Chapter V

DURING the following week the picnic was the grand subject of discussion throughout the school. At Kitty's suggestion, the plan had been extended so as to take in the little ones, who were highly delighted at the prospect and very anxious to add their share to the entertainment. The Friday before was dry and clear, without being too warm, and every thing promised well for the feast,—of which the girls' heads were so full that they could think and talk of nothing else.

It may be supposed that the lessons suffered somewhat in consequence, but Miss Watson remembered her own young days, and was very indulgent, reflecting that picnics did not come every Saturday. She had been very active in forwarding the preparations with advice and assistance, and had promised to look in upon them some time during the afternoon.

Even the picnic, however, could not put the affair of the composition out of Kitty's mind, and she went to school with an anxious heart on Friday afternoon. When Miss Watson took the bundle of compositions out of her desk, her hand shook so that she could hardly hold the needle; and it was only after the lapse of some minutes that she ventured to glance in that direction, when she recognised the pale-yellow paper and gilt edges of her own manuscript at the very bottom of the pile. Her heart bounded with delight for one moment; and then she became conscious of a pang of mortification, more sickening than any she had ever felt, as she reflected that, after all, it was not her own composition which had attained that honour: in reality, she was no more equal to Selina than she had ever been. She was so occupied with this thought that she hardly listened either to Selina's or the composition she had presented as her own. And she was only aroused by Miss Watson's saying,—

"That is the best composition you have ever written, Kitty. You have improved very much."

Kitty coloured till the crimson spread over her neck and arms, but she did not speak; neither did she cast the expected glance of triumph at Selina, who, vexed at the praises bestowed upon her rival, said, pettishly,—

"If we all had as much help at home as Kitty does, Miss Watson, perhaps we might improve too."

"You may ask my aunt about that, Miss Watson," Kitty replied, quietly. "She has never seen one of my compositions till it was finished."

"I have no wish to ask your aunt, Kitty," said Miss Watson. "I do not in the least suspect you of trying to impose upon me. I am sorry, Selina, to see you manifest such a spirit. Are you unwilling to have any one praised but yourself?"

Selina tossed her head, and murmured something about partiality, of which Miss Watson took no notice, while Kitty found it difficult to conceal her exultation. She had carried her point more completely than she had expected, and she felt very good-natured in consequence.

And when the committee of arrangements remained after school to talk over their plans, she was really polite to Selina, and deferred to her opinions to a degree that made the other girls open their eyes in surprise. But Selina was not to be won. She had seen Kitty take from her an honor which had always been hers, and she had, moreover, sustained a public reproof; and she was determined that both should be revenged.

The morning of Saturday was bright and beautiful,—as fine a day as could be desired. All the baskets were sent to Mrs. Henshaw's, as that was the nearest to the place of meeting; and here the committee of arrangements were assembled to look over the stores, in order that there might be no deficiency in any important article at the last moment. Many were the criticisms, favourable and unfavourable, pronounced upon the contents of the baskets.

"Look at Jane Peter's biscuits," said Selina. "It is a pity she had not made them a little larger: we might have used them for seats. What is in that other napkin, Sylvia? Oh, gingerbread, of course! I do believe all the ginger in Barton town has been used up this week. Take care of that napkin, Sylvia, it is such a valuable one. It looks as if it had been made of an old sheet. What have you brought?"

Sylvia opened her basket and displayed a tempting assortment of round and heart and crescent shaped cakes, delicately baked and frosted.

"Oh, how nice!" exclaimed Kitty. "Did Anne make them?"

"I made them myself," said Sylvia, rather proudly. "I do all the baking now; and mother says I can make as good bread as Anne can. But you have not shown us yours yet, Selina."

Selina had reserved hers to the last; and she now opened a closet-door in the room where they were sitting, and displayed two large frosted loaves, beautifully decorated with coloured sugarplums and crowned each with a sugar dove. The girls uttered exclamations of delight.

"These are the most beautiful of all," said one of them.

"Wait till you see what Kitty has brought," said Selina, who had taken an opportunity of lifting Kitty's basket, and judged from the weight that there could not be much in it. "I dare say she will eclipse all the rest."

