The children could scarcely wait to finish their tea before they begged for the continuation of the story.

“Miss Lane is telling us her life, papa,” they exclaimed, as they gathered closely about her, with wide awake faces.

She went on:

“There were two boy cousins, Robert and John, and a little Nellie, a sweet, gentle-natured little thing, whom I learned to love very soon. Besides these two cousins, there was another boy, a good deal older than any of us, who spent all his vacations at Uncle Bell’s. He had neither father nor mother, sister nor brother. Uncle Bell was his mother’s brother and his guardian, so that he called that his home. He was to have a great fortune by-and-by, so we all knew; but I remember pitying him so much, and thinking I would not give my dear father for a thousand times his wealth. One day, when we three girls were talking about this, and thinking how very dreadful it must be, he heard us, and coming out of the library where he had been reading, said:

“‘You need not pity me, I shall never have to grieve for my relations.’

“It struck me then, and made me thoughtful and sad many times afterwards, that I might soon be called upon to mourn for papa over the sea; but I learned to like Willie better than the rest, because he, like me, was alone in the world. He used to tell us stories, and play on the piano for us very often, and was so gentle and good tempered that everybody loved him.

“I remember how the dog started up and ran at the sound of his footsteps, and there was no place pussy liked so well as his shoulder or knee for a sleeping place. His voice was very sweet, and his eyes so bright and kind, that every one was happier for a glance from them. I liked him so much that, after a while, no place seemed so charming as the seat by his side, and he always smoothed away difficulties as if by magic. Once I asked him if he ever got angry.

“‘Oh, yes, a great many times—I am provoked half the time—something is always vexing me.’

“‘You never seem to be. You never show it. How can you help it?’

“‘It only makes things worse to talk. I whistle when I am angry.’

“He smiled, too, I believe, for his face was always sunny, and in its cheerful light I sometimes grew ashamed of my melancholy feelings and of being vexed by trifles. He had faults, for, afterwards, I found them out; but in those days he seemed a perfect being to me, and by and by, I became almost as enthusiastically devoted to him as I was to papa.

“He never talked to us much about being good—he acted a lesson for us—and untruth, meanness or anger fled from his presence. I never saw him hurt any thing, though he was tall and strong and active. When you are older, you will read Sir Galahad, or sometime, if you like, I will read it to you, and then you can know better what he was like, than I can tell you.

“He had a pet dove—we called it Daisy. It was hatched late in autumn, in the barn, and he brought it to the house, to keep it from freezing. He fed it with his own hands, and much trouble it gave him. It learned to know him, and often went with him in his walks, perched upon his shoulder, and when he went to college, he carried it with him. So in his daily life, he bore with him patience, pity and love, which shone in his face and blossomed into good deeds to those about him.

“But aunt Marion was the comedy of the house. I think she never knew where any thing was; and, much as we loved her, pleasant as she was, we avoided her as much as possible, for fear of being sent upon explorations after missing articles. There was no occasion for giving us lectures upon order where Auntie was. She was a living lesson to us against carelessness. She was full of childlike spirits and bright ways, perfectly simple and ingenuous, a charming woman; but the one fault had mastered her completely; it had grown with her growth, strengthened with her strength, and was the drop of bitterness in the cup of happiness which we all drank there.

“If we sat down to read—the luckless individual who first caught her attention had no sooner become interested, than her voice roused him with,

“‘Robbie, have you seen my ball of yarn? perhaps Carlo carried it into the garden: I had it on the piazza the last time I saw it. Do run and get it.’

“A moment more, it would be:

“‘Cora, do you know where my thimble is? I had it in the kitchen when I went to see about the pudding. Ask Jane for it.’ Or,

“‘Mary, do run up to my room and see if you can find my other slipper. I had to put on one of your uncle’s this morning. I could not see mine.’ Or, “‘Where do you suppose I left my clean linen collars? Sarah certainly brought them up stairs yesterday, and I have not seen them since.’

