Chapter II: Part 2

"'You would give it to Amy Preston in a minute, if she asked you,' said she; 'you think more of that shop-girl than you do of me, though I am your cousin.'"

"'Well,' said I, half laughing, 'you see, Dora, Amy is a cheaper friend than you are. She never wants anything and you want everything.'"

"So much for that! As for the dress story, there is a little foundation for that, too. Dora asked me a few days ago if that was my old dress you were wearing."

"'Of course,' said I. 'Amy wears all my dresses and I wear hers. That is the way we show our regard for each other.'"

"'But don't you really give her dresses?' she asked."

"All the girls laughed, for every one knows how proud you are about receiving presents, Amy."

"And I said, to carry on the joke, 'To be sure I do! I buy all her clothes and books, and my father pays her school bills.'"

"You see, Amy—though you must not tell any one—papa really does pay Dora's school bills, and mamma gives her a great many things; and I thought perhaps by giving her such a hint, I would make her hold her peace, and so I did. As for the rest, it is a sheer manufacture out of whole cloth. I should think you ought to have known me better, Amy."

Amy colored scarlet. "Well, Eva, I suppose I ought, but then you see—there is such a difference—in short you are rich and I am poor, and if you were in my place, you would see how natural it is to be jealous."

"It may be natural, but I cannot think it's right," said Eva. "I don't think poor people ought to be jealous of rich people, any more than rich people ought to despise poor people. Besides, Amy, I should never think of calling you poor. But did Dora say anything else?"

"Never mind what she said," replied Amy. "I ought never to have listened to her. But it was not so much what she said as what she insinuated. However, I was a fool to mind her, for I know of old just what a mischievous thing she is. She has tried it upon me before. When I first came to school, she told me some of the girls made a fuss because I was a shop-girl, and I don't suppose there was any truth in that either."

"Not one word, I dare say. But now, Amy, promise me one thing. If ever you think I have done wrong, just come to me as I have come to you and ask me about it. If we do so, we shall never have any lasting quarrels, I am sure, and no tattler can make mischief between us. Isn't it almost time to go to school? I will wait for you and we will go together."

Amy kept Eva waiting while she went up to her own little room, and there in a short but earnest prayer, asked God's forgiveness for her jealousy and unkindness and begged Him to pour into her heart "that most excellent gift of charity, the very bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whosoever liveth is counted dead before Him."

Dora stared in wonder when she saw Amy and Eva enter the school-room in their old fashion, with their arms round each other's waists.

"So you two have made up your quarrel," she said, in recess, with her disagreeable laugh. "Well, it is a fine thing to have a forgiving temper, especially when it is so much to one's own advantage as it is to Amy's, in this case."

"There is nothing to forgive, as it happens," answered Eva, coolly. "Somebody told Amy a set of stories about me which were either entirely false or else misrepresented, but when she came to hear the truth it was all right again."

"Amy Preston, you are as mean as you can be," exclaimed Dora. "You promised not to tell."

"I did not promise not to tell," said Amy. "However, I did not tell."

"How did Eva find out then, I should like to know?"

"Because," said Eva, answering for her friend; "you came to me and told what Amy said about me. And I remember what I heard an old Scotch woman say about talebearers, that a dog which would fetch a bone would carry a bone."

Depend upon it, girls, the old Scotch woman's proverb speaks the truth. A person who will come and tell you a story about what somebody has said of you, will tell that person what you have said about them; and in neither case will the story be the exact truth. Never listen for a moment to such tales, if you can help it; and if you cannot help listening, let the words go "in at one ear and out at the other."

If, however, you think your friend has offended you, go and ask her about it kindly and frankly; and two to one the offence will vanish into thin air.

But again, I say, never listen to talebearers, for "the words of a talebearer are as wounds."

"Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out: so where there is no talebearer the strife ceaseth."—(Prov. xxvi. 20.)

ESTHER'S BAD DAY,

OR,

"I COULDN'T HELP IT."

IT was a good while after six and a very bright sunny spring morning, yet Esther was not yet out of bed, when somebody knocked at her door.

"O dear!" said she, in a sleepy, pettish tone, "I wish people would only let me alone a minute. Come in!"

The last words were spoken aloud, and a very pretty girl, some years older than Esther, opened the door. She was partly dressed and had her comb and brush in her hand.

"Why, Etty, not up yet!" she exclaimed. "I thought you would be nearly dressed. I came to ask if I might finish my dressing by your glass, for papa wants the painters to begin on my room as soon as they come."

"Of course you can," replied Etty, not very graciously, however. "What time is it?"

"About half-past six. You ought to be up, Etty."

"Oh, there is plenty of time."

"I don't know. Time slips away very fast in the morning."

Eleanor went back to her roam to look for something she wanted. When she came back, Etty had scrambled up to the end of the bed next the window, and, still in her night-gown, and with her hair hanging over her shoulders, was reading a story-book, which she had drawn from under her pillow. In the book, perhaps, might be found the cause of her morning sleepiness. When a little girl reads in bed till her candle burns out, she is apt to be rather heavy-headed next morning.

