“I hope no one will come in this morning,” said Alice Livingston to her cousin, Emma Percival. “I am tired after last night’s dancing, are not you Emma?”

“Yes,” replied her cousin, yawning, “and sleepy too.”

“I love a long, quiet morning now and then,” continued Alice; “and it looks so like rain that I think we are pretty safe to-day.”

“Don’t think it, my dear,” replied Emma. “This is just the kind of weather that people you don’t want to see are sure to call. I hate these cloudy mornings for that reason. You can’t say you are out such a day as this, and yet it don’t rain positively, so that others are obliged to stay at home, whether they will or no. Now there’s Mrs. Gardiner regularly chooses these days for her inflictions. I’ve no doubt, by the way, she will be here this very morning, for I met her yesterday, and she stopped to say she had not seen any of us for a long time, and all that. Beside she is sure to call in disagreeable weather.”

“What a strange fancy,” said Alice.

“Oh, she’s one of those restless gossips who cannot stay at home a day for her life,” replied Emma. “And then, beside, she’s a bore, and loves to pin you for half the morning; and, moreover, she’s only sure of getting in when you cannot possibly say you are out. Depend upon it she’ll be here this morning—I am sure she will. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, I feel that something evil this way comes.’”

“I hope your mesmeric thumbs are mistaken this once,” said Alice, laughing.

“I’ve no doubt but that’s her ring now,” replied Emma; and, sure enough, as the door opened, Mrs. Gardiner entered.

“Ah! Mrs. Gardiner,” said Emma, going forward in the most gracious, pleasant manner, “I thought I knew your ring. We were just speaking of you, and I told Alice that I was sure it was you.”

Mrs. Gardiner looked pleased as she replied, “How came you to expect me just now?”

“I don’t know. It’s a mesmeric sympathy, I suppose,” replied Emma, smiling, “with which I am endowed. Alice was laughing at me just as you came in, for putting so much faith in my feelings. But you see, Alice,” she said looking at her cousin, “that my impressions are quite worth your anticipations. Alice,” she continued, addressing Mrs. Gardiner, “has been watching the clouds, thinking no one would take pity on us this morning; but I knew better.” And Emma again looked at her cousin with an expression of amusement that Alice, knowing what she meant, could not respond to. Being embarrassed between truth and civility, she made a slight and rather cold reply, which added considerably to Emma’s mirth.

“Is Mrs. Percival at home?” inquired Mrs. Gardiner, presently; and as she spoke, she rather turned to Alice, who replied,—

“Yes, I believe so.”

“No,” said Emma. “Alice, she went out some time ago.”

“It’s an unpleasant day for her to be out,” remarked Mrs. Gardiner, fixing her piercing eyes upon Emma with a very incredulous stare.

“She has gone to see old Mrs. Haight,” replied Emma. “She is quite ill, you know.”

“If she does not return soon, she will be caught in the rain,” pursued Mrs. Gardiner, who had heard the story of “mamma’s having gone to Mrs. Haight’s” too often, to put implicit faith in it; “it was sprinkling as I came in.”

“Is it?” said Emma. “She will probably stay and dine there, then. Mamma has not been there for some time, and so she will probably now ‘make a day on’t.’”

Mrs. Gardiner had nothing more to say on the subject; so the conversation turned to other things.

“By the way, Emma,” she said, presently, “did you get a hat the other morning? I left you, I believe, at Dudevant’s.”

“Oh, yes, I have one,” replied Emma.

“Do let me see it,” said Mrs. Gardiner, who took an intense interest in the subject of dress. Emma rung, and had her bandbox brought down.

Mrs. Gardiner eyed the bonnet suspiciously, as Emma presented it to her, and said,—

“Who made it, Emma?”

“It’s a French one,” replied Emma, promptly.

“Where did you get it?” pursued Mrs. Gardiner.

“At Dudevant’s,” said Emma, in the same decided manner.

“At Dudevant’s?” repeated Mrs. Gardiner, looking full at Emma. “Why I was there at the opening—I did not see this hat there.”

“It was in one of the cases,” replied Emma.

“Oh—!” said Mrs. Gardiner. The manner was as if ‘that may be.’ “I did not look in the cases,” she added. “And what did Dudevant ask you for that hat, Emma?”

“That’s between me and my conscience,” replied Emma, laughing. “I never tell Dudevant’s prices.”