“My uncle Bell was exceedingly orderly and systematic. This failing of his wife’s annoyed him. He never could depend upon her for being in time, or entirely ready for any thing, and lived in a state of continual discomfort. One of aunt Marion’s coaxing smiles used to disarm him and chase the frowns away, for the time, only to return, when dinner was late, the dessert forgotten, or Auntie was absent at prayers because she could not find her morning dress. I remember once sitting and speculating upon the best way of remedying all the evil and trouble arising from this failing, till aunt Marion, struck by my thoughtfulness, asked me what made me so quiet.

“‘I was wondering why you don’t know where your things are, when it is so easy and would make every body more comfortable,’ I told her.

“‘It seems almost too late to begin now, Mary—my habits are all formed—I should find it very hard work to change indeed. My dear, when I was a little girl like you, was the time to do that.’

“‘And must it spoil all your life, and Uncle’s, and Cora’s, and John’s, and Robbie’s?’ I said, not thinking how my words would affect her.

“‘So it does, my dear,’ said Auntie despondingly. ‘Oh, Mary, our lives have all been spoiled—they have been a mistake—all the years before me will not make it right. Never let a failing overcome you, never give up to it. Learn the meaning of self-control, then learn to practise it—when you are young. Take out all the germs of evil when they are young and tender, for after a while, it is like taking your life, to dig out the strong, knotted roots.’

“So I tried to remember that—and my terror of becoming, like poor aunt Marion, the victim of any weakness, kept me on the watch continually.

“And how uncomfortable she was herself! She missed so much happiness or pleasure because she could not be ready in time. She was always too late for church. She scarcely ever finished any work, because some of the materials were lost or destroyed before it was half done. And every day, something neglected, many things undone, reproached her.

“I remember one time, in particular, when her failing caused much vexation and trouble. A very dear and near friend of Uncle Bell’s had died. He was anxious that the whole family should attend the funeral, which was to take place in the morning. We were all ready—Cora, Robert, John, Willie, Uncle Bell and myself—the carriage was at the gate, the coachman holding the horses’ heads, but still Aunt Marion did not appear. Uncle began to pace back and forth—a sure sign of impatience with him—Robbie was fretting and wondering why his mother did not come, and we had grown quite weary of waiting, when I ran up stairs to see what was the matter.

“A scene of confusion presented itself. The bureau drawers were all pulled out, the closet doors all opened, a bandbox was on the bed, a pitcher in the middle of the room, on the floor, brushes and combs on the chairs, and a heap of garments over the sofa. Aunt Marion herself, arrayed in bonnet and shawl, was limping about the room, with one foot shod, and a face of great perplexity.

“‘Auntie, we’ve all been ready for ten minutes. What is the matter?’ I asked.

“‘I can’t find my other boot—I’ve looked in every place,’ was the answer.

“‘Can’t you wear another one?’

“‘I have none fit. Slippers will not do.’

“So I began a search, and presently, the children, the servants and, at last, Uncle Bell himself, were called up to assist.

“We looked in every imaginable place where the shoe might have been left or lost, but could not find it, and at last left Auntie, sitting forlorn and puzzled in the middle of her room, while we set out, vexed and tired, for the funeral. Poor Uncle wore a grave, stern expression of countenance all day, and we were so awed by his silence and gloom, that we dared not talk to each other, and so we were very glad when the day was over and we could say good night.

“Some weeks after, the shoe came to light. It was discovered in a bandbox, with Auntie’s best winter hat. How it came there will remain among the mysteries, I suppose; but that lost shoe made me determined to have a place for everything and keep everything in its place.

“I think I shall never forget those long summer days—the fishing on the rocks, while the trees, leaning over the banks, left green, quiet shadows in the water—the wandering hour after hour among the beautiful flowers and ferns, or the rowing in Willie’s boat while he told us stories or sang to us. But though it was all so charming then, there is not much to tell you about it now.

“My father had taught me to speak the truth. I scorned an approach to a lie, and many times I expressed my contempt for my cousins’ dishonorable proceedings in no very measured terms. Cora was timid and careless: it did not occur to her that many little words were wrong, that the intention to deceive made the lie, not the false statement itself—and much trouble I made for myself and her by my anger at her disregard of truth.

“I became so suspicious of her that, by-and-by, I doubted almost every word she uttered. Childlike, I did not consider that she had never had any training, that she had never had the lectures upon honor and frankness that I had received—indeed, she scarcely knew the meaning of the words—though she was good at heart.