"You will be late for breakfast," said Eleanor. "I fear I shall be late myself, I have been so hindered; but, Etty, I am sure you will be behindhand."

"O no, I sha'n't. I can dress in ten minutes, easily."

"You cannot dress properly in ten minutes," said Eleanor, busily tying up her hair; "and, Etty, there is something else besides dressing to be done before you go down-stairs."

Etty shrugged her shoulders impatiently but made no answer.

Eleanor went on with her dressing, and said no more till she had finished. Then turning to, Etty, who was still reading, she said, seriously:

"Now, Etty, you have only fifteen minutes left. You may get ready for breakfast, perhaps, if you lose no more time."

"Do let me be, Eleanor!" answered Etty, angrily. "I know what I am about! I wish you would go away and mind your own business!"

"Very well," said Eleanor, and quietly gathering up her dressing things she left the room without another word.

Etty looked at the clock and then at her book.

"I will only read to the end of this paragraph," said she. "That will not take long, and I can easily get ready after that."

But it is not always easy to stop at the end of a paragraph, and Etty read on till she was startled by hearing the church clock strike seven, followed by the energetic ringing of the breakfast-bell at the foot of the stairs.

"O dear!" exclaimed Etty, throwing down her book and scrambling out of bed. "Now I shall be late again; that will be the third time this week, and uncle will be angry. It is all Eleanor's fault. She ought to have made me got up."

Etty hastened to dress, but as usually happens at such times, she found that the more she hurried, the less she got on. She broke her boot-lacing and could not find another. She had been in such a hurry to get to her story-book the night before, that she had neglected to braid up her hair, and it was all hanging in what nurses call "witch-knots," and the more she pulled at it, the worse it snarled.

"Now where is that ribbon! I am sure it was here last night. I suppose Eleanor has put it out of place. O dear, I do wish people would keep out of my room and let my things alone!" snapped Etty, tumbling over the things on the dressing-table.

"There, now!" As she spoke, she overturned a tall bottle of cologne, which, with its pretty bronze holder, had been one of her birthday presents. She had often been told never to set the bottle down out of the holder, but she had a trick of leaning it against the side of the glass.

The tall bottle fell on a pretty hand-mirror with a carved frame, and both were broken to pieces. At this new calamity, Etty burst into tears, and throwing her brush to the farther end of the room, she flung herself down on the floor and cried so as to be heard all over the house.

The family were becoming tolerably well used to Etty's "tantrums," and as they were at prayers, nobody moved till the prayer was finished.

"Please, aunt, may I go and see what ails Etty?" said Stella. She was Etty's younger sister, but as she slept with Eleanor, she had not seen Etty that morning.

"No, my dear, I will go myself," said Mrs. Grey.

Stella said no more, but she looked very uncomfortable, not to say distressed.

"You need not look so unhappy, my dear Stella," said Eleanor. "You don't think mamma will be unkind to Etty, do you?"

"No," said Stella, "aunt is never unkind to any one; but Etty does go on so when she gets one of her bad days. Aunt is not used to her, and I am afraid she will be very much displeased."

When Mrs. Grey went up-stairs, she found Etty still lying on the floor, crying and sobbing.

"What is the matter now?" asked Mrs. Grey. "Why are you not ready for breakfast?"

"O dear, I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!" sobbed Etty.

"Etty, if I ever hear you say that again, I shall punish you!" said Mrs. Grey. "Stop crying directly, and tell me what all this is about. How came this bottle broken, and the mirror, too? And here is the cologne running all over the bureau. What have you been about?"

"It is all Eleanor's fault," sobbed Etty, getting up from the floor. "She came in here to dress, and she has put all my things out of place so that I cannot find anything; and looking for my hair ribbon, I knocked down the bottle and broke it and—" Etty was going to wish herself dead again, but she stopped just in time.

"Is not this your ribbon?" asked Mrs. Grey, taking up one which was hanging on the glass in plain sight.

"I don't care, I could not find it," Etty was beginning, but her aunt stopped her.

"I do not want to hear any more now. Dress yourself and come down-stairs as quickly as you can?"

Esther and Stella Grey were orphan children, who had come to live with their uncle and aunt. Mr. and Mrs. Grey had adopted the children as their own, and treated them kindly in every respect.

Stella was very happy in her new home—happier in fact than she had ever been before. She was a quiet little thing, very gentle and good; but not at all pretty, and not particularly bright.

Etty, on the contrary, was both pretty and intelligent; but she was far from being as pleasant a child to live with as her sister. Esther had always been the favorite with her mother, who was not by any means a sensible woman. Ever since she could remember she had been petted and indulged, and talked about before her face as "a very peculiar nervous child," "a child requiring very delicate management," till she had learned to think that she was really something remarkable; whereas she was only a passionate little girl, whose health had been injured by over indulgence, and whose disposition had been almost spoiled by her being permitted to tyrannize over her younger sister as much as she pleased, and to indulge in such fits of passion as we have seen, on the least provocation.