"Aunt is baking some sponge-cake," said Kitty, modestly, "but it was not done, and Harvey will bring it this afternoon. I have not brought much in my basket,—only some candy and things that my father sent me."

She uncovered her basket as she spoke, and emptied the packages together in a pile. The girls looked on in silence as the many-coloured gilded and silvered bonbons rolled over the table. They had never seen any thing of the kind before, and did not know what they were.

"What are they, Kitty?" asked Sylvia.

"Bonbons, child! French sugarplums!" replied Kitty, in conscious superiority. "Did you never see any before? They are the best in the world, and cost—I don't know how much. My father sent them to me from New York, and I kept them for the picnic because I thought they would look so pretty on the table. I have got my aunt's silver basket to put them in."

"I am sure it is very good in you," said Harriet Ashton, one of the committee. "If they had been mine, I don't believe I should have been so generous as to give them to everybody."

"Nor I," said Mary Henshaw. "I should have kept them for myself and my most particular friends."

"Everybody is not so stingy as you are, Mary," observed Selina, vexed at the praises bestowed upon Kitty's liberality, and still more that her cakes should be eclipsed by the novel glories of the bonbons. "But I, for one, shall not dare to eat any of them. These French sweetmeats are very unwholesome. I read in the paper, only the other day, of a girl who was very sick and died in consequence of eating some burnt almonds."

"Nonsense!" replied Kitty. "I have eaten hundreds of them, and of burnt almonds too, without either dying or being sick. My cousin, Mrs. Frank Cassell, gave a party last winter; and she had thirty dollars' worth of bonbons—only much prettier than these—on the supper-table. I have got some of them somewhere."

"Thirty dollars' worth of candy!" repeated Sylvia, in amazement.

"Oh, that's nothing!" said Kitty. "I knew of another party—"

"Well, never mind the parties now," interrupted Selina. "I think we had better put the things away and get ready ourselves. You know we shall have to be on the ground first of anybody, to set the table and see to things. They will all be safe here, and Tom is going to carry them over for us when we go. Did you ever see such a fuss as Kitty made about her sugarplums?" she said to Sylvia after the rest had gone. "One would think that nobody else had ever heard of such a thing."

"I am sure it was very kind in her to keep them for the picnic," said Sylvia.

"Oh, you think every thing she does is just right. You will find out some day that she is not more perfect than anybody else."

"I don't suppose she is perfect," said Sylvia, laughing. "I never knew a single perfect person in my life, though I know two that I think come pretty near it,—mother and Mrs. Evelyn. But I do think it was generous in Kitty, and I think she is liberal in most things."

Selina curled her lip, but made no answer, and the girls separated to dress.

By two o'clock they were all on the ground, and busily occupied in arranging the feast, which was spread upon a large flat rock, conveniently situated for the purpose under the shade of a splendid chestnut-tree now in full bloom. Kitty's bonbons and Selina's cakes occupied the place of honour in the middle of the table. And the other less pretending dishes were grouped round them, space being left for a large pitcher of lemonade which Selina was preparing.

At last, after much altering and arranging, the thing was declared perfect, and the girls gathered round to see the effect.

"Isn't it pretty?" said Sylvia. "I hope Miss Watson will be here soon. She said she would come before the others, so as to see the table before it was touched. Oh, here she comes up the hill. Take care, Selina; your pitcher is too full. You will spill it if you are not careful."

"Don't be alarmed," said Selina. "I know what I am about."

Either from accident or design, she slightly tilted the full pitcher as she spoke, and its contents flowed in a stream directly into Kitty's basket of candy. The pretty blue and red papers turned yellow as the acid liquid touched them; and their beauty was gone.

"Oh, what a pity!" exclaimed several of the girls. "Now they are all spoiled! And they were the prettiest things we had. How clumsy you were, Selina!"

"Clumsy, indeed!" exclaimed Kitty, almost choking with rage. "She did it on purpose! She was provoked because my dish was the prettiest, and took that way to revenge herself,—the mean—"

But her angry feelings could not be controlled. She burst into tears and sobbed almost hysterically.

