Chapter VII

KITTY went up to her own room and sat down, feeling as if some one had struck her a stunning blow. Felicia Brandon! She had no difficulty now in recollecting where she had heard the name. What had possessed her to take that composition above all others? Yet she could not possibly have known or guessed that Miss Watson had a sister of that name who had once attended Miss Burlingame's school; and she felt that, if she had taken any other, something else would have happened to bring the matter to light. Her sin had found her out at last, and there was no escaping the consequences. Detection—probably public disgrace—was hanging over her head, and she could do nothing whatever to arrest it.

She pictured the whole thing to herself. Miss Watson would probably keep the discovery a secret till the day of examination, and then proclaim it before the whole school. Selina would triumph in her disgrace, and Sylvia and the other girls shrink away from her in horror and disgust, while her aunt—but she could not endure to think of what her aunt and, above all, of what her father and mother would say when it came to their knowledge, as it too certainly must.

"It will kill mother, I know," she said to herself. "She used to feel worse about my telling a lie than any thing. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? She little thought, when she kissed me good-by—"

Kitty burst into tears and wept bitterly for a long time. Finally, she dried her eyes, washed her face, and, putting on her hat, she went quietly out at the back-door and down through the orchard to where she knew Harvey was at work mending a fence. It seemed a curious choice of a counsellor for a girl like Kitty, but she had become very fond of Harvey, and she had learned, moreover, to have a high opinion of his sense and judgment. She felt as if he would at least be kind to her and perhaps tell her what to do.

Harvey was busily at work, hammering and whistling. But he stopped when he saw Kitty coming, and waited her approach. He was amazed, as she came near, to see how pale she was and how red her eyes were.

"Why, Kitty, what is the matter?" he asked. "What has happened? You look as if your heart was fairly broken."

Kitty wept anew.

"You won't speak so to me, Harvey, when you hear. I don't believe you will ever speak to me again, but I want to tell you, and have your advice about it."

"About what?" asked Harvey, amazed and grieved to see Kitty's distress. "Come; don't cry, but tell me what is your trouble and how I can help you. Sit down on this stone, and let's hear all about it."

It was some little time before Kitty could compose herself to speak. But at last she began at the beginning and went over the whole affair.

Harvey listened without comment, diligently whittling the while.

When Kitty had finished,—

"It is a bad business, Kitty," he said, "a very bad business, and the last thing I should ever have expected of you. I always thought, whatever your faults were, you would be open and honest. I don't see what is to be done."

"But won't you help me, Harvey?" Kitty asked, in distress. "I don't expect you will ever like me again, but I do wish you would tell me what to do."

"Who have you told about it?" asked Harvey.

"Nobody but you. I suppose Miss Watson has found it out by this time."

"You must go directly to your aunt and tell her the whole story," said Harvey, decidedly.

"Aunt Sarah! Oh, Harvey, I never can do that in the world!"

"I don't know what else to advise, Kitty. It is the only right course to take, in my opinion. You had better confess it yourself than have Miss Watson tell her first, as she surely will unless you make the most of your time."

"If I only knew what they would do," said Kitty. "I am so afraid Miss Watson will tell of it in school. If I thought nobody would know but Miss Watson and aunt, I should not care so much. But to have all the girls talking about it,—Selina, above all—"

She paused for sympathy.

But Harvey had returned to his whittling, and did not speak till Kitty had repeated again, "If it were only aunt and Miss Watson, I should not care."

Then he said, without looking up,—

"There is One other, who has known it all along, Kitty, whom you don't seem at all to take into the account."

"Who do you mean?" asked Kitty. "Miss Burlingame? She doesn't know any thing about it yet."

"No; I don't mean Miss Burlingame, nor Miss Anybody, but One much higher, against whom you have sinned more deeply than against any one else, and whose forgiveness is much more important to you than either Miss Watson's or your aunt's. You don't seem to think any thing about Him."

Kitty made a movement of impatience.

"Now, Harvey, please don't begin to preach about it, but tell me what you think I had better do. I want advice, and not a sermon."

"I think," said Harvey, getting up from the stone and returning to his fence-mending, "that you had better go to your own room, confess your sin and ask God's forgiveness, and then go to your aunt and tell her all about it; and try to do this, not because you want to escape exposure and disgrace, but because you have committed a great sin and feel your need of pardon."

"Suppose I don't feel the need of it?" said Kitty.