Mrs. Grey soon found out that she had undertaken a very troublesome task; but she was a kind good woman and used to children, and she was determined to do the best she could by the poor spoiled child.

When Etty came down at last, she found breakfast over. Her uncle was reading the paper, Eleanor was washing the breakfast dishes, and Stella dusting the room.

"Come, Etty, eat your breakfast," said her aunt, kindly, but decidedly. "Eleanor wants to put away the table."

Etty took her seat with a very dissatisfied face. "Everything is as cold as it can be!" said she, pettishly. "And I can't bear fish-balls."

"Well, there are plenty of nice potatoes, and bread and butter."

"I hate—" Etty was beginning, but Mr. Grey stopped her.

"Eat your breakfast and say no more about it, Esther!" said he, sharply. For he had nerves as well as his niece, and her whining grated upon them sadly. "You have made quite disturbance enough for one morning."

Etty shrugged her shoulders and made up a face, but she was afraid of her uncle and said nothing more. She drank two cups of coffee and was just about pouring out a third, when her aunt stopped her.

"No more, Etty! Two of those cups are quite enough for any little girl."

Etty rose from the table with a flounce, and gave the coffee pot a push which sent it off the table. Stella was close by and caught it, but not in time to save Etty's dress from a deluge.

"There now, see what you made me do, you awkward little toad!" exclaimed Etty, angrily, giving her sister a push. "I wish you were a thousand miles off, Stella Grey. You are always getting me into trouble."

Stella, who was used to her sister's hasty speeches, did not reply; but Eleanor answered for her. She was very fond of Stella, and did not like to hear her falsely accused. "Why, Etty, Stella did not touch you. She caught the pot and risked her own hands to save you from being scalded. You ought to be ashamed to speak so to your sister!"

"Never mind," whispered Stella. "Don't say anything to her, you only make her worse."

"Etty," said Mr. Grey, "go up and change your dress, and don't come down again till you are in a good humor. Let me hear no crying, or slamming of doors, either," he added, sharply. "We have had quite enough for once. I begin to wish that child had never come into the house," he said to Mrs. Grey, as Etty left the room, followed presently by Stella. "She destroys the whole comfort of the family."

"She is certainly very troublesome," replied Mrs. Grey, sighing. "However, we must have patience. I really think she is improving. She has not had one of these bad days in some time."

"Since when?" asked Mr. Grey.

"Since last week," answered his wife, smiling. "She used to have them every other day when she first came. But I begin to think with you that we shall have to be more decided with her. However, we will try to get on quietly to-day, so that the pleasure of the excursion may not be spoiled for poor Stella."

Meantime Stella was up-stairs coaxing Etty to stop crying and change her dress so as to be ready for their lessons at nine o'clock.

"Come, Etty, do," she urged. "You will not be ready when Miss Beach comes, and then you will have a bad mark again. Do put on your other dress."

"I won't!" said Etty, passionately. "I wish I was dead! They would never dare to treat me so if my own mother was alive, but because I am an orphan they think they can abuse me as they please."

"Oh, Etty, how can you say so? I think they are so kind."

"They may be kind enough to you, but they are not kind to me," retorted Etty. "You know they are not, but you don't care what becomes of me. If you had loved mamma, you would not be so contented here. But you never did. I do really believe you are glad she is dead, because you know she always loved me the best."

Stella could bear a good deal from Etty, but this was too much. She burst into tears, and ran out of the room.

Etty, having succeeded in hurting somebody's feelings, began to feel better herself. She knew that she had uttered a wicked falsehood, but she did not mind what she said at such times. She grew quite cheerful over the wound she had inflicted on her unoffending sister, and by the time Miss Beach rang the bell, she was ready to come down-stairs singing and as pleasant as possible, her face making a great contrast to poor Stella's red eyes and trembling lips.

But cheerfulness which is built on the suffering of others is not likely to be very lasting, and a new cause of trouble soon appeared. Notwithstanding, Etty's so-called talents, she was backward in her lessons; and reading till twelve o'clock the night before did not tend to make her head clear. She found her sums in arithmetic unusually puzzling, and made so many mistakes in her Latin rules that she had to study them over again. She could not make sense of her reading lesson, and declared there was no meaning in it, and she was all the more cross that Stella's Latin lesson was unusually good. By the end of the school hours, she was once more in a thoroughly bad humor.

"Well, are the lessons finished?" asked Mrs. Grey, entering the school-room at twelve o'clock. "Come then, girls, hurry and dress yourselves, that you may be ready when the carriage comes."

"Where are we going, aunt?" asked Stella.

"Wait patiently, and you will see," replied Mrs. Grey, smiling. "Only be sure you are ready by one o'clock, for there will be no time to lose in waiting. Put on your gray skirts, and dresses that can be easily washed. Your ginghams will be the best."

"I shall not wear my gingham dress—so!" said Etty, as they went up-stairs. "I shall wear my new muslin."

"I am afraid aunt will not like it," replied Stella. "She said anything that would wash."

"Well, and won't the muslins wash, stupid?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but you would hardly want to have your new dress done up so soon. I shall put on the gingham."