Selina looked on in silence.

"Oh, don't say so, Kitty!" said Sylvia, much distressed. "I am sure she did not mean to spoil them: did you, Selina?"

"If Kitty thinks so, she is welcome to her opinion," said Selina, coldly. "She judges me by herself, I suppose. She knows she would do any thing in the world to injure me, and she naturally thinks I would do the same by her."

"You have always tried to injure me ever since I knew you," returned Kitty, through her sobs. "I hate you, Selina Henshaw,—that I do!"

"Very well, Kitty Maynard; there is no love lost between us. If you hate me, I despise you: so it is about even."

"Girls, girls!" remonstrated Myra. "How dare you speak so? Do hush! Miss Watson is coming; and what will she say?"

Miss Watson arrived at this moment, and was naturally much amazed at the scene which presented itself,—Kitty leaning against a tree in a violent fit of weeping, Selina pale with rage, while Sylvia and Harriet Ashton were doing their best to repair the damage by taking the contents of the inundated dish out upon clean plates and drying them.

"Why, what is the matter?" she asked. "Kitty crying! Have you hurt yourself, my dear?"

"Selina—" said Kitty, but her voice failed, and she cried more violently than ever.

Harriet undertook to explain. "Selina tipped over some lemonade into Kitty's basket of sugarplums and spoiled them, and Kitty thinks she did it on purpose."

"She did, I know!" exclaimed Kitty. "She cannot deny it."

"I 'shall' not deny it, at any rate," said Selina. "If Kitty thinks I am such a girl as that, I shall not take any pains to make her think otherwise."

"You are both of you greatly in the wrong," said Miss Watson, with severity. "I am very much grieved and surprised to see such a spirit manifested among my pupils, and especially between Selina and Kitty, who I thought were such good friends. I am sure, Selina, you did not mean to injure Kitty?"

Selina was silent. But at last, she said again, "I am not going to defend myself, Miss Watson."

"And you, Kitty, how can you allow yourself to indulge such feelings towards your friend? How would you like it if she should bring such a charge against you? Your own favourite playfellow, too: for shame!"

"Miss Watson means very well, but she certainly is not very quick-sighted," said Harriet Ashton to Sylvia, as they stood apart from the rest, busied over the luckless sugarplums. "If she were, she would have seen that Kitty and Selina have done nothing but try to spite each other ever since the second week that Kitty came to school."

"I know it," said Sylvia. "I wish they could make up their minds to be good friends again."

Meantime, Miss Watson was trying, without much success, to bring about a reconciliation between her pupils. Kitty still persisted in thinking and saying that the mischief had been done purposely by Selina because she was jealous, but declared that she was willing to forgive her if she would confess it and say she was sorry.

Selina replied that she wished for no forgiveness from Kitty, who was welcome to think what she pleased about her; neither would she say that the affair was an accident. The truth was, Selina had not intended to injure the bonbons, but only to startle Kitty with the idea that they would be spoiled, and thus to extort from her some of those hasty and extravagant exclamations which were always at her tongue's end and at which the rest of the girls would be sure to laugh. She was as sorry as any one at the result of her mischievous manœuvre, and at first she would gladly have said so. But Kitty's violent accusation had aroused her own always ready temper, and she determined not to try to justify herself, whatever happened.

Miss Watson finally let the matter drop, and went away feeling very much grieved and displeased both with Kitty and Selina.

Then the girls tried their peace-making powers, but with as little success. Kitty still said she would forgive Selina if Selina would say she was sorry and own that she did it on purpose. Selina would not say any such thing, but declared she would not spoil everybody's comfort by staying where she was suspected and disliked, so she tied on her bonnet and was going home.

But this, the girls would not allow. Nobody knew so many games or could play them so well as Selina. She was the life of the party, and could not be spared on any account. She was finally persuaded to remain, and a kind of truce was patched up between the contending parties, so that, if they did not speak, they at least let each other alone.