"Then pray that you may," replied Harvey, shortly.

"It was as much Selina's fault as mine," said Kitty. "If she had not teased me so about my composition, I should never have thought of doing it."

"I suppose if you had got angry and killed her, you would have made the same excuse," remarked Harvey. "Don't you remember what I told you that evening in the cow-yard,—'He that despiseth little things shall fall by little and little'? You did not think then that vanity was a matter of any consequence; and just see what it has led to. First, envy, hatred and malice, then theft, then lying—"

"You should not speak so to me, Harvey!" interrupted Kitty, with crimson cheeks and flashing eyes. "You as much as call me a thief and a liar!"

"What else do you make of it?" asked Harvey, coolly. "You took what was not your own, that was theft: and then you pretended that it 'was' your own, that was lying,—according to my dictionary. And if any one had done so by you, you would have been ready enough to call the thing by its right name. I don't want to hurt your feelings, Kitty, and I would help you if I could, I am sure, but I want you to see matters just as they are,—because, till you do, you can never do any thing towards setting them right again. That is the very best advice I can give you."

This was cold comfort, and Kitty returned to the house feeling worse than ever. Angry with Harvey, with herself and the whole world, trembling under the fear of detection and disgrace, tormented by the conscience which would no longer be silenced, she was indeed wretched enough. She took a few hasty morsels at the tea-table, and then excused herself under the plea that she wanted to go up-stairs and look over her lessons.

Meantime, Miss Watson had carried home all the compositions, wishing to give her sister an opportunity of looking them over before reading them in public. There was quite a parcel of them; for all the girls had written, and they were all to be read if there was time.

"There is one which I think is a little out of the common course," she observed, as Miss Brandon was laying them out upon the table. "It is Kitty Maynard's, and is really remarkable for a girl of her age. You will find her name upon the back of it."

"'The Last Night of the Old World,'" repeated Felicia, as she opened it. "I wrote a composition with that title myself, once upon a time."

She began to read, but before she had half finished it, she uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

"Curious, isn't it?" remarked Miss Watson, who was busied over something else.

"I should think it was!" said Felicia. "Why, Sophy, this is my own composition, word for word! I wrote it at Miss Burlingame's the last year I was there; and here it is, literally copied! I don't think there is one expression changed or left out."

Miss Watson looked perfectly confounded.

"But Kitty certainly gave it to me for her own: she showed me the first draught, and it had every appearance of being an original document."

"I cannot help that," persisted Miss Brandon. "It is my composition. It took Miss Burlingame's fancy greatly, and she had it read at the next examination. I never thought so very much of it myself. But here it is: there can be no mistake about that."

"Kitty has been at Miss Burlingame's school a long time, I know," said Miss Watson; "but how could she come by this composition?"

"Very easily," replied Felicia. "The compositions used to be kept in a great box in the closet, and I presume they are to this day,—for the customs of that school are like the laws of the Medes and Persians. She had only to get the key of the closet and help herself. And that, I presume, she has done, taking the precaution to select old ones which would not be missed. Have you any more of her productions?"

"I have all the compositions she has written since she came to school," replied Miss Watson.

And she forthwith placed them before her sister, who proceeded to look them over. She selected six or seven from the pile and laid them aside.

"I remember all these," she said, "as having been read that winter. This was Lucy McNair's, and that was Augusta Hyde's, and these three were poor Anna Crampton's. The authors of the others I do not remember, but I have a perfectly distinct recollection of the compositions themselves. Upon my word, I think Miss Kitty must be a remarkable young lady. I know girls frequently use over their own compositions when they go from one school to another, and I believe most teachers consider it allowable. But this case goes beyond any thing that has come within the range of my experience."

Miss Watson looked very much distressed. "I do not know what to do about it, Felicia," she said, after some painful consideration. "Of course, I shall not read it, and I must take notice of it in some way, but how best to do it is the question."

"She deserves a public disgrace richly," said Felicia, indignantly.

"There is no doubt of what she deserves," replied Miss Watson, "but the question in my mind is, not what she deserves, but what will do her the most good? I wish to take such a course as to make her sensible of her fault and penitent for it. I seldom or never punish for the mere sake of punishing."

"Nor I," said Felicia,—"though I know I used to when I first began to teach. But who is this Miss Kitty, and who does she stay with?"