"I declare, I won't go with you, if you do, Stella Grey," said Etty, stamping her foot.

"You will not look fit to be seen."

But Stella was learning to have her own way, when she knew she was in the right. She said no more but went to her room and dressed herself as her aunt had directed.

Etty, meantime, was fretting and fuming over her toilet as usual, because she could not make up her mind what to wear. She would not wear the gingham—that was all about it. The muslin was pretty enough for anything, but Etty had forgotten to sew on certain hooks and eyes without which the sash could not be worn, and the dress without the sash could not be thought of.

Finally she pitched upon the most unsuitable thing of all—a black barege, her very best summer dress, which she had not yet worn. She was just fastening it, when her aunt called to her from the stairs: "Be sure you put on your thickest boots, Etty!"

"Those thick leather boots with this thin dress—how they will look!" said Etty. "I am sure my cloth boots will be thick enough this dry day. It has not rained for a week."

Etty had lost so much time in making up her mind that she was not ready when the carriage came to the door.

"Come, children, we have no time to lose!" called out Mr. Grey. "Are you ready?"

"I am ready," said Stella, entering Etty's room. "Shall I help you, Etty? But what made you put on that dress?"

"Because I don't want to look like a charity school-girl, as you do!" was Etty's snappish reply. "Every one will think you are a servant!"

"No, indeed! I am not half fine enough for a servant," said Stella, shrewdly. "But come, Etty; do hurry. What hat are you going to wear? Let me get it for you."

"Do go along and leave me alone!" said Etty, crossly. "You are trying to hinder me on purpose to get me found fault with."

"Come, children," again called Mr. Grey. "We cannot wait for you any longer."

Stella ran down-stairs to say that Etty would be ready in a minute.

When all were in the carriage, Etty came down. In the bustle of getting settled and driving off, Mrs. Grey did not notice her dress, and it was not till they had gone several squares that she observed how Etty had disobeyed her orders.

"Why, Etty!" she exclaimed. "What made you put on that dress, of all others? You will have it utterly spoiled."

"There is no help for it now," said Mr. Grey. "If Etty spoils her dress, she must take the consequences. She will not have another new one at her disposal to spoil this summer."

Etty flounced and frowned, but said nothing till they came to the steamboat, which was just ready to leave the dock. Then a new trouble came up. She declared that she could not and would not go on board the boat—that she knew she should be drowned, and that Stella should not go either.

"Very well," said Mr. Grey. "Then, get into the carriage and go home, but Stella shall go, if she chooses. Come, make up your mind one way or the other; but do not stand there making yourself ridiculous any longer."

This was new treatment to Etty, who was used to being soothed, and petted, and admired for her weak nerves and delicate sensibilities. But she had no notion of being left behind, and finally went on board the boat, just the moment before the plank was taken away.

The party were to proceed to a rocky point some miles off, spend the afternoon in exploring it, and return in the evening, when the steamboat would call for them. The place was beautiful and the weather lovely—the luncheon was very nice.

And all might have been pleasant only for Etty.

She spoiled every one's comfort. She would go nowhere where the rest wanted to go: she persisted in being afraid where there was no danger, and in being foolhardy in dangerous places, and she cried five different times in three hours. Her dress was torn in a dozen different places before the day was over, and her thin boots cut to pieces so that she could hardly walk, and the stones hurt her at every stop.

"Now I am going to rest a while and then we will go and see the cave," said Mr. Grey, when they had finished their lunch; "but none of you must venture on the rocks without me. They are dangerous in many places."

Stella was searching for shells on the sandy beach, near the place where they had lunched, when Etty joined her.

"I am going up there to get some of those wild-flowers, instead of poking about here," said she, pointing to some flowering shrubs which grew at a little distance, "and I want you to go with me."

"Uncle said we must not go on the rocks without him, you know," said Stella.

"He did not say on these rocks: he said on the rocks by the cave."

"He said on the rocks," persisted Stella; "and I know we ought not to go."

"Of course you won't go if I want you to," said Etty. "It is enough for you to know that I wish to do anything to set you against it. I don't care, I shall go alone."

"Please don't," pleaded Stella, but Etty was already on the rocks.

In a few minutes Mr. Grey, who was taking a little nap, was startled by a cry of distress.

There stood Etty on a narrow ledge, over a deep pool, clinging to a small, slender bush, and screaming with all her might; while Stella, with a pale face but steady step; was walking along the dangerous path towards her sister.

"Stop, Stella, I command you!" called Mr. Grey. "Etty, keep still and be quiet. I will see what can be done."

But Etty was past hearing reason. As Stella drew near her, she threw herself forward and seized hold of her sister. Stella tottered, lost her balance, and both the children fell into the pool below. When Etty came to herself she was lying on the bed, in a room of the fisherman's little house on the point, with Eleanor and the fisherman's wife attending upon her, but Stella was not to be seen.

"Keep still, Etty," said Eleanor, as Etty tried to rise.

"But where is Stella? I want Stella!" cried Etty.