When they came to the feast, Selina would not taste of Kitty's candy, and Kitty, in return, would not eat any of Selina's cake. Ample justice, however, was done to both dainties, and Kitty was a little comforted by the unanimous declaration of the girls that they had never tasted such nice candy in their lives. She generously divided among them all that was left after the feast was concluded, reserving a handful for Annie Richmond, whose enjoyment of the day had been marred only by the discomfort of her dear friend Kitty.

The party separated about sunset, all thoroughly tired, and rejoicing that to-morrow was not a school-day. Kitty and Sylvia walked home together in silence, leading Annie between them and apparently occupied with her own thoughts. After a little while, Sylvia said,—

"It would all have gone off nicely but for that unlucky accident of Selina's. I do not see how she came to do such a thing: she is generally so careful."

"Accident!" repeated Kitty, scornfully.

"Yes," replied Sylvia, firmly: "I do believe it was an accident, Kitty. Selina has her faults, I know, like the rest of us, but I shall never be convinced that she would do such a thing as that on purpose."

"Why didn't she say it was an accident then?" demanded Kitty.

"She was angry at the way you spoke, in the first place."

"Then I suppose you think the fault was all mine, and that I ought not to have said any thing at all?" said Kitty, her colour rising again.

"No: I don't think the fault was all yours, but I do wish you had not spoken quite so hastily. You would not have liked it yourself. If I had done it, or Harriet Ashton, you never would have thought of accusing us of wishing to spoil your dish: and why should you accuse Selina?"

"Because she is always jealous of me, and likes to mortify me in every way she can. She always tries to get above me in arithmetic and parsing; and if she succeeds, she always looks so triumphant. And she has never left off teasing me about that composition."

"As to getting above you, we all try to do that with one another. I am sure you do as much as anybody; and as for the composition, if you did not get so angry every time, she would soon leave it off. She only does it for mischief; and as soon as she saw that you did not care any thing about it, she would let it drop. The girls often do so by one another, you know. I do not think it is quite right, but they do not mean any harm by it."

"They never do so by you," interrupted Kitty.

"They used to," replied Sylvia, "till they found I only laughed; and then they left it off. They used to call me 'Silver Grey,' just as Selina does now sometimes, and as they call Selina 'Miss Handsaw.' It is all in fun."

"I don't like such fun," said Kitty.

"Nor I," replied Sylvia, "but it is not worth while to mind it."

"You may talk as much as you please, Sylvia," said Kitty, with emphasis, "and take Selina's part to the end of time, but I shall never believe that she did not spoil those sugarplums on purpose. If she had said she was sorry, I would have forgiven her. But as it is, I never will, as long as I live and breathe."

Sylvia was silent for a few moments, and then said, gravely,—

"I don't want to offend you, Kitty, but I should like to ask you one question. Do you ever say your prayers?"

"Of course I do," replied Kitty,—"every night and morning."

"And do you say the Lord's Prayer?"

"Why, yes, to be sure. What made you think of that?"

"Only I don't see how you can say, 'forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us,' so long as you feel so towards Selina."

"Well, then," said Kitty, trying to laugh it off; "I will say some other prayer."

Sylvia looked still more grave.

"What good will that do, so long as He has said, 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive your trespasses'? Oh, Kitty, it is very wrong, I am sure, and very dangerous. Think if you should die suddenly. Do try to feel differently."

"It is of no use to talk, Sylvia," said Kitty, more impressed than she cared to acknowledge by her companion's words and earnest manner. "You mean well, I know, and I am not angry with you, but you do not understand my disposition. I cannot help the way I feel. I don't believe any one can—"

"If we cannot help what we feel," interposed Sylvia, "why does the Bible say we shall be called to account for our feelings?"

"I don't believe they can," continued Kitty, disregarding the interruption. "I could not forgive Selina if I wanted to; and I would not if I could. You mean well, but there is no use in our talking any more about it: we shall never agree. Annie, dear, you are tired, I know," she continued, as if she wished to turn the course of the conversation. "Let us make an arm-chair, Sylvia, and carry her the rest of the way."

Sylvia sighed, but she thought she had said enough, and more than enough. And she wondered, as she thought of it afterwards, that Kitty had not been offended.