"She is Mrs. Sarah Evelyn's niece, and has been spending the summer with her. Her mother, Mrs. Richard Maynard, has always been sick, and I suppose poor Kitty has grown-up pretty much as it has happened. Mr. and Mrs. Maynard are travelling this summer, and Kitty is under her aunt's care."

"Then why not consult Mrs. Evelyn before doing any thing? I used to think her one of the wisest women in the world. And as Kitty has deceived her as well as you, it seems perfectly proper to tell her the whole story. Suppose, as there is not much time to lose, you go over there after tea and hold council with her?"

Miss Watson considered a little and finally decided upon the course which her sister recommended.

Kitty's room was at the back of the house, but she heard the gate shut and the knock at the door, and she felt certain at once that Miss Watson had come to tell her aunt. Bitterly she repented that she had not taken Harvey's advice at once and forestalled the story by her own frank confession, but it was too late for that now.

It seemed to her an age, as she sat in the deepening twilight, before her aunt came to the foot of the stairs and called her. She descended slowly and paused a moment before she opened the door. Her aunt and Miss Watson were sitting together at the table. And Miss Watson held in her hand, not only the examination-composition, but all the others.

"Come in, Kitty, and shut the door," said Mrs. Evelyn, gravely.

Kitty obeyed in silence.

"I have been hearing very bad news about you, Kitty," Mrs. Evelyn continued,—"news which I should never have believed had not the proofs been absolutely incontestable. I wish now to hear from your own lips the story of the transaction, and very glad shall I be if you can produce any thing in extenuation of your fault. Where did you get these compositions?"

Kitty was silent.

"Answer me, my child: where did you get them?"

"If you know all about it," Kitty answered, sullenly, "there is no use in my telling you."

"I know that you have used as your own what did not belong to you," said Mrs. Evelyn, sternly, "and I wish to hear whether you obtained them in any honest way in the first place, or whether you stole them. If you refuse to answer me, I shall take other means to ascertain, which may be less agreeable to you than if you made a full confession."

Kitty paused a moment, and then said, "I got them out of the school-house the day I went to town with Harvey."

"How did you get into the school-house?"

"I asked Miss Burlingame for the key, and then took the key of the closet out of her little drawer."

"Where are the originals now?"

Kitty would not answer.

Mrs. Evelyn lighted a candle and went up-stairs. She was gone some time, but finally returned with the bundle in her hand, and opening the door of the next room, she called in Miss Brandon.

"Miss Brandon, will you please to look at these papers and tell us if you recognise them?"

Miss Brandon looked them over, and then said, "These papers are compositions written by the class of which I was a member, and which left Miss Burlingame's school in the fall and winter of 18—. They were all read publicly, and were then, according to the custom of the school, put away in a place appropriated to such things. I was acquainted with all the writers, and recognise the signatures."

"Would Miss Burlingame have been likely to give them to anybody?"

"I think not. I never knew of her doing so. She has burned up a great many, but I think she never disposes of them in any other way."

Miss Brandon returned to the other room and shut the door after her.

"You see, Kitty, the matter is proved against you," said Mrs. Evelyn. "It seems clear that you obtained the key of the school-house upon false pretences, and then stole these papers, in order that you might, by making use of them, obtain credit for more talent and industry than you possess. You went so far as to lay your plans to take a prize at a public examination by the same means."

"I did not mean to take the prize, either," replied Kitty, breaking silence at last. "I meant to tell Miss Watson that I did not want it, and would prefer to have her give it to Selina."

"Very generous in you, no doubt," said Mrs. Evelyn, "to give away that which was not your own! If you wished Selina to have the prize, why did you not give her a fair chance of obtaining it by simply writing as well as you could and not availing yourself of any assistance?"

Kitty remained silent; nor could she again be induced to speak. She would not say that she was sorry for what she had done, nor ask Miss Watson to forgive her. And wearied at last with her obstinacy, Mrs. Evelyn ordered her to go to her room and not leave it again till she gave her permission.

Kitty obeyed, glad to escape from the parlour and shut herself up with her own thoughts,—which, however, as may be imagined, she did not find very agreeable companions.

Mrs. Evelyn had said nothing of writing to her father,—which was what Kitty most dreaded. And she persuaded herself that she would not dare to do so, for fear of agitating Mrs. Maynard, who had not been so well lately. She decided in her own mind that she would not go to school on Monday unless she were carried by force, and after that, she did not care what became of her. Sometimes she thought of running off, sometimes even of making way with herself; and she occupied her mind for a while with imagining how badly they would all feel when they found her dead, and how her aunt would reproach herself for being the cause of such a sad catastrophe!