"Stella cannot come to you, and you must not go to her," said Eleanor, seeing that Etty was determined to get up. "You have done terrible mischief by your perverseness and folly, Esther, and the only amends you can make is to try and do no more."

There was something in Eleanor's tone which quieted Etty at once.

"Is Stella dead?" she asked, in an awestruck whisper.

"No—at least we hope not—but she has not revived yet, and we fear that her head is hurt. Be quiet now, and drink the tea Mrs. Fiske is bringing you."

It was a long time before Stella came to herself, and when she did, she knew no one. She was carried on board the steamer and laid on one sofa and Etty on another. As the boat drew near to the wharf, Stella opened her eyes, and seeing her aunt bending over her, she said, feebly: "Please, aunt, don't scold Etty."

Etty hid her face and cried bitterly but silently, as she remembered all her unkind speeches to Stella. She was put to bed in her own room, and left alone for what seemed an age. At last Mrs. Grey came in and sat down by her bed.

"Oh, aunt, how is Stella?" exclaimed Etty, starting up.

"She is better," replied her aunt. "The doctor hopes she will live. You ought to be very thankful." Mrs. Grey paused a little and then said: "Etty, what has been the matter to-day? What has made you behave so badly?"

"I don't know, aunt," replied Etty. "It has been one of my bad days."

"What do you suppose makes you have bad days, Etty?"

"I don't know, aunt," repeated Etty. "I can't help them."

"Are you sure of that, Etty? I am not so, by any means."

Etty looked surprised.

"Let us go over the day's history and see if it could not be helped. What was the first trouble?"

"Being late for breakfast, aunt—no, breaking the cologne bottle was the first trouble."

"Well, both of these troubles came from the same source—not getting up in time. How did that happen?"

"I was so sleepy, aunt."

"You should not have been sleepy. From half-past nine till six is long enough for any little girl to sleep. Did you go to bed as soon as you came up-stairs?"

Etty hesitated.

"I know you did not," continued Mrs. Grey. "Your candle was new last night and it was more than half burned out this morning. What were you doing?"

"Reading, aunt."

"Then the first trouble came from your disobeying my direct commands. Could you not help that?"

"Yes, aunt, I suppose so."

"And could you not have got up when Eleanor called you?"

"Yes, aunt."

"Then here were two troubles which certainly could have been helped, and which being helped would have prevented most of the others. I will pass over your conduct at the breakfast-table and at your lessons; but could you not have dressed yourself as I told you instead of following your own perverse fancy?"

"I did not want to wear that dress," murmured Etty.

"That was no reason at all, Etty. When you are commanded to do a thing by those who stand in the place of your parents, your liking or not liking is no excuse for disobeying. Now, to go on to the great trouble of all. Did you not hear your uncle tell you not to go upon the rocks?"

"Yes, aunt."

"And could you not have helped going where you were told not to go?"

Etty was ashamed to excuse herself by saying that she wanted the flowers, so she said nothing. She was beginning to see that her troubles had been of her own making.

"In every one of these cases you could have 'helped it,' as you say, by merely doing your duty," continued Mrs. Grey. "If you had risen in time, you would not have been hurried and fretted in getting ready for breakfast. You would not have broken your bottle, and spoiled my table, and lost your own temper, and put yourself out of tune for the whole day. If you had trusted your uncle as you ought, you would not have made yourself ridiculous on the wharf as you did. If you had not been so perverse and unreasonable you would not have spoiled your best dress and your own temper as well as that of every one else. To conclude, if you had obeyed your uncle to-day, you would not have run heedlessly into danger, and thus have sacrificed perhaps the life of your poor little sister."

"Do you think Stella will die, aunt?" asked Etty.

"I cannot tell. She is very dangerously hurt, and even if she should live, it may be months before she can walk. Now tell me, Etty, could you not have helped all these things?"

"Well, I cannot help crying when anything troubles me," said Etty. "I have so much feeling."

"Feeling for yourself, Etty, not for other people. Selfish feeling, which makes you hard-hearted and unkind even to your poor little sister, who would do anything in the world for you. Selfish feeling, which shows that you have never learned to love God or your neighbors, but only to love and please yourself—which will and does make you a torment to yourself and all about you."

"I shall say no more now, Etty, only to recommend you to ask God for the light of His Holy Spirit to teach you to see yourself as you really are. There is no use in trying to cure people unless they can be convinced that they are sick, and there is no use in talking of amendment to one who cannot see that she is to blame. I shall pray for you, my child, and I shall continue to take care of you as well as I can, but I do not know what is to become of you unless you learn to be a better girl."

"Please don't go away, aunt," sobbed Etty: "don't leave me alone. Indeed I will try to be a good girl, if you will forgive me."

"I forgive you, my dear Etty, but there is One whom you have offended more than you have me, whose pardon you ought to ask."

"Please ask Him for me, aunt!" whispered Etty. "And ask Him to make Stella well."

Mrs. Grey knelt by Etty's bedside, and prayed, and for the first time in her life Etty really joined in a prayer.

She wanted very much to see Stella, but her aunt said no, and for once Etty minded without a word.

