THE EBONY CHAIR.

For a few weeks everything went smoothly. Marty attended the meetings of the band, in which she took great interest, and put two or three pennies in her box every Sunday morning. But there came a time when she began to find it hard to give even that much. There seemed to be so many little things she wanted, and it was just the season of the year when she had very few presents of money. She generally got some on her birthday, in August, and again at Christmas; but as she could not keep money very well, that was soon spent, and during the latter part of the winter she was very poor. Once or twice nothing went in the box but the strict tenth, and once she had a hard struggle with herself before even that went in; in fact, she had a very bad time altogether. It was all owing to a tiny chair.

“O girls!” exclaimed Hattie Green, one day at recess, “have you seen those lovely chairs in Harrison's window?”

“What chairs?” inquired the girls.

“Oh, such lovely little dolls' chairs! Carved, you know, and with beautiful red cushions. I came by there this morning, and that's the reason I was late at school, I stopped so long to look at those cunning chairs.”

“Let's all go home that way,” suggested Marty, “and then we can see them.”

“All right,” said Hattie.

So after school quite a crowd went around by Harrison's toy-store to see the wonderful chairs.

There they were, rather small, to be sure, but ebony—at least they looked like ebony—and crimson satin. The girls were in raptures with them.

“They are beauties!” cried Edith.

“How I should love to have one!” said Marty.

“I wonder how much they are,” said Rosa Stevenson.

“You go in and ask, Rosa,” said Edith.

“Yes, do, do,” urged the others.

Rosa went, and came back with the information that they were twelve cents apiece.

“Well, that isn't so much,” said Edith. “I think I can afford to get one. I'll see when I go home.”

“I know I have enough money to buy one,” said Rosa, “but I never buy anything without asking mamma about it first.”

“She'll let you get it,” said Edith.

“Oh, you girls always have some money saved up, and I never have,” sighed Marty. “And I do want one of those chairs so badly.”

“So do I,” said Hattie, “and I haven't any money either, but I'm going to tease mamma night and day till she gives me twelve cents.”

“It's no use to tease my mamma,” said Marty. “If she wont let me do a thing, she wont, and that's the end of it. But of course I'll tell her about the chairs, and see what she says. Maybe she'll let me have one.”

As soon as she reached home Marty gave her mother a glowing description of the chairs, winding up with,

“And, O mamma! I do want one awfully.”

“But you have so many playthings already, Marty,” objected her mother. “Just look at those closet shelves! Besides, you got a complete set of dolls' furniture Christmas.”

“Oh, I know I don't need another chair at all, but those red ones are so cunning, and one would look so well mixed in among my blue ones. I should love to have one.”

“I am sorry your mind is so set on it,” said Mrs. Ashford, “for I dislike to have you disappointed, but when you have so many playthings, I really don't feel like giving you money, even if it is only a trifle.”

“May I buy a chair if I have money enough of my own?” Marty asked.

“Oh, yes—if you wish to spend your money that way; but I would rather save it for something else if I were you.”

Marty had no very clear idea where “money of her own” was to come from just at that time, but thought it possible the necessary amount might appear before the chairs were all sold.

The next morning Rosa and Edith came to school with money to buy chairs, and at recess all their special friends went with them to Harrison's to make the purchase. When Marty had a nearer view of the chairs and handled them, she was more anxious than ever to possess one. This anxiety increased as the days passed and the chairs gradually disappeared.

Nobody gave her any money and her mother did not offer her any more “paid” work. She was very, very sorry that she had spent all of her allowance on Monday morning—at least all but two cents and the one in the red box. That, of course, she took with her to the meeting Saturday afternoon.

Saturday evening she received her next week's supply, and that, with the two cents she had over, was exactly enough to get the longed-for toy. But one cent was tenths.

“That just spoils the whole thing,” she said to herself. “I might as well have none at all as only eleven cents.”

Then she wondered if it would not do to borrow that tenth. She had not thought of taking out any of the money when she was in such straits about Cousin Alice's ribbon, but this seemed different. It was only one penny, and she was sure of being able to replace it.

But borrowing was against the rule, and it must be especially wrong to borrow missionary money. She felt ashamed and her cheeks burned when the thought came to her.

“I s'pose I'll have to give up the chair,” she sighed; “at least unless I get a little more money somehow. I wish papa wasn't so strict about borrowing. A penny wouldn't be much to borrow.”

Sunday morning she took out her money and counted it over again very carefully. Yes, there was exactly twelve cents. Then she slowly took up one cent to drop in the box. As she did so the temptation to borrow it came again.

“No, I wont do that,” she said resolutely, but after looking at the penny for a while, concluded not to put it in the box until after she came from Sunday-school.

After Sunday-school she tried it again, but still hesitated.

“I'll wait till bedtime,” she thought.

By bedtime she had decided not to put it in at all.

“I b'lieve I'll borrow it. It wont do any harm to let the box go empty for one week. I'll get the chair to-morrow, and make the tenth all right next Sunday.”

So she got into bed and covered herself up, but she could not go to sleep. She tossed and tumbled for what seemed to her a long time. “It's all because that penny isn't in the box,” she thought. Finally she could stand it no longer. She got up, and feeling around in the drawer, found the penny and put it in the box. Then she went to bed, and was soon asleep.

Having decided she could not have what she so ardently desired, Marty should have kept out of the way of temptation, but every day she went to look at the chairs, and seeing them, she continued to want one. By Thursday they were all gone but two, and Hattie triumphantly announced that at last her mamma had given her money to buy one. Then Marty felt that she must have the other.

When she had her wraps on that afternoon ready to go out to play, she went to the missionary box, and, with hands trembling in her excitement, took out the solitary penny. Then without stopping to think she ran down stairs. Just as she was opening the street-door she repented, and after meditating a while in the vestibule, standing first on one foot and then on the other, she slowly retraced her steps and put the penny back.

“Now it's safe,” she said. “I'll just dash out without it, and of course when I haven't got it, I can't spend it.”

She dashed about half way, when all at once the vision of the lovely chair rose up before her, and the desire to possess it was greater than ever. She stopped again to think, and the result was, she returned and got the penny—it was not quite so hard to take it out the second time as it was the first—and started for the street once more.

Perhaps she might have repented and gone back again, had not her mother, who was entertaining some ladies in the parlor, called to her, “Marty, don't race up and down stairs so,” and then Marty went out with the penny in her hand.

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