She had wrought herself up to an agony of weeping over the details of the tragedy, when she was disturbed by the entrance of Mrs. Evelyn, who was glad to find her in tears, hoping that it was a sign of repentance.

But she soon found out her mistake: Kitty was more sullen than ever, and Mrs. Evelyn was fairly at her wits' end.

"Shall I write for your father to come, Kitty?" she asked, at last.

But Kitty would not answer.

And with a heavy heart, she determined to wait till morning, hoping that Kitty's feelings might change in that time, or that some plan would occur to her by which the obstinate child might be brought to repentance.

Kitty passed a restless and uncomfortable night, tormented by all sorts of disagreeable dreams, and awoke in the morning with a violent headache.

Annie, meantime, was in great trouble at her cousin's disgrace.

"What makes Kitty stay up-stairs?" she asked of her grandmother.

"She has been a very naughty girl," Mrs. Evelyn replied, gravely, "and she will not say she is sorry."

Annie looked very much distressed; for Kitty had been her model of perfection, and the idea that she could do any thing wrong was quite new to her.

"Cannot she come down to breakfast?" she inquired, as she saw her grandmother preparing a tray to take up-stairs.

"No," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "She cannot come down till she has said she is sorry. You may go up with me if you please, and carry some of the things."

Annie followed her grandmother, who set the tray down upon the table and arranged it comfortably without receiving a word of acknowledgment from Kitty, who was dressed and apparently engaged in looking out of the window.

Annie lingered till the door was shut, and then stole timidly to Kitty's side and took hold of her hand.

"Kitty," said she, softly, "why won't you say you are sorry?"

"Because I am not sorry," replied Kitty, still unmoved.

"But, if you are not sorry, grandmother won't forgive you."

"I haven't asked her to forgive me," replied Kitty, proudly: "I don't care whether she does or not."

"But God won't forgive you, either," said Annie, very much grieved and puzzled to find her dear Kitty in such a state of mind.

"I can't help that," said Kitty, still looking out of the window. "I shall not say I am sorry when I am not. I shall not tell a lie for any of them," she added,—not choosing to remember how many she had already told upon her own account.

"But you can ask Him to make you feel sorry. Oh, do, Kitty!"

"'You' can ask Him if you choose, Annie," replied Kitty,—a little softened, and wishing to get rid of the child's importunity.

Annie took the permission quite literally.

She kneeled down where she stood, and repeated, with touching seriousness,—

"Our Father in heaven, please make Kitty sorry that she was naughty,
and make her a good girl!"

Then she kissed Kitty, and went slowly down-stairs.

The morning was wearing slowly away, and Kitty began to get very tired of being left to herself, and to wish that somebody would do something. She tried to read, to sew, to draw, but nothing answered the purpose of diverting her attention. She had always been accustomed to spend part of Saturday morning in writing to her mother and in learning her Sunday-school lesson. But, as may be imagined, she did not feel very much inclined to either of those employments at present.

Towards noon, she heard a horse come pretty fast up the road and stop at the gate, and then a knock at the door, which sounded as if some one were in a great hurry. She opened the door to listen, and she thought she heard her aunt utter an exclamation of surprise and grief.

Could her father have come? An undefined feeling of some calamity made her heart beat fast. But moment after moment passed by, and she heard no more. Her head ached very severely, and she thought she would lie down on the bed and try to sleep. She was just falling into a dream when the door opened, and Mrs. Evelyn came in with a note in her hand and sat down upon the side of the bed. Her face was pale and her eyes swollen with weeping; and a second glance showed Kitty that the note was telegraphic despatch.

"I have just heard from your mother, Kitty," said Mrs. Evelyn, in a trembling voice.

"Is she worse, aunt?" asked Kitty, starting up in terror. "Oh, I am sure she is very sick, or they would not have telegraphed."

"No, my poor child," replied Mrs. Evelyn, taking Kitty in her arms: "she is past all suffering now. She is at peace."

"Not dead?" said Kitty, in a hoarse whisper.

Mrs. Evelyn nodded. She could not speak.

Kitty turned deadly pale, and would have sunk to the floor but that Mrs. Evelyn sustained her in her arms. She laid her back on the pillow, and would have risen to seek some restorative. But Kitty held her hand tightly with both hers, and whispered,—

"No, no! Don't go!"

