LLEM had told John Porter he did not know and did not care where Dol was on that dark night; but he had not told the truth when he said he did not care. He did care, for she was the only thing he loved in all the wide world, and had he known where to look, he would certainly have gone in search of her. But, reckless as he was, he knew that a blind hunt over the mountain on such a stormy night would be worse than useless; and he could do nothing but wait patiently as he might till the morning came.

The storm raged all night: the rain poured down in a driving flood; the lightning flashed; the thunder pealed without rest, echoing from one to another of the mountain-peaks in a long, heavy roll; and the wind blew in furious gusts, shaking even Mr. Porter's comfortable, well-built house, and seeming as if it would lay flat the miserable walls of Lem's poor house, so that the boy was afraid to stay within, and sheltered himself as well as he could beside the rock.

He was troubled about his sister. In all their freaks, in all their wicked doings, they generally kept together, and stood by one another, and he had expected to find her in the hovel when he returned to it that evening. He knew well enough that no one would care to take her in for the night; for, if they did so, they were sure to suffer for it before she left the place which had given her shelter. He waited till an hour or so after daybreak, when the storm was dying away, and was just setting out to look for her, when he saw her coming wearily up the little wood-path.

Accustomed as he was to her miserable appearance, even Lem was struck by the wretched plight she was in. The water was dripping from her uncombed, tangled hair and poor rags; her face was pale, and her bare arms and knees were cut and bleeding; and, although the morning was clearing up close and warm, she shivered and drew herself together as if she were suffering from cold. But the wan, haggard face lighted up for a moment when she saw her brother, and she exclaimed,—

"Oh! Lem, did you cheat 'em, and break out?"

"No," said Lem, "he le'me out; and Dol, I say, it was all along of those two little gals. They said they'd beg me off, and the old man said they did, and I aint goin' to trick 'em no more. Where was you last night?"

"In the Ice Glen," answered Dolly.

Lem gave a long, astonished whistle.

"You aint goin' to say you slept in the Ice Glen?"

"I didn't do no sleepin', but I was there all night, after I come away from Porter's. But I fixed 'em down there fust," she added with a malicious grin.

"But how came you into the Ice Glen; didn't you know better?" asked Lem.

In answer, she told him how she had been hanging about Mr. Porter's grounds till long after dark, when the storm broke, and she had lost her way; and, after one or two bad falls, had found herself in the Ice Glen; that, knowing the danger in the darkness of a fall over the rocks or into the lake, she had remained there all night, fearing to move till there was sufficient daylight to show her the way home.

"And what was you doin' to keep you down to Porter's so long?" asked Lem.

The reply to this question, instead of being received with praise and exclamations of triumph as she had expected, was met by a curse; and poor Dol shrank down in fear of a blow; for, though Lem was not often angry with her, when he was, she was used to feeling the weight of his hand. But he did not strike her now, but turned sullenly from her, and began trampling down the wet grass with his bare feet.

"What's come over you, now?" she asked at last.

"Nothin'. 'Taint no odds," he answered.

"Aint you glad I fixed 'em off so?"

"No: 'twant fair after they begged me off."

"They got you shut up first, sayin' you took the cup when you didn't."

"How do you know I didn't?"

"'Cause I know who did."

"Did you?"

"No, but I know who did; and what's more, I know where it is now," she answered.

"Tell me then."

But Dolly turned sulky in her turn, and refused to say a word more; and Lem, knowing it was useless to try to make her speak when she did not choose, strolled into the woods to see if he could find any berries for his breakfast; while she, still shivering from her night's exposure in the Ice Glen, tried to kindle a fire from the wet sticks which lay around; and finding this in vain, crept to her wretched bed, and tried to warm herself there.

But it is time to tell what was the new piece of mischief by which Dolly had thus brought punishment upon herself.

Two little pairs of feet danced through the hall, and out upon the piazza of the Lake House that morning.

"Oh, what a nice, pleasant day after the rain!" said Bessie. "The birdies are singing so to tell us how they like it."