When Mrs. Grey left her, Etty slipped out of bed, and kneeling down, she prayed herself, with many tears, that her Father in Heaven would spare her dear sister; and that she herself might have grace to be a good girl. That prayer was the beginning of a new life to Etty.

Then feeling a little comforted she rose from her knees. As she did so she felt a sharp pain in her foot, so sharp that she almost screamed. She had felt a pain in the foot a good many times during the afternoon, but her pride would not let her speak of it, lest her aunt should say something about her thin boots.

"O dear, what a wicked little fool I have been!" said she to herself. "Now I have hurt my foot and I dare say I shall have to sit still and be waited on, instead of waiting on Stella."

So it turned out. The next day Etty's foot was found to be so bruised and inflamed that she could not put it to the floor. Here was an end to all her hopes of helping her aunt and waiting upon Stella. Instead of that, she had to be carried up and down-stairs for a month, like a baby, and all she could do for any one was to give as little trouble as possible. She had taken a severe cold which settled in her eyes, already weakened by reading at night, and she could hardly use them at all.

This confinement was one of the best things that ever happened to Etty. She learned for the first time to appreciate the kindness of those who took care of her. She learned to be thoroughly weary of idleness, and to find it a privilege to be employed. She found out too that much as she might try, she could not be a good girl without help from above, and she learned to pray earnestly for the help of God's Holy Spirit. Her "bad days" became fewer and farther between, and at last ceased entirely.

Stella, was ill for a long time, and has never been as well as she was before her fall: but she is happier than ever before, for Etty is now always kind and affectionate to her.

Dear girls, be careful how you excuse your faults by saying you "can't help it!" Remember that you can always have God's help by asking for it in faith and humility, and with Him on your side, you have no right to say that you "cannot help" doing what is wrong.

MARTHA,

OR,

"CHARITY THINKETH NO EVIL."

"I HAVE just been to see Betty Allis," said Emily Dunbar to her cousin Martha. "She is a great deal better, but she is not able to go to school."

"Then she has really been sick!" said Martha.

Emily looked at her in surprise.

"What do you mean, Martha? Of course she has been sick. She would not be very likely to stay out of school just now, unless she was obliged to do so."

"I don't know that!" returned Martha.

"If a girl has been working for a prize, and finds out that she is not likely to get it after all, it may be very convenient to stay out of school a week or two, and then say, at last: 'Oh, of course, I had no chance. I lost so much time by being sick.'"

"Martha, you have no business to say such things," said Emily. "Betty is not that sort of girl at ell."

"I think she is exactly that sort of girl!" interrupted Martha.

"And besides," continued Emily, smiling, "I think it as likely as not that Betty will gain the prize, after all. She was ever so far before the rest of us, and she has only been out of school a week, you know."

"Very likely she will. She is a rich man's daughter, and I am a poor man's child; though I dare say she is not so rich as she pretends."

"I don't see that Betty makes any pretence at all," said Emily. "She seems to me as quiet and unpretending as any girl in school, and I don't think you have any right to accuse Miss Lyman of partiality. The fact is, Martha, you have taken such a dislike to Betty Allis, that it makes no difference what she does."

"Well, I have a right to dislike her," replied Martha. "She has treated me shamefully, and she is just as proud, and artful, and hateful, as she can be."

"Who is so proud, and artful, and hateful, Martha?" asked Miss Margaret, who had been sitting all the time behind the blinds of the window which opened on the verandah where the girls were now talking. "Those are hard words to apply to any one."

Martha did not answer, but Emily said:

"We were talking about Betty Allis, Aunt Margaret."

"I am surprised at that," replied Aunt Margaret. "I have always thought her a very nice girl."

"And so does almost every one," said Emily; "but Martha does not like her."

"Well, I do not, and I have good reasons for not liking her," said Martha. "She never loses a chance of provoking and spiting me."

"How does she provoke you?" asked Aunt Margaret.

Martha did not reply.

"Come, Martha, if Betty has done so many bad things, you can surely tell of some of them."

"Well, she puts on such airs, for one thing," said Martha. "You would think she owned a whole gold mine, to hear her. The other day, several of the girls were talking about examination dresses. Miss Lyman wants all our class to wear white with black ribbons, on account of Annie Grey's death, you know. Some one asked Betty who was going to make her dress. 'Oh, I am not going to have a new dress made,' she answered, with such an air. 'Mamma likes me to wear white, and I have plenty of white dresses.'"

"I did not see that she put on any airs at all," remarked Emily. "She just said it as a matter-of-course, and she does wear white a great deal."

"Well, what else, Martha?" asked Aunt Margaret.

"Well, last March, when there was snow on the ground, I went over to carry auntie something. I was in a hurry and did not stop to dress myself, but just put on mother's plaid shawl, and tied my old worsted scarf round my neck. I was hurrying along, for I did not want to meet anybody, when I heard some one call me. I turned round, and there was Miss Betty, dressed up in her blue plush frock, and her cape trimmed with sable fur, holding up my old scarf as if it burned her fingers. 'Why, Martha, is it you?' said she, in a tone of affected surprise. 'I did not know you. I found this scarf lying on the snow, and hurried to come up with you, thinking it might be yours.' I could have boxed her ears with a good will."