Mrs. Evelyn kissed and caressed her tenderly, and after a few moments, was relieved to see her burst into an agony of grief.

"Oh, my mother!—Oh, my dear mother! Oh, what shall I do?" she repeated between her sobs.

Mrs. Evelyn let her have her way and wept with her for some time. But at last she began gently to hush her, and by slow degrees, she became somewhat composed.

"When was it?" she asked, at last.

"Last night, about ten. It was very sudden. She had not been considered any worse."

Kitty remembered what sort of thoughts and feelings had occupied her at that very time, and she wept again as if her heart would break. Her pride and ill-temper had all given way beneath this heavy and unexpected stroke, and she thought, with tears and shame, of the way in which she had behaved.

"Oh, I do hope she will never know what a wicked girl I have been!" she sobbed. "Do you think she will, aunt?"

"I don't know, Kitty. I hope not. But you know," she continued, gently, "that 'there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth;' so that, if you are really and truly sorry—"

"I am, aunt!—Oh, I truly am! I was all the time,—only I was too proud and too obstinate to say so. Oh, please forgive me, and ask Miss Watson to forgive me!"

"I forgive you with all my heart if you are penitent, my child. But, Kitty, there is One whose forgiveness you need more than mine or Miss Watson's. Will you not ask Him to pardon you too?"

"Please to ask Him for me, aunt," Kitty replied, in a faint whisper.

Mrs. Evelyn kneeled down, just where Annie had kneeled, and in few and simple words confessed Kitty's sin in her behalf, and prayed for forgiveness and comfort for the penitent and now afflicted child.

It was with all her heart that Kitty answered "Amen" to this prayer.

She lay quite still for some little time after it was concluded, and Mrs. Evelyn thought she had fallen asleep, but she was mistaken. At last, as she was rising to leave the room, Kitty asked,—

"Were there any particulars in the note, aunt?"

"Only that she died quietly and in great peace. Her last words were of you."

Kitty wept again, but her tears were not so bitter as at first. She felt as if a great load was gone from her heart,—as if she had now a right to mourn for her dear mother.

Mrs. Evelyn left her to herself while she went down-stairs to give some necessary directions. And when she returned, Kitty was asleep. As she stood by the bed and noticed the child's flushed face and quick breathing, she feared that the excitement of the last few days had been too much for her, and so it proved.

When Kitty awoke, she had a terrible headache, and was so ill by night that Harvey was sent after the doctor, who said that she was threatened with fever and must be kept very quiet for a few days.

Harvey brought up a letter from Mr. Maynard, giving a more particular account of his wife's death. It was his intention to bring the body of his wife home for burial. And he desired that Mrs. Evelyn and Kitty might be at the house ready to receive them.

Mrs. Evelyn did not mean to show this letter to Kitty, but she asked for it, and it was thought best to indulge her. After reading it through, she put it under her pillow, and desired Mrs. Evelyn to bring her pen and paper, that she might write to her father and tell him the whole story about the compositions. But her aunt finally dissuaded her, by telling her that such a letter would only add to his grief, when he had already enough to bear, and that it would be better to tell him at another time.

Her mind wandered frequently all night and part of the next day. But towards night on Sunday, she had a good sleep and awoke much better. Miss Watson was sitting by her, Mrs. Evelyn having gone to lie down. Kitty would have spoken, but Miss Watson put her finger on her lip.

"You must not talk now, my dear; indeed you must not. I know all that you would say, and I assure you I forgive you entirely."

"But the girls,—" said Kitty; "do they know?"

"No," replied Miss Watson; "and I shall not tell them. I do not think it desirable to have the matter talked about; and it will never be mentioned out of the family."

Kitty seamed much relieved, and sank into another slumber. She passed a tolerably comfortable night, and though the fever returned on Monday, it was much less violent and lasted but a short time.

Still, it was very evident that she would not be able to go to town on the morrow to meet her father as he had desired. She was naturally very unwilling to give up the idea; and it was not till Tuesday morning came, and she found herself quite unable to stand up long enough to dress herself, that she was willing to allow that it would not do to try.