“Morning after morning I used to say to her,

“‘Cora, aren’t you going to say your prayers?’ as she was hastening down stairs without doing so.

“‘Oh, I’ll be late to breakfast, and papa will scold. At night is enough;’ and down she would run, leaving the door open. Vexed by this, I used to get up and close it after her with a noise, and then my mind was not in a state for praying and reading. Sometimes I would find myself in the middle of my prayers, forgetting the words in recalling her misdeeds, and, shocked at myself, I used to cry and think how far back I was going—consoling myself always at the last, by laying the blame upon those around me.

“Once poor Cora got into sad disgrace. I never think of that without a feeling of self-reproach. Aunt Marion had sent her with a small pitcher to bring some cream from old Ricy, who kept the dairy. Cora came down with a pretty silk apron on, and Auntie sent her to change it for a gingham one, telling her she might soil it.

“I don’t know how she came to be tempted to disobey; she was not usually a self-willed child; but, instead of obeying, she put on two aprons, the gingham one over the silk, and as soon as she was out of sight of the house, took off the former, hiding it by the fence, intending to put it on when she came back.

“She was gone a long time—I remember it quite well. Willie had promised to take us all to a pic-nic in his boat when she returned, and I waited impatiently for her return. He was to row us down the river to a certain shady, cool place, and there we were to spend the day with a party of children from Newton. We had been looking forward to this time for weeks past, and had danced with joy when the day came so clear and bright. I watched and waited and fretted about her getting back, till I had worked myself quite into a state of excitement and indignation. ‘I never saw anything so selfish—so mean. She knows we can’t go without her. She does it on purpose,’ I said to grandmamma two or three times.

“‘Don’t be unjust, my dear. Settle yourself. You’ll be tired before the time comes,’ was all the answer I received, while the knitting-needles continued to move as slowly as ever. How it fretted me! I felt it a positive injury that she did not care more—that she could be so calm. At last, Cora appeared. She came into the yard, swinging the pitcher unconcernedly. I ran out to meet her. “‘What did keep you so long?’ I cried when she was near enough to hear.

“‘Have I been gone long?’ she asked so coolly as to provoke me beyond measure.

“‘Of course you have; we’re all ready; Willie and the boys have gone down to the boat. Where’s the cream?’

“‘I did not get any,’ she answered in a low voice, flushing uneasily.

“I did not believe her. I knew something was wrong, but I feared if aunt Marion suspected anything it might delay us longer—and it seemed to me then that I could not bear to be kept ten minutes longer. I was in a fever of impatience already.

“‘Go, get your bonnet, I’ll tell Auntie,’ I cried hastily, and Cora, with a look of relief, gave me the pitcher and ran up stairs. I carried it into the dining-room, and gave it to Auntie. ‘Cora could not get any, Auntie,’ I said, and I was conscious of looking guilty, so that I dared not raise my eyes.

“‘Oh, I’m so sorry. But you have been good to wait so long—now you must go—good-bye,’ said kind Auntie, and so she began to search through the spice-box with a puzzled expression on her face. I escaped for fear of being sent upon a search for something. Had I told a lie? That fearful thought flashed through my soul like lightning as I shut the door, and I stopped with a loudly beating heart. How fearful it seemed! How all the beautiful, glad day had changed!

“I half turned back. Like a flash, clear as noon-day, it looked to me then—that Cora had done some wrong, and that I for fear of losing my pleasure was helping her to deceive. Those words burnt themselves into my heart. I put my hand on the door-knob, and then the thought came—‘What shall I say? I have nothing to tell—it will be mean to get her into trouble, when I know nothing.’

“Ah! but I did know. The fluttering fingers, the downcast eyes, the bright blush, had told me as plainly as words could tell, that all was not right. But a whistle, a shout of ‘Come, girls!’ made my blood dance again, and a great thrill of pleasure shot through me, as I ran swiftly out of the gate, forgetting every thing, eager only for the sport. Cora was coming out from behind the hedge of box as I passed through the garden. She started when she saw me.

