“The evening passed away; I lingered for a word; but though there was much talk, I still remained unsatisfied. I was restless, impatient.

“‘Come, Mary, we’re going to play in the dark dining-room,’ said Robbie, after tea, and while the elders were all gathered in the parlor.

“‘No, don’t trouble me,’ I answered shortly, afraid of losing a word of the conversation.

“‘You need not take my head off for asking you,’ said Robbie, running off in anger, and my face flushed as I saw both Willie and the stranger glance towards me. I was very sorry; I liked Robbie; though sensitive, he was kind to me, and we had never quarrelled. My first impulse was to run after him and tell him I did not mean to be cross, when the fear that the coveted news might be told in my absence, restrained me. I waited and listened and grew weary with hoping. My nerves had been so excited all day, that the slightest sound which might prevent my catching every word, caused me to start and flush. The children were boisterous, the noise of their play came through the hall. I closed the door quickly and impatiently and hastened back to my station.

“‘Don’t shut the door, Mary,’ said aunt Marion. ‘Why don’t you go and play with the rest?’

“‘I don’t want to play,’ I answered pettishly.

“‘Then you must be tired—you had better go to bed. Willie, ring the bell, please.’

“‘No,’ I cried passionately, in a heat at this interruption, ‘no, I am not tired.’

“I watched for the striking of the clock. I knew that at eight we must all retire. There would be no help for it then, and I listened as if my doom were to be sounded. John came in with the letters, the nurse carried baby away—I knew it was almost time. I was on the rack, my eyes were wide open, my cheek burned, my ear almost ached, my heart fluttered—I held my hands tightly clasped.

“‘There! clear and prompt, one, two—till eight strokes rang out, and the children filed in, flushed and sleepy, to say good-night. I unclasped my fingers; nerveless, weak and trembling, I tottered to aunt Marion—the unnatural strain had relaxed and left me ready to drop. I looked up at her imploringly, saying:

“‘Oh! Auntie, let me stay a little longer;’ and waited for her answer, as if my life hung on her words.

“‘No, my dear, you will be ill—you look wretched now; I should think this day was enough. Are you never satisfied?’

“Something in my throat choked me, the tears began to come, they rained over my cheeks. I must stay.

“‘Just a little longer, Auntie—oh, please.’

“‘Well——,’ began Auntie, relentingly, but the rest cried out, indignantly,

“‘Then we’ll stay too; ’tisn’t fair.’ “‘How can you be so foolish, Marion? Send those children all to bed. Mary don’t know what is best for her,’ interposed Uncle, and we were sent away. I ran up to my room; I threw myself on the floor; I panted, and sobbed, and moaned.

“‘Oh, papa, papa, take me away; I cannot, cannot bear it. Oh, I cannot—so cruel—so wicked. Oh, papa, papa!’

“‘Why what is the matter?’ inquired Cora, with much concern.

“‘Oh,’ said Robbie, who had come to the door at the prospect of a scene, ‘this is our nice, good girl—our pattern, grandmamma said: but you see she can be like other people when she gets her temper up.’

“Conviction came to me. I ceased to sob. I answered not a word to his taunts, though they cut deep, for right sure was I that he never would have uttered them, but for the one unkind word I had given him in the evening, in return for his kindness. Surely every wrong word or thought or deed, or even look, brings its own punishment—and who can count the harm wrought by once giving up to anger? the harm not only to ourselves but to others? My forgetfulness, my impatience was causing my cousin to sin grievously—to go to sleep with anger in his heart, instead of lifting it to God in prayer.

“I was not yet willing to yield. This desire to know of my dear father’s welfare was turning into a strong purpose of having my own will. Self-will was my bane, though I was only half conscious of it. My own way, my own wishes, seemed best. My dear father’s gentle, loving sway had never seemed irksome. I had known nothing of this germ of evil in my own heart, which was to grow and blossom and bear fruit in anger, in wrong doing, in deceit—and so had not yet strength to resist it. The weed was taking root firmly, displacing the flowers of gentleness, truth, obedience, slowly but surely, and poisoning my thoughts of duty to God and man with its breath. I had been conquered by it in all the deeds of that day. “I undressed myself, inwardly chafing against what I was pleased to think Uncle Bell’s oppression, and contrasting papa’s indulgence with it. ‘He would not have made me come up here, when I wanted so to hear it all,’ I said to myself, with the hot tears on my cheeks. ‘He would not have been so cruel, so unkind. I will not stay here—I will write to him to-morrow. They are all so wicked—so wrong—I shall be like them if I stay. I am getting like them now,’ I continued, with a sudden fear that struck me like a chill, and I paused, and threw myself on my knees, and poured out a fervent prayer to be kept, through God’s mercy, in the straight path.

“Wave after wave of sorrow, trouble, self-reproach, and penitence passed over me.

“I had hated them; and the vision of our Holy Saviour, bleeding, suffering, praying for his murderers, rose before me.

“They had been kind to me—most kind, most indulgent. Because their ways were not my ways, must they be condemned? and I had cast them off in my arrogance, thinking I could govern myself.

“How could they guess what feelings of yearning and love, and what agony of expectation had been in my heart all the evening? The wrong lay in my own thoughts—kindness made them insist upon my going up stairs at the right hour. Must they not have thought it weariness that prevented my joining the plays of the others?