“She is an extortionate creature,” said Mrs. Gardiner; and there the subject dropped.

“Well, Emma,” said she, after some time, “if you think your mother will not be at home to dinner, there’s no use in my waiting for her, I suppose.”

“I do not think there is any chance of your seeing mamma this morning, Mrs. Gardiner, for I’ve no doubt she’ll stay and dine at Mrs. Haight’s. But won’t you stay with Alice and myself?”

“Thank you, my dear,” replied the lady. “I wanted to see your mother, but since she is out, I believe I must be going. Good morning.”

“Good morning;” and the door had hardly closed upon her, ere Emma exclaimed,—

“She’s gone at last, thank heaven! She came to spend the day, I expect. I was so afraid that mother might come in. I thought I actually heard her at one time on the stairs.”

“Why, is not your mother out?” inquired Alice, opening her eyes very wide.

“Lord, no, my dear,” said Emma, laughing. “Did you think she was?”

“Certainly,” replied Alice, “when you said so. And all that about Mrs. Haight’s illness is not true either? Oh, Emma!”

“Oh, that’s true enough, Alice. You need not look so shocked. The poor old soul has been ill ever so long; so I always send mamma there when I want to make an excuse for her. She does go, in fact, pretty often; but I make her the most attentive, devoted friend that ever was.” And Emma laughed heartily at her own cleverness, and seemed to enjoy the idea excessively; but Alice looked grave, as she said,—

“How can you, Emma?”

“How can I what, Alice?”

“Why, tell so many—what shall I call them—fibs, for nothing.”

“I never ‘fib for nothing,’ Alice,” replied Emma. “That would be downright extravagance and waste. My fibs always have a reason. I knew mamma did not want to see Mrs. Gardiner—so I said she was out.”

“Why, then, did you not say she was engaged?” pursued Alice, reproachfully.

“Because, my dear, that would have been quite as much of a fib as the other, and not near as effectual. Mamma was not dressed to see company, and was only reading a novel. I could not very well say that, you know. I presume even your penchant for truth would not have carried you so far. Beside, every body is said to be ‘out’ when they don’t mean to see company. They are words, of course, to which no one attaches any ideas of either falsehood or truth.”

“I am not certain of that,” said Alice, “even as a general thing; but when a person enters into such particulars as you do, Emma, I am sure of the contrary. You not only sent your mother to Mrs. Haight’s, but kept her there to dinner. It really does seem to me that that was most gratuitous fibbing.”

“No such thing,” said Emma, laughing. “It was a very bright idea, that; for I saw she thought of waiting till mamma came home, and wanted, moreover, to dine here—and I had no idea of that, I assure you. I was tired to death of her as it was.”

“And yet you received her as if she were the very person you were wishing for,” continued Alice.

“I am sure,” said Emma, laughing, “I repeated, verbatim, what we had been saying.”

“Yes—but with such a different inference,” said Alice.

“Oh, if I keep to facts,” said Emma, gayly, “I do not feel responsible for other people’s inferences.”

“And about your hat,” continued Alice, reproachfully, “why, Emma, should you not have told the truth?”

“Because,” replied Emma, indignantly, “she would just have sent for Henrietta, and had hats made for both her girls precisely after mine, which, by the way, she would probably have sent to borrow as a pattern, if I had let her know she made it in the house. Mrs. Gardiner has no conscience, no decency about those things. She don’t scruple imitating any thing you have, if she can.”

Alice could not but smile in her turn at Emma’s ideas of ‘conscience,’ and ‘scruples,’ but she said,

“Do you think she believed you, Emma?”

“I don’t know whether she did or not, and I don’t care. She did not find out the truth, and that’s all I care about,” replied Emma, still quite indignant with Mrs. Gardiner. “No, I don’t suppose she did,” she continued, carelessly. “Nobody who saw the hat, and has eyes in their head, can mistake a home-made hat for a French one. But she could not tell me so, you know; and I don’t care what she thinks. I could not help laughing, Alice,” continued Emma, more in her usual gay manner, “to see you look so confounded when Mrs. Gardiner came in. You certainly have the most tell-tale face in the world. But it wont do, Alice. Now, as you have been lecturing me, I am going to return the compliment. Something is due to the biensÉances of society, and you, with your truth, are really sometimes downright rude. Now last night, after Fanny Elton sung, you never said a word to Mrs. Elton, who sat beside you. Your coldness cost me a double dose of civility. I had to say all I could to make up for you. Do, pray, Alice, do your own civilities in future, for I have quite enough fibbing to do on my own account, without undertaking yours.”