“‘Come, Cora—quick, they are waiting,’ I cried, running on.

“‘What did mamma say?’ she asked, reaching my side.

“I stopped short. ‘Nothing, only that she was sorry,’ I answered, scarcely daring to look at her. ‘Cora, I hope you have not been doing any thing—you know Auntie would send you back if you had, and then we should be late.’

“I was scarcely conscious of what I did. If I had reflected at all, I should have shrunk in horror from persuading any one to deceive, and yet I said those words with the hope of frightening her into silence lest we should miss our pleasure. I knew how easily she could be moved for good or evil. I thought only how we should miss our boating if she should be inclined to confess, and so I put a stop to any such intentions, effectually, by rousing her fears. Cora understood.

“‘You must never tell, then, and mamma won’t find out. I hid my apron, and Ricy will never think of the cream,’ she said confidentially.

“A day, an hour ago, I should have repelled any efforts to make me an accomplice in a lie, with scorn, loathing, wrath; but three handkerchiefs were waving for us to come, and shouts of ‘all aboard!’ were borne to our ears from the river bank. I did not stop—I did not even hesitate—busy whispers were at my heart, my face was flushed. I disregarded the reproaches of conscience. Deliberately, consciously, and with a clear knowledge of what my sin was, I stepped into the boat. A few strokes of the oars, and with a long breath of relief, I told myself, it was too late.

“We were wild with delight—the boat glided on so swiftly, the sky was cloudless—the birds seemed too happy to sing, and the bright sunshine gilded tree and rock and water—and then, as we turned at a bend in the shore, a white tent appeared, and groups of children shouted welcome to us. We had music, refreshments, and games, and the hours passed only too swiftly.

“I shall always remember Willie’s kindness in amusing the smallest, settling all troubles, and inventing new pleasures for us that day. He was the life of the party, and with his merry ways made many friends among the little ones. I was so full of excitement that I had no time to think, but towards evening a quieter time came, and I sat down apart.

“Cora was near by in a ring of girls and boys, shouting with pleasure, her limbs and face all alive with play, and then I grew sad. What was it worth? It was all gone, nearly over now—the laughing and sport—but the pain of the sin still remained—it had been there all day, like a shadow haunting me, but I would not think of it. I had had my will—and did it satisfy? “Presently there was a call.

“‘Come, Mary, Cora, Robbie, Johnnie, we are all ready—come,’ and Willie appeared with Nellie in his arms.

“‘Oh! just a little longer, Willie,’ cried Cora, ‘do—it is so early.’

“‘No, not a minute; Auntie bade us come before the dew had fallen;’ and off he marched.

“We knew there was no use in saying one word, but the spirit of naughtiness was strong within us, and we pouted and grumbled much at being obliged to leave before the rest. In the boat, there was a gentleman, who gave me a seat beside him, and said he had just come from Italy, and that he had seen papa. He was a Mr. Percy, and was going with us to make a visit at uncle Bell’s. When he mentioned papa, a whole flood of feeling came into my heart; I could not say a word. I looked down at the water and shut my lips tight.

“‘He was in an old tower, with hills—purple hills all about him, and a white mountain not far off. There was a valley, too, and a glimpse of the deep blue sea. The air is always soft—and the sky, the sunshine makes one think of heaven.’ This he said to Willie.

“Oh, the great aching and longing that came upon me! the yearning for one touch of that dear hand, for a glimpse of that ‘blue sea’ which shut him out from me! It was so sore that I could scarce keep from sobbing. But I could not ask if he were well. I could not trust my voice, and he must have taken my silence for indifference, as presently, he began to speak of something else, and we went floating on with that hungering in my heart for more tidings of dear papa in his tower.

“I thought of him as looking out upon the white mountain with the glory of the sunset on it, and the sea dancing, and I wondered if his heart ached for me as mine did for him; and then the dreary time of our separation stretched out and lengthened till it seemed unending, and I had almost cried out in the anguish of my longing. The tears were dropping one by one into the water, and the dreamy talk of the others went on till we reached the shore. Mr. Percy took no further notice of me, as I saw with much pain; he thought I did not care for papa, and so I walked up to the house, listening feverishly for one word more of Italy.