she had any cause of self-reproach. Mrs. Evelyn had, moreover, an agreeable piece of news to communicate to her, which was that her grand-daughter, Annie Richmond, a child of five or six years old, was coming over the next Monday to stay several weeks.

This was pleasant intelligence to Kitty, who was fond of children, and with whom little Annie was an especial favourite. She went up-stairs to bed, singing and feeling very light-hearted. But as she opened the drawer to put away her parasol and mantle, the bundle of papers lay on the top, and seemed, she thought, to stare at her like an ugly reptile. She hastily thrust it out of sight among her clothes, and went to bed as soon as she could, to be tormented with a dream about Miss Burlingame's discovering what she had done, and sending a messenger after her, who turned out to be Selina Henshaw in disguise!

It was not till Sunday afternoon that Kitty had an opportunity of examining her treasures. They proved to be compositions written by the class leaving the school in eighteen hundred and —, which Kitty remembered she had often heard mentioned by Miss Burlingame as one of the best classes she ever had, and she rejoiced over her good fortune. Some of them, she found, would be of little use to her, as they were upon subjects which she did not understand; while most of them were quite simple.

There was one which she liked especially, entitled "The Last Night of the Old World," and purporting to be a soliloquy of the spirit who has it in charge to guide the earth in its orbit. It was not by any means the best in the parcel, being rather stilted, and what Harvey would have called "superflastic," in its style, but its fanciful conception, and perhaps its very faults, recommended it to Kitty, who thought it the finest she had ever read. She laid it carefully aside, and selecting a more commonplace one, she read it attentively over and over, till she thought she could at least write one very much like it. She could not yet make up her mind to steal a composition word for word,—though she herself would probably have been puzzled to explain the moral distinction between such a theft and what she contemplated.

Monday came as usual, and Kitty went to school in great good humour, feeling herself fully prepared for the dreaded ordeal of the afternoon. She wrote out the composition she had studied upon her slate, and then copied it upon paper, exactly as she had been accustomed to do. And Selina, who still sat next to her, was surprised to see how nimbly her fingers flew.

"You are in the humour of writing this afternoon, Kitty,"—she remarked, good-naturedly, at recess. "Your fingers run races over the slate."

"I wonder if she suspects any thing!" was Kitty's first thought. "But I am sure she does not." And she answered, pleasantly, "Yes, I feel in the mood for it, and it is much easier when one does. I like it better than I did."

"And you write better," said Selina. "I heard Miss Watson say you had improved."

"Selina is more generous than I," Kitty could not help thinking. "If Miss Watson had spoken so to me about her, I should not have told her." And, strange to say, she felt vexed that it was so,—not at herself, but at Selina for excelling her in good humour!

"Do you know what we girls are thinking of?" continued Selina. "We mean to have a picnic next Saturday afternoon, in Mr. Stewart's grove, back of our house. He has given us leave, and says he will send his man to put up a swing for us. Isn't he kind? We are all to bring our own provisions and have supper in the woods. Sylvia and I went to see you about it on Saturday, but you were away. Won't it be pleasant?"

"Charming!" replied Kitty. "Who first thought of it?"

"I did," replied Selina; "and then I told Sylvia, and we went down to see the grove, and picked out a place for the table. If we only have good weather, we shall have a delightful time."

"Where do you think of having the table?" asked Kitty.

"Up on the hill,—about half-way up, rather,—on that great flat stone."

"I think it would be pleasanter down by the brook," observed Kitty: "we could get water so much more easily; and it is pleasanter, too."

"But the ground is very apt to be damp down there," urged Selina; "and the mosquitos are always so thick: and, besides, you know, we shall not use the brook-water. Don't you remember that beautiful spring close by?"

"For all that, I think it would be pleasanter by the brook," persisted Kitty.

"Well," said Selina, "we shall see what the rest think. We are all going home that way, and then we can decide. But I know very well what they will say,—because we have had picnics there before."

Much to Kitty's annoyance, she found herself in a minority of one as to the table-question,—all the girls siding with Sylvia and Selina. On seeing the place, she was herself obliged to own that they were in the right, which rather increased her displeasure, and she was almost tempted to say that she would have nothing to do with it. But a moment's reflection showed her that she would only make herself ridiculous by such a course. She was a little comforted by being placed upon the committee of arrangements; and she determined to keep what remained of the parcel of confectionary she had brought home from the city, to grace the feast, besides sending for more if she had an opportunity.

But her stock of dainties was destined to receive an unexpected addition. When she arrived at home, she had the double pleasure of finding little Annie arrived, as pretty and affectionate as ever, and of receiving a large parcel from her father, which a neighbour had brought up from the village, containing, besides several new books and other pretty and useful presents, a goodly-sized box of French bonbons and sugarplums, the like of which Kitty was sure had never been seen in the neighbourhood of Barton village before. She hastily selected a handful of these sugarplums for Annie, and picking out two or three for herself, she put the rest carefully away, pleasing herself with the thought of displaying them at the picnic and sharing them with her companions; for Kitty was naturally generous when her vanity did not come in the way, and now that they both pulled in the same direction, she felt a double pleasure in giving.

Annie found Kitty a very pleasant companion, not only this evening, but all the week through. She was a docile, merry little thing, very gentle, and always ready to give up her own will to any one else: so, when Kitty insisted upon dressing her doll in pink instead of blue, Annie acquiesced, and liked it just as well, though blue was her favourite colour. And she was always ready to build her block houses and set her little tea things just as Kitty prescribed. Nobody could be kinder or more generous than Kitty when she was allowed to have her own way exactly: so they got on very nicely, Annie thinking Kitty almost perfection, and Kitty calling and believing Annie the best little creature in the world.

Mrs. Evelyn was glad to see them harmonize so; and as she was quite busy, she left them very much to themselves, contenting herself with putting in a word now and then when she thought Kitty was growing too dictatorial.

Kitty had all she liked about her,—a pleasant companion, plenty of new books, and her mother's health improving rapidly: she surely ought to have been very happy. She might have been so, but for one thing.

Some one says that a man might have all the worldly goods and advantages to make life agreeable, and yet, if he were compelled always to wear a little sharp nail in his shoe, his life would be a burden to him.

The little nail in Kitty's shoe was the sense of her sin. Sometimes she would hardly feel it for a good while, but it was still there, and upon some sudden movement of her own or another, would send a sharp pang through her whole system. She might have pulled it out and thrown it away, but her pride would not let her do that: so she wore it on and suffered the consequences. Poor Kitty!