“Oh, how humbled I felt. And that cross word to Robbie—could I ever wipe out the evil it had done? Could I ever get back the love he had given me so freely before? Oh, sad, sad thought! The anger, and taunting, and neglected prayers, were they not written in God’s great book? It was my sin—mine. I fancied my poor cousin, trembling before God’s awful look, and the sin caused by my impatience brought before him. And had I not brought shame on Christ? I who called myself his child, and said I lived by his rule, and yet could bear up no better than that? “I took my candle, and crossing the hall, I knocked at my cousin’s door. Robbie opened it. His eyes were red—he had been weeping. I was so touched that, for a moment, the words would not come; then I said:

“‘Oh, Robbie, I am so sorry I was cross this evening. I wanted to hear about papa, and I was so afraid your speaking to me would make me miss something. Indeed, I’m sorry.’

“‘Never mind—I was more cross to you—I’m sorry, too,’ was his answer.

“‘It was so wicked in me—and—and I was afraid you would not say your prayers right when you were angry,’ I continued, afraid to look at him.

“‘I will now. Don’t worry. Good night;’ and he shut the door, pretending to be gruff that he might not show how much he felt.

“I was almost happy now; but I thought I should keep awake till aunt Marion came up stairs, that I might tell her of my sorrow for not obeying her promptly. When I went back, Cora was tossing about restlessly on the bed, her face was burning hot—she muttered words in her troubled sleep.

“‘In the large bush of box-wood,’ she muttered, as I leaned down to hear. ‘I meant to tell—but—’ here she moaned and seemed distressed, her brow contracted into a frown, and then a look of pain crossed her face. ‘Mary was in such a hurry,’ she said. She was quiet a moment, and then began again: ‘you might scold—I did think at first—oh—’

“In her sleep she was thinking of it—that wrong at which I had guessed, and which, at one word from me, she would have confessed at first. I had not given her credit for conscientiousness. I thought she had forgotten the whole thing. Here was another growth in my harvest of the day’s wrong doing. Oh, what was I to do?

“‘Cora, Cora, wake up. Tell me, what was it? What is it? Let us go down to Aunt Marion.’

“I shook her in my fright, but she only turned and muttered, and would not wake. I lay down in sore distress—I could only wait in patience, I durst not go down stairs. Presently, sight and sound and troubled thought faded away, and I was asleep before I knew that I was growing sleepy.

“I had been dreaming uneasily, and woke with a start of fright. A great weight was upon me—the events of the day, the sin and pain and weariness flashed upon me and were almost too grievous to be borne.

“I could not tell what time it was—but the feeling that I must tell all to aunt Marion was strong upon me. I heard no sound in the house—perhaps they had all retired—my natural timidity made me tremble at the thought of the stillness of the house. The moon was shining brightly—its rays were streaming in at my window, and shadows lay silently on the wall and about the floor.

“Cora was asleep still. I could not bear it. I thought I should go down the hall and listen at aunt Marion’s door, hoping to find her awake, that I might tell her. I listened a moment, holding my breath. It seemed so lonely that I feared to rise; there was a sound like the clicking of a key in the lock, then a stirring, murmuring sound, as if a breeze were passing. I lifted my head, noiselessly, but my heart fluttered with fear, a faintness came over me, terror kept me still, I could not have screamed if I had tried.

“At the foot of my bed was a door opening into a room which was never used, and very seldom entered. There was a sort of closeness and dreariness about it even in the day time—and none of us cared to open the door. Now and then, I had stolen in, on tip-toe, to look at some cast-off pictures on the wall, or to hide with my book from Cora’s teasing; but such a proceeding was of rare occurrence and only took place on sunshiny days.

“I was always particularly careful to lock the door upon retiring, and had with my own hand turned the key before getting into bed that evening. Now the door stood wide open—there was a blank, black space in the white wall. I stared with eyes wide open in horror, but in a moment fell back faint with the relief. It was the foot of our French bedstead. The dark mahogany, being between me and the door, gave it the appearance of being open.

“Trembling and chilled with the fright, in my nervous, feverish state, ready to start at every sound, every shadow, I rose, and stepping timidly, felt my way along the hall, carefully, quietly, praying God to keep me. I reached the head of the steps and looked down into the black, empty hall below. There was no sound, but from the library door a little stream of light wandered and wavered over the carpet.

“Going on softly, scarcely breathing, I reached the door and looked in. I cannot tell you what I felt at the sight which met my eyes. I could not have moved or spoken if I had tried, so great was the terror which seized me.

“There was a lighted lamp on the window seat, and a tall woman was busily taking books from the shelves and piling them in the middle of the room. She was dressed in a long white wrapper, and her hair streamed nearly to her feet. Her face was towards me. I saw that her eyes were black and large, and there was a wild expression in them.

“Presently she ceased in her work, and, lighting a taper, put it to the books. Then, the spell was broken! I don’t know how I reached aunt Marion’s room, but I remember shrieking at the top of my voice and fleeing as if wings were on my feet. Such agony of fear I am sure I never can feel again. I burst into the room, I threw myself trembling, panting, cowering, on the bed—only able to sob out, ‘In the library—oh! a woman—she is burning the books.’

“That is all I remembered of what took place then, but in the morning I saw the woman again, and spoke to her, even touched her hand gently, and kissed her cheek, though a good many of my favorite books lay blackened and charred on the floor of the library. The long hair was bound up, and the wild, black eyes were very sad now,—oh, so sad, so wistful, so full of dumb questioning, like those of some beautiful, caged animal; and she sat with her hands clasped, looking down, very pale, grief-worn and quiet.

“But after a while they took her away again. She was my aunt, my mother’s sister, and had been insane for years. She had been taken to an asylum, but escaped occasionally from her keepers and returned to her old home. They tried to keep her there, but she was better away from her friends, and though years had passed they had never given up the hope of her recovery.