"But why? I do not see anything wrong in that."

"She did it just to mortify me!" said Martha. "She knew I should be ashamed of such a dirty old thing."

"And so you ought to be," said Aunt Margaret. "I tell you, you will meet with a great mortification some day if you are not more neat in your dress and habits. But I do not see that Betty was to blame. From what you say, it seems that she had not recognized you when she spoke. I dare say she thought you were some poor body, to whom the scarf would be a serious loss."

"I don't see what business she had in the lane," said Martha.

"Probably the same business that you had," replied Emily. "She goes over to the Home two or three times a week to read to Mrs. Grimes, the blind woman, and I suppose she has a right to take the shortest road, if she pleases."

"That going over to the Home is just another specimen of her," said Martha. "She likes to have the old ladies make a fuss over her, and to have all the managers say what a charitable, amiable girl Betty Allis is. You would not catch her doing any such thing unless she were sure that people would hear of it."

"Martha, how can you say so?" interrupted Emily. "You know how she helped poor Julia Curtis with her lessons, all the time her eyes were weak, so that she might not lose her place in school. The girls all wondered how Julia could keep up so well; but nobody would have known it if little Fanny had not let out the secret: for Betty made Julia promise not to tell."

"She knew it would come out somehow, or she would not have taken all that trouble," said Martha. "Then her name sounds so silly for a girl fifteen years old Belly Allis! Why does she not call herself Elizabeth?"

"Perhaps for the reason, amongst others, that it is not her name," replied Aunt Margaret, drily. "She was christened Betty at her grandmother's special request."

"She likes the name, though, for she says so," persisted Martha. "Then she makes such a parade of goodness. Miss Lyman said one day, last Lent, that she wished the girls to use their prayer-books in church; and the very next morning, Betty, instead of putting her head down, as she had done before, kneeled down and kept her head up and her book open before her all through the prayers and the Litany. Then she got up with such an air, as if to say, 'Just see how good I am!'"

"I fancy the air was in your imagination," said Emily. "I sat by Betty all through Lent and saw none of those airs that you speak of. Betty is a great deal more serious than she used to be, and I think she is trying hard to be a good Christian girl; but I am sure she makes no parade of it."

"Pray, Martha, what were you doing all through the prayers that you had so much time to observe Betty?" asked Aunt Margaret.

Martha blushed, but made no answer.

"I think you are cherishing a very wrong spirit," continued Aunt Margaret, seriously; "a spirit which makes you see wrong in everything which Betty does or leaves undone."

"That is just so, Aunt Margaret," said Emily. "I don't want to hurt Martha's feelings, but I am sure she is wrong in that. One Sunday Betty puts fifty cents into the collection and Martha thinks she does it to make a display. Another day she puts in a five-cent piece, and Martha thinks she might have saved something more than that out of all her pocket-money. And that is just the way all the time."

"Such a spirit is a very dangerous one for anybody to cherish," continued Aunt Margaret. "It shows a great want of that charity, without which all our doings are nothing worth:"

"I don't think it is fair to accuse me of want of charity, Aunt Margaret, considering how I saved—"

"How you saved all your pocket-money to give away," said Aunt Margaret, as Martha checked herself. "I am aware that you used a great deal of self-denial in that matter, my dear. I was very glad to see it. But, Martha, St. Paul says, 'though I give all my goods to feed the poor, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.' So you see that it is possible to be very liberal without being charitable at all."

"Charity means LOVE, does it not, Aunt Margaret?" asked Emily.

"Yes, my dear. St. Paul, in that beautiful thirteenth chapter of First Corinthians, gives us a description of this greatest of graces. He tells us both what it is, and what it is not, and assures us that unless we have it, our greatest gifts and graces are as nothing—

"'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, though I have faith so that I could remove mountains, though I bestow all my goods to food the poor, or give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing.'"

"I advise you to examine your feelings toward Betty by the aid of this chapter, and see if it does not throw some light upon them."

"If she had not served me such a mean trick, I should not care so much!" said Martha. "But it was so shameful in her to go and tell Miss Lyman and get me into disgrace. I don't believe there is another girl in the school who would have done such a thing."

"What did she do?"

"She went and told Miss Lyman of something I did, and got me into disgrace," said Martha.

"You don't know that it was Betty," said Emily.

"I do know!" returned Martha, angrily. "There was not another person who could have seen me."

"You do not know for certain that any one told," persisted Emily. "Miss Lyman never said so, and you have no proof against Betty except your own fancy."

"Of course you will take her part against me," said Martha. "All I have to say is that I can't bear her, and never shall."

"You are wrong, Martha, and you must know that you are wrong," said Aunt Margaret, gravely. "If you examine your own conscience you will see that it is so."