“What could I say?” said Alice. “You would ask the girl to sing, and you know she has no voice, and is so dreadfully false, too. I really felt pained for her mother.”

“The more reason, my dear, why you should have said something civil to her,” replied Emma.

“But I could not, Emma. It was out of the question to say any thing complimentary; and so I thought it best to say nothing. How you could go on as you did, amazed me, for you gave me such a funny look, which, by the way, I was so afraid Mrs. Elton would see, when she came out with those horrid false notes.”

“It was dreadful, to be sure,” said Emma. “But I think it not only uncivil, but really unamiable, Alice, not to stretch the truth sometimes. I declare I was quite delighted with myself for making the old lady so happy as I did, by praising Fanny’s music; and as for not asking her, that would never have done. They think at home she is the greatest musician in the city. One has got to fib sometimes.”

“Oh, don’t say so,” said Alice, earnestly. “I do love the truth—it’s a—”

“A jewel, no doubt,” said Emma, interrupting her. “I agree with you; but it’s in bad taste to be in jewels always. If you persist in telling the truth in season and out of season, you’ll be as outrÉ as poor Mrs. Thatcher, with those eternal diamonds of hers. And then it’s so tiresome,” pursued Emma, “always to stick to facts so. You must embellish a little if you want to make a thing amusing.”

“There I entirely differ from you,” said Alice, decidedly. “The truth may not always be polite, but it’s always refreshing. I think there is nothing that is not only so beautiful, but so agreeable as the truth. It really sometimes has the effect of wit. There’s Mrs. Kemp, for instance, who everybody calls so agreeable; and I do think the great charm is in her being so perfectly true. She always gives you her real opinions and sentiments, and tells you things just as she sees them; and it gives a freshness to her conversation that very few people have. Most persons just repeat what others say, because they think it wont do to differ from the majority. Now truth gives life, freshness, individuality, every thing that is to me delightful, in both people and conversation.”

“Mrs. Kemp has an odd way of coming out with all that comes into her head,” replied Emma, “and I agree with you that it is amusing; but, really, I think it would hardly be put up with if she were not so rich, and a person of so much consequence as she is. I think people would call it right down impudence; and, moreover, she is a woman of a good deal of wit. If she were as dull as old Mrs. Elton, she might be as true as the sun, and she would never by any accident make you laugh. So, you see, my dear, it’s wit, and not truth, that is the refreshing quality. There’s Miss Ellis, who is not famous for her accuracy, and yet is one of the most amusing persons I know.”

“She would be, if one could place any reliance on her narratives,” replied Alice. “But the feeling of doubt and uncertainty that I have in listening to her anecdotes, dashes, if it does not destroy, the pleasure her conversation would otherwise give me.” Emma laughed as she answered,—

“Your dissatisfied look always amuses me when Miss Ellis is talking. But what difference does it make, after all, whether the thing is true or false, as long as it amuses? Half the time you don’t even know the people discussed. Where is the use of being so particular in trifles?”

“Oh, Emma,” said Alice, seriously, “don’t talk so. It’s a shocking habit. ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness,’ is one of God’s own commandments.”

“Who is talking of ‘bearing false witness,’ Alice?” said Emma, quite angrily. “You good people are so civil! I do hate such exaggeration. One would really think that to fulfill the courtesies of society and to commit perjury, were equal crimes. Because I am good-natured enough to say a civil thing to an old woman, you are pleased to imply that I may ‘bear false witness against my neighbors.’”

“No, I do not, Emma,” replied Alice, firmly, “but the habit of trifling with the truth, is a fearful one; and you may depend upon it, that no one who ever was careful of it in little points, was ever led to swerve aside in great things. Those who are in the habit of yielding to small temptations are those who most readily fall under great ones.”

“May be,” said Emma, weary of the discussion, “but I think you had better cultivate the habit of not looking so tired when you are bored, and I’ll try and be rude the first opportunity that offers, if that will suit you; so now go and put on your bonnet, for the carriage is at the door.” And so the conversation ended.

——