"She never gets angry at what I say," she said to herself. "I wonder what is the reason."

One reason might perhaps have been found in Sylvia's manner of speaking, which was always kind and ladylike even when she used the plainest language. But there was another still more influential reason. Sylvia and Kitty were not in any sense rivals. There was no comparison between them in the matter of scholarship; for Sylvia was not naturally so quick as her friend. She learned slowly and with much labor; and her mother's continued illness, joined to the straitened circumstances of the family, often kept her out of school for weeks at a time: so that, though she was six months older than Kitty, she was at least a year behind her in attainments. Thus she never came into violent collision with Kitty's vanity, as Selina did perpetually.

If Sylvia had intimated that Kitty drew or wrote badly, Kitty's temper would have been up in a moment. But it did not disturb her at all to have Sylvia tell her in plain terms that she was proud and unforgiving: she knew as much before, and rather prided herself upon the fact, having, like many other people, a fancy that these traits indicated strength of character,—a sad mistake, let who will make it.

Whether there really was any unwholesome quality in the sugarplums, as Selina had declared, or whether Annie only ate too many of them, we cannot pretend to say. But certain it is that the little girl was taken very ill in the night,—so ill that Harvey was roused up and sent in all haste after the doctor, and Kitty was summoned to assist in taking care of her. She continued to suffer very much for five or six hours, but at the end of that time she was relieved, and about noon she sank into a comfortable sleep.

Mrs. Evelyn had a severe headache, and Kitty tried to persuade her to go and lie down, promising to take the very best care of Annie.

Mrs. Evelyn hesitated; but finally she said,—

"Very well, my dear. I will lie down if you will call me the moment she wakes, as I must give her her medicine."

"Why cannot I give it to her, aunt?" asked Kitty.

"You could, I suppose, but I would rather do it myself."

"Where is it?" asked Kitty.

"It is on the mantel-piece," said Mrs. Evelyn, "but I do not wish to have you give it to her, Kitty. I must see how she is before she takes it. Just wake me as soon as she rouses up, and I will attend to it. I hope she may have a good long sleep."

Mrs. Evelyn went up-stairs, and Kitty was left alone, feeling very much hurt that her aunt should not think her capable of such a simple thing as giving a child a dose of medicine.

"I really think she might have trusted me," she said, talking to herself, as usual. "I am sure I have fixed mother's medicine dozens of times. Aunt talks about my being vain, but I am sure I am not half so much so as she is, for she thinks nobody can do any thing but herself. If she thinks I am so vain, I wonder what she would say to Selina? How hatefully she acted yesterday! Sylvia may say what she pleases, but I know she did it on purpose."

Such was the current of her reflections during the hour that Annie continued to sleep, and it may be imagined that their effect was not very salutary. It was, in fact, very easy at any time for Kitty to persuade herself that she was a persecuted child, and all but a martyr; and she felt especially like it this afternoon.

In about an hour, Annie began to move restlessly, and at last, opened her eyes. She smiled as she saw Kitty, but seemed bewildered, as though she hardly knew where she was.

"Is that you, Kitty?" she asked. "What is the matter?"

"Hush, Annie dear! You must not talk," replied Kitty, with imperative authority. "You have been very sick, but I hope you are better now."

"Where is grandmamma?" asked Annie.

"She has a bad headache, and has gone to lie down," Kitty replied.

She looked towards the mantel-piece as she spoke, and, seeing a cup containing some medicine, she gave it to Annie, saying, "Take your medicine, and go to sleep again, like a dear good girl, and you will feel better in the morning."

Annie swallowed the medicine with her accustomed docility, but made up a terrible face. "Oh, how bad that is! So strong and bitter!"

Kitty began to sing. She was a little frightened at what she had done, but was assured by seeing Annie fall asleep again directly. She lay much more quietly than before, and seemed to sleep very soundly; for when a blind in the room slammed violently with the rising wind, Annie did not even start.

The noise awakened Mrs. Evelyn, who was presently heard coming softly down-stairs. She entered before Kitty had quite made up her mind what to say.