"And it is so nice and cool after all the heat," said Maggie. "See! see! papa, how the rain-drops are hanging on the leaves, and how the sun shines in them and makes them sparkle. But what a lot of leaves are lying about over the grass! and there is a branch broken and hanging down."

"There is another lying by the well," said Bessie, "and those large bushes are all leaning over. Did the rain do that, papa?"

"The wind did it," said papa. "The storm was very severe last night, and I fear it may have done some harm to the farm and garden."

"Not to our gardens, I hope," said Maggie. "They looked so nicely yesterday, and Cousin Alexander is coming up to-day to see them; and if the storm did hurt them, we won't have time to fix them up again before he comes."

"If my garden was mussed up a little bit, I shouldn't mind it so very much, if only my dear heliotrope is not hurt," said Bessie.

"And my geranium," said Maggie. "We would be too disappointed if any thing happened to those two. Papa, do you know when Cousin Ernest was here the other day, he said not one of the children had such a fine heliotrope or geranium, and he thought they were sure to take prizes? and besides, he said our gardens were so neatly kept it was a pleasure to look at them."

"Yes," said papa: "you have been very industrious and persevering, and deserve much praise. Here comes Mr. Porter."

"What a terrible night it has been," said Mrs. Bradford, coming out at that moment. "I could not sleep for the noise of the thunder and the wind. I wonder what those two forlorn children have done: that wretched hut could be but poor protection on such a night."

"Better than they deserve," growled Mr. Porter, in a tone very unusual with him, coming up the piazza steps as Mrs. Bradford spoke. "Good-morning, madam. A bad night's work this. I've just been round with the boys to see what damage has been done."

"Not much I hope," said Mrs. Bradford.

"Well, not so much from the storm," said Mr. Porter. "The corn is beaten down a little, but it will rise again in a day or two, and some branches here and there stripped off; but there's been worse than the wind and rain abroad last night. Mr. Bradford, I'll speak with you a minute, sir."

Mr. Bradford walked aside with the old man, who said to him in a low voice,—

"There's a sore trouble in store for those little dears, and I hadn't the heart to tell them myself. You'll know best how to do it. Their gardens are all destroyed, root and branch; not a thing left. Their pet plants, the heliotrope and geranium that they set so much store by, are rooted up and torn to bits, not a piece left as big as my hand. And it was not the storm either that did it, but just those wicked children, Lem and Dolly, or one of them. I don't think it could have been the boy, for I don't see how he could have found his way down here again last night after John saw him home; but, alone or together, the girl has had a hand in it for sure. John picked up a dirty old sunbonnet she used to wear, lying right in Bessie's garden, and he says she was not at home when he went up with Lem last night. She's done it out of revenge for his being shut up, and I wish Buffer had caught her at it, so I do. My patience is quite at an end, and I'll have them routed out of that place, and sent off somewhere, as sure as my name is Thomas Porter."

Mr. Bradford was very much troubled, for he knew how greatly the children would be distressed; and, as the breakfast-bell rang just then, he said he should not tell them till the meal was over, or no breakfast would be eaten by Maggie or Bessie. He could scarcely eat his own as he watched the bright faces of his two little daughters, and thought what a different look they would wear when they heard the bad news.

It was as he had feared: their grief was distressing to see, all the more so when they found who had done this injury to them. Their father had wished to keep this secret, but they begged so to go and see the gardens, that he thought it best to take them and let them know the worst at once; and they were so astonished when they saw the utter desolation of their own beds, and the difference between them and those which lay around, and asked so many questions, that he was obliged to tell them.

The two brothers, with Hafed and Bob, were already on the spot, spades and rakes in hand, to see what could be done; but, alas! there was little or nothing.