Mrs. Evelyn was at first rather unwilling to leave her, but Kitty begged her so earnestly to go that she at last consented to leave Kitty in charge of Miss Watson for two days, in order to attend the funeral. Kitty behaved very well about it, though she cried bitterly as she bade her aunt good-by, and tried to send some message to her father. But upon Miss Watson's representations that Mr. Maynard would probably return with Mrs. Evelyn, and that he would be very much grieved to find her worse, she restrained her tears and lay very quiet all the morning.

The subject of the examination had not been mentioned. But in the afternoon, Kitty herself adverted to it and asked how it had gone off.

"Very well," replied Miss Watson. "There was not a single mistake made, except one or two in the arithmetic-class."

"I suppose Selina got the prize?" said Kitty.

"It lay between her and Harriet Ashton," returned Miss Watson. "Their compositions were so nearly upon an equality that I really could not decide between them; so I procured a second premium, and the girls drew lots for them. Selina drew the desk."

"I am glad of it," said Kitty. "She wanted it very much, I know. And who got the arithmetic-prize?"

"Sylvia; but she says you would have been sure to take it if you had been there, and she thinks you ought to have it, at any rate. I told her she might settle it with you."

"I don't want it," said Kitty. "I would much rather she had it."

She hesitated a moment, and then said, "Did the girls ask after me?"

"Yes; there have been many inquiries about you. The girls knew that you were sick and in trouble, and there was a great deal of sympathy expressed for you. Some of them are very anxious to see you, and Sylvia and Selina have called twice. I told them I would ask you if they should come up next time."

"I should like to see them," said Kitty, "only—"

She hesitated, and Miss Watson said, kindly,—

"You know, Kitty, they do not know that any thing else has occurred."

"I was not thinking about that, Miss Watson," said Kitty, earnestly. "I would rather they knew than not. It seems, somehow, like cheating to have them think so much of me."

She paused a moment, and then said, hesitatingly, "Miss Watson, if I should come back into school again next term, do you think you could ever trust me again, as if I had never done any thing?"

"I should not feel exactly the same towards you as though you had never deceived me, Kitty," replied Miss Watson: "that would be out of my power. Nevertheless, I should give you every opportunity of re-establishing your character; and I should always be ready to believe you, unless I saw some good reason to the contrary. Why do you ask? Would you like to come back into school again?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Kitty, frankly, "I should. I hope it is not a wrong feeling, but I should like very much to have an opportunity of showing you that I mean to be a good girl. I don't know whether I shall succeed or not, but I mean to try."

"If you try, depending only upon your own strength, Kitty, you will be sure to fail," said Miss Watson. "Your good resolutions will come to nothing unless you rest for strength upon a higher power."

"I know it," replied Kitty, in a low voice. "I have tried that, but I hope I have learned better now. I used to think I could do every thing I chose to do. I might have been wiser,—for I was always wishing to be a good girl and doing the same wrong things right over again. I hope it will not be so this time."

"You must not be discouraged if you fail many times, Kitty," said Miss Watson, kindly. "Almost everybody does that. You must begin again and again. And if you are sincere in praying for help, you will find that you gain something every time. We must 'run with "patience" the race set before us,' you know."

"Isn't there something in that verse about besetting sins?" asked Kitty.

"Yes: 'laying aside every weight and the sin which doth so easily beset us.' What do you think is your besetting sin?"

"Vanity, I have no doubt," replied Kitty, blushing. "Every one used to tell me so, but I never could see that I was vain. But, since all this happened, I have thought a great deal about it; and I can see that that was the beginning. I could not bear to think that Selina wrote better than I did, and so—" Kitty paused.

"You have thought a great deal since last Friday, Kitty," Miss Watson observed, after a little silence.

"Oh, yes, indeed!" replied Kitty, with a deep sigh. "It seems as though I had lived a whole lifetime since then: I feel so much older. I do hope," she added, earnestly,—"I do hope I shall be a good girl."

The next day, Sylvia and Selina called to see Kitty, and were admitted, as she was so much better as to be able to sit up half the day. Miss Watson had given them a strict charge to keep her quiet, and they obeyed her very well, though Kitty shed some tears at seeing them. As they rose to go, after quite a long visit, she detained them.

"Girls, I want to tell you something," she said, blushing very much. "I don't know what you will say or think, but I would rather you knew."

She then went on with the history already known to the reader, and ended by saying, "I shall not ask you not to tell. You may do as you please about it."

"What should I want to tell for?" asked Selina, abruptly. "You don't think, now, that I would like to see you in disgrace, do you, Kitty?"