"Has not Annie waked up yet?" she asked.

"She has been awake," said Kitty, "and I gave her her medicine. She went right to sleep again, and has not stirred since."

Mrs. Evelyn looked at the little girl, (who now began to breathe very heavily), felt her pulse, and then glanced at the mantel-piece, where Kitty had replaced the empty cup. Kitty was startled to see her countenance change so suddenly.

"What 'did' you give her?" she asked, sternly.

"You said her medicine was on the mantel-piece," Kitty began.

But Mrs. Evelyn interrupted her:—

"Did you give her what was in the cup?"

Kitty assented silently, for she began to be frightened.

"Tell Harvey to take the horse and go after the doctor just as quick as he can, and stop at Miss Watson's and send her up here. You have given the child an enormous dose of laudanum!"

Kitty turned pale and sick. "Will she die, aunt?" she asked, in a whisper.

"I don't know: I am afraid so. Don't stop to talk, but do as I bid you."

Harvey was on his way in a few moments, and Kitty returned to the sick-room.

Mrs. Evelyn was sitting by the open window, holding Annie upright in her lap and bathing her face with cold water.

But the child showed no sign of consciousness.

"Run and got me the vinegar, Kitty," said Mrs. Evelyn, hastily.

Kitty brought it with almost the quickness of thought. And then, running up-stairs to her own room, she brought down a bottle of strong aromatic vinegar, which had been given her in a box of perfumes, and put it into her aunt's hand without speaking. It was so strong as almost to take Mrs. Evelyn's breath away, but it had no effect upon Annie. Kitty ran hither and thither, bringing every thing that her aunt suggested, but saying not a word.

At last, after what seemed to be an age, the doctor arrived. And at the end of an hour, Annie was restored to consciousness,—though she did not seem to know any one. It was nearly morning before the doctor thought her out of imminent danger; and even then, he directed that she should be watched every moment, and desired that he might instantly be sent for if she relapsed into unconsciousness again.

Kitty crept away to bed, unnoticed, after the doctor took his departure,—her self-important spirit for the time entirely subdued. She had not spoken one word since the catastrophe, except in answer to a question. But she made herself extremely useful in running up and down stairs to bring things that were needed. She had not felt tired or sleepy under the influence of the excitement. But now that the imminent danger was over, she felt as if she must drop down on the stairs. She put down her candle when she got to her room, and throwing herself upon the bed, she tried to think over what had happened: but she could not control her thoughts, nor even remember distinctly. And when Mrs. Evelyn came up, about nine, she found her niece asleep on the outside of the bed with her clothes on. Kitty started up in terror as her aunt bent over her.

"Annie?" she asked, in terror,—expecting she hardly knew what.

"She is better," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "She is out of all danger now, I think. She knows every thing perfectly, and has asked for you."

"May I go and see her, aunt?" asked Kitty, starting up.

"Not yet. She is very nervous, and must be kept perfectly still. And now, Kitty, I want to talk to you about this. How did you come to give Annie the laudanum? Did you not understand me to say that I would give her the medicine myself?"

"Yes, aunt. But you had been lying down such a little while that I did not want to disturb you, and you said the medicine was on the mantel-piece: so I thought that was it."

"But I should think any one who had never seen a dose of medicine would have known better: why, the cup was a quarter full! It is almost a miracle that the child is alive at this moment."

Mrs. Evelyn paused, but Kitty did not answer, except by tears.

"But that, though very foolish," continued Mrs. Evelyn, "was only an error in judgment, and not of so much importance as your disobedience. I do not wish to seem unkind to you, Kitty, but I wish you to see the evil just as it is. It is, as I told you the other day, that you would do some great mischief by your vanity and self-sufficiency. Such children as you are not expected to have a correct judgment about a great many matters; and therefore they are always safe in obedience to their elders. I know what you thought. I have heard you say to yourself more than once, 'Aunt thinks I do not know any thing.' I think there are many things which you know, but there are many more which you do not, and the knowledge in which you are especially deficient is that of your own defects."