Martha did not reply. She was not without religious principle, and lately she had been feeling very anxious to become a true Christian. She had tried to give herself to her Saviour, but something seemed to hold back. She had no comfort in prayer, she did not feel as if God heard her, and all her efforts to do good and to love Him seemed hard, up-hill work. Now, as she thought over what her aunt had said to her, she began to wonder whether she had not found out her real hindrance, in the spirit which she had allowed herself to cherish toward Betty Allis.

Martha was a truthful girl. She was very much in earnest, and disposed to be honest in her self-examination. As she read over the description of Charity, she paused at every verse, and compared herself with the words.

"Charity suffereth long and is kind." Kind she certainly had not been. She had never lost an opportunity of saying and doing unkind things where Betty was concerned.

"Charity envieth not." It was rather hard for the naturally proud girl to admit to herself that she had envied her rich school-mate, that a great part of her dislike to Betty arose from the expensive furs, from those same fine white dresses, and the carriage, and the man-servant that called for Betty on rainy days; but One was dealing with Martha who would not let her deceive herself. Yes, it was even so.

"Charity thinketh no evil." She had thought of nothing else. She had put an evil construction on every act of Betty's, however simple, and she was always looking out for bad motives in all she said or did.

"Rejoiceth not in iniquity." Had she not been secretly glad that unlucky day when Betty was surprised into laughing aloud in church, and was afterwards reproved by the clergyman? Had she not rejoiced openly whenever Betty gained a bad mark, or had an imperfect lesson?

There is no use in our going over the whole chapter, though Martha did so to the very end. Then she closed the book and knelt down. She shed many tears as she prayed, but when she rose, her face was full of quiet peace. She had overcome her hindrance for that time. She had acknowledged her sins, and prayed for forgiveness, and for grace to resist her besetting sin, and something in her heart told her that her prayer was granted.

"You were right about Betty Allis and me, Aunt Margaret, and I see I have been wrong all through!" said Martha, after breakfast, when they were alone together in the dining-room.

Martha was washing the breakfast things, which was a part of her regular duty.

"I am very glad you do," replied Aunt Margaret. "To see when you are wrong is more than half the battle. But, Martha, had you never known before that you were wrong in cherishing such a spirit? Had not your conscience told you so?"

"Yes, Aunt Margaret, but I would not listen. But I cannot think it was right in Betty to tell Miss Lyman of me. It was none of her business what I did."

"Perhaps not. Nevertheless, Martha, you must forgive, if you would be forgiven."

"I hope I have done so, aunt. I could not help it," added Martha, in a low tone; "when I thought how He forgave me. I would like to be friends with Betty if I could, but I don't know how to set about it."

"Pray for guidance, and keep your eyes open," said Aunt Margaret. "Depend upon it, your way will be made plain."

"Martha," said her mother, opening the door, "suppose you run over to auntie's and carry her these fresh ducks' eggs. She likes them very much, and they will just come in time for her breakfast, if you do not stop to change your dress. You can go through the lane."

"Auntie," was a great-aunt of Martha's, a very old lady. She breakfasted very late, and Martha often ran over to her house with a plate of warm biscuits, a dish of freshly gathered berries, or some other dainty which it was thought the old lady might fancy. She hastily throw on her sunbonnet, and without even taking off her white apron she went to carry the eggs. She staid nearly an hour, doing various little services for auntie, and sharing her morning cup of coffee. As she was returning, she overtook Betty Allis, who was walking slowly in the same direction.

"Just like her!" was Martha's first hasty thought. "Sure to meet me if I look like a fright!"

But she checked herself the next moment and gave Betty a cordial greeting. "Why, Betty, I did not expect to see you out this morning."

"And I am not sure that I ought to be out," replied Betty: "but the morning seemed so pleasant that I could not bear to stay in the house, so I went round to the Home for a little while. Have you been to see your aunt?"

Martha explained her errand.

"It must be nice to have an old lady of one's own to go and see!" said Betty. "I wish you would take me to visit your aunt some day, Martha. Do you think she would like to see me?"

The old feeling of jealousy rose in Martha's heart, but she put it down by a brave effort, and answered cheerfully:

"I am sure she would like it very much. She is always fond of young people. I think you must be fond of old people, Betty, you go to the Home so much."

"I am," replied Betty. "I do love to hear the old ladies talk. One learns so much from them. It must be strange," she added, thoughtfully, "to look back upon such a long life."

"We shall know how it seems some time," observed Martha, "that is, if we live."

"I shall not," said Betty, abruptly. "I shall never live to be old."

"How do you know?" asked Martha.

"I heard the doctor say so," answered Betty. "He told mother that I had consumption, and that though, with good care, I might last on for a year or two, I should never be well, and I might be taken worse at any time."

"Why, Betty!" exclaimed Martha. "Do you believe it? Didn't it make you feel dreadfully?"

"It did, just at first," said Betty; "but I don't mind it so much now, only for mother's sake."

"I don't think the doctor ought to have said so!" said Martha. "He cannot know for certain."

"I believe he feels quite sure," replied Betty. "You know they have ways of finding out those things. He did not tell me, either. I only heard it by accident; but after all I am glad I know the truth. Come into our garden and let me give you some roses."

"I am not fit to be seen!" said Martha, glancing at her dress.