"No, I don't believe you would, Selina."

"And, besides, I was as bad as you," Selina continued. "If I had not teased you so, you would never have thought of it. I am as much to blame as you."

"I should not say that, Selina," observed Sylvia. "I think it was very wrong to tease Kitty, however; and you know I have always maintained that it was wrong for the girls to plague and torment each other as they do. It leads to nothing but ill will and bad feeling, and I am sure I cannot see what fun there is in it. But I am sure, Kitty, we shall neither tell of you nor lay it up against you. So don't fret about that, but get well as fast as you can. I think, Selina, we had better go now, lest Kitty should be tired."

The girls kissed her affectionately and took their leave.

They walked some distance in silence, which was broken by Sylvia's saying, after a deep sigh,—

"Who would ever have thought of Kitty's doing such a thing?"

"I never should," replied Selina; "and yet I used to think there was something queer about those compositions of hers. They were so good, and yet not the least like each other. I wonder Miss Watson did not have some suspicions,—only she never does suspect anybody. After all, it is not so much worse than some things the girls very often do, especially in geography,—write the beginnings of the names and boundaries upon little bits of paper, to hold in their hands in the class."

"I am sure I never did that," said Sylvia.

"I have," returned Selina, "and never thought there was any great harm in it, because all the girls did it. But I don't see now why it is not as bad as stealing a composition. And another thing: I know I have talked about people behind their back as I never would to their face. I have about you, Sylvia. I have laughed about your being so proud."

"I know it, Selina, and so have other people. But I do not think it is a wrong pride which makes one unwilling to be helped so long as one can help oneself; do you?"

"No, indeed; and I never did. But I have such a bad habit of laughing at and about people. Poor Kitty!" she added, after a little silence. "How sad to lose her mother just at such a time! I don't believe she will ever be the same girl again."

"I believe she will be a great deal better one," said Sylvia; "and so I hope shall all of us."

"I hope I shall, for one," replied Selina. "It won't be for want of trying if I am not."

Mr. Maynard returned from the city with Mrs. Evelyn the day after the funeral, and found Kitty a great deal better, though still looking pale and thin.

At her own request, Mrs. Evelyn had given him an account of the affair, adding that she believed Kitty to be truly penitent. Mr. Maynard did not allude to the subject for several days. But one Sunday evening, as they were walking in the fields, he talked it over with her, and was glad to find that her sorrow for sin and her good resolutions seemed to have been strengthened rather than weakened by time.

A day or two afterwards, a consultation was held as to what should be done with Kitty for the winter. Her father naturally felt desirous to have her with him. But, at the same time, he saw many difficulties in the way, as she would necessarily be left very much to the care of Huldah, who, though kind-hearted and conscientious, was not exactly the best guide and director for a girl of fourteen.

Mrs. Evelyn at last proposed that they should consult Kitty herself. And she was accordingly called and the case laid before her.

Kitty was silent for a few moments, evidently considering deeply.

"I should like to be with you, dear father. But then—"

"Well, my daughter, what then?" asked Mr. Maynard.

"Who would there be to take care of me? You are in the store so much."

"You think you could not take care of yourself?" said Mrs. Evelyn.

"No, 'indeed,' aunt, I don't," replied Kitty, with such grave emphasis that Mrs. Evelyn and her father both smiled.

"There would be Huldah, you know," said the latter.

"Yes, I know, and she is very good. But still—I do really think that, if Aunt Sarah is willing to be troubled with me, I would rather stay here. At least, I think it would be better for me to stay."

Mrs. Evelyn smiled again at the distinction—more truthful than polite, perhaps—which Kitty made between her convictions and her inclinations, and assured her that she should be very glad to keep her, if she could make up her mind to stay contentedly.

"What would you do with yourself all day?" she asked.

"I should go to school, I suppose," replied Kitty, blushing. "I should like to go another term to Miss Watson. I should like—"

She did not finish the sentence. Mr. Maynard and his sister exchanged glances.

"You would like to show Miss Watson that you are in earnest in meaning to be a good girl?" said Mr. Maynard.

Kitty assented.

"I think you have made a very wise decision, my daughter. I shall feel perfectly safe about you if you are here, and you will be near at hand. And though I may be lonely sometimes, yet it will be a great comfort to me to think that my little girl is in good and kind hands, improving in mind and making daily progress in virtue and godliness of living."