"I am sure I did not mean any harm," sobbed Kitty. "I did not mean to hurt Annie."

"That you would not have hurt her for the world I can easily believe," said Mrs. Evelyn. "That you did not mean any thing wrong is not so certain. You meant to disobey my positive orders; and you certainly knew that was wrong."

"I thought you wanted to sleep," replied Kitty.

"What you thought does not signify at all. You knew what you were told to do and not to do, and you should have abided by it. If you had, you would have saved us all—yourself included—a very anxious night and a great deal of unhappiness, and poor little Annie might have been at play to-day as usual, instead of being very sick,—as she is, and will no doubt remain so for some time. I have sent Harvey after her mother, and she will probably be here to-night."

"Will Cousin Anne know about it?" asked Kitty, feeling as though she would rather do any thing than face the child's mother. "Must I see her if she comes? Oh, Aunt Sarah, I wish you would let me go back to the city! I cannot bear to stay here! Oh, do let me go away somewhere!" she continued, clinging to her aunt's hand. "Let me go to Mrs. Grey's, or anywhere, so that I need not see Cousin Anne."

Mrs. Evelyn sat down on the bed and put her arms round Kitty, who was terribly excited and shook as if she had an ague-fit.

"Listen to me, Kitty, my dear. You shall go away if you wish, but I want you to hear what I have to say, and then you shall decide for yourself. Try and compose yourself first, for you are not in a fit state for any thing."

She paused till Kitty had in some measure checked her sobs, and then continued:—

"You know that neither Anne nor myself are very well able to run up and down stairs; and probably there will be a great deal of it to be done. You may make yourself very useful in this way, as well as by sitting with Annie and diverting her when she is a little better. I shall not be afraid to trust you, for I do not believe you will disobey me again."

"I never will, aunt: never,—never!" exclaimed Kitty, vehemently.

"I hope not. You have certainly had a severe lesson. Now, as I said, you may go away a few days if you really wish it. But, I think upon reflection you will feel that you would rather remain where you will have it in your power to make some atonement for the trouble you have caused, and be of use to poor Annie: would you not?"

"Yes, aunt," said Kitty, in a subdued voice; "if you will trust me."

"I shall not be afraid to trust you once more," said Mrs. Evelyn, kissing her. "And now lie down comfortably and try to get a good sleep, for I am sure you must be tired out. I will lie down by you and try to rest too, for Anne Grey is taking care of Annie, and I can hardly keep my own eyes open."

"How did the laudanum come to be in the cup?" asked Kitty, opening her eyes after her aunt thought her fast asleep.

"I turned it out to wet a cloth with," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "But dismiss it all from your mind for the present, Kitty, and try to rest; for there will be enough to do, I can promise you."

Although Kitty had decided to remain, she felt it to be a hard trial, especially when Mrs. Richmond arrived and she had to go down and see her, knowing that she had been told the whole story. She trembled so excessively that she could hardly stand as she opened the door. But Mrs. Richmond kissed her as affectionately as ever, and said not one word of reproach; nor did her aunt again allude to the subject.

At the end of three days, Annie began to improve rapidly. And in the course of a week after, she was playing about the house again as merry as ever, and more than ever attached to Kitty, who had waited upon her from morning till night, and would have done so from night till morning if she had been permitted. She was unwearied in inventing amusements for her as soon as she was able to be amused. She had no idea of the cause of her illness.

Mrs. Evelyn had particularly desired that she might not be informed.

And Kitty's heart smote her more than once when Annie threw her little arms round her neck, repeating her favourite phrase of endearment,—"You are such a dear, good girl, Kitty!"

"I wish you would not say that, Annie," she said, one day. "I am not such a good girl as you think; and if you knew me better, you would not say so."

Annie looked puzzled, but evidently set the words down to the account of her cousin's modesty.

"But I do think you are, Kitty. You have never been any thing but good to me ever since I knew you."

Kitty felt as though she could hardly bear this from one whom she had so deeply, though unintentionally, injured. But she remembered that her aunt had particularly desired that nothing should be said to Annie, and she wisely let the matter drop, and directed the child's attention to something else.