It was indeed sad to see the ruin of what had, but yesterday, looked so neat and pretty. The tiny fences were pulled up, and scattered far and wide; lady-slippers, mignonette, verbenas, and all the other simple flowers which had flourished so well, and given such pride and delight to the little gardeners, were rooted up and trampled into the earth; and, worse than all, the beloved heliotrope and geranium were torn leaf from leaf and sprig from sprig, while their main stems had been twisted and bent, till no hope remained that even these could be revived.

The boys' gardens had suffered some, but not so much as those of the little girls; whether it was that Dolly fancied Maggie and Bessie had been the most to blame for Lem's imprisonment, and so chose first to revenge herself on them; whether it was that their gardens lay nearer to her hand and she had been interrupted in her wicked work before she had quite destroyed the boys',—could not be known.

The grief of the children was pitiful to see. Bessie's could not find words, but she clung about her father's neck, and sobbed so violently that he feared she would be ill, and carried her back to the house to see if mamma could not comfort her. Maggie's was not less violent, but it was more outspoken, and she said and thought many angry things of Lem and Dolly, as she gathered up the bruised leaves and stalks of her own geranium and Bessie's heliotrope. The boys were quite ready to join her in all, and more than all, that she said.

"What are you going to do with that, pet?" asked Uncle Ruthven, coming down to see the ruin, and finding Maggie sitting on an upturned flower-pot, her hot tears still falling on the remains of the two favorite plants.

"Oh! Uncle Ruthven!" sobbed poor Maggie, "I could not bear to see them lying there in the mud and dirt. It seems to me 'most as if they were something live, and we were so fond of them. I don't think I can bear it. And, oh! I am so sorry we asked Mr. Porter to let Lem out, just so he could do this,—the bad, wicked boy!"

"I do not think it was Lem's doing, dear," said Mr. Stanton; and then he told Maggie how John Porter had taken Lem home last night just before the storm began, and that it was scarcely possible that the boy could have made his way back in the darkness and worked all this mischief.

"Well, it was Dolly, then," said Maggie; "and I can never, never forgive her: no, never, Uncle Ruthven."

Uncle Ruthven would not argue with her, or try to persuade her to feel less hardly towards Dolly now: he knew it was not the time; the wound was too fresh, the little heart still too sore. Nor did he think it worth while to try and make her forget the trouble yet, but talked to her about it in an interested but soothing manner, till at last he led her back to her mother in a more quiet, gentle mood than he had found her.

Meanwhile the boys had all four set to work with a good will to try what they could do to make the poor gardens look somewhat less forlorn. It was too late in the season to think of planting new seeds or roots; and the flowers which had been torn up were too entirely destroyed ever to revive again.

Hafed would have taken up every flower from his own garden and transplanted it to those of his "Missy's," if the other boys had not made him understand that this would be useless, and most of them would only droop and die.

The disordered beds were raked smoothly over; the little fence carefully cleaned from the mud which covered it, and set up again; and all the withered, bruised flowers and leaves carried away. Then came John Porter and his brothers, bringing a dozen or so of flowering shrubs in pots, which were neatly set out, taking from the gardens the desolate look they had worn. Next, some bright lady-slippers, sweet pinks and other late summer flowers were taken up with plenty of earth about their roots so that they might not droop, and they too, were put down in their new home.

When all was done, the little girls were called down to see the improvement that had been made. They thanked the boys very heartily; but, in spite of all the pains that had been taken, the gardens were not the same they had been before, not the work of their own hands, the gardens they had watched and tended for the last six or seven weeks.

"Besides," said Maggie, with a mournful shake of her head, "our own dear heliotrope and geranium are quite gone, so we need not hope for any prize. It is too late now to try with any thing else, and we couldn't expect Cousin Alexander to give us one when we have nothing to show that we have taken care of ourselves."

"I don't know about that," said Fred, "Cousin Alexander came down here this morning; and, although he did not mention the word prize, he said he thought he ought to take into account all you had done, as well as what you might have done, and asked us if we did not agree with him. Of course we said yes; so we shall see what he will do."

But not all the petting and coaxing they received, or all the new amusements provided for them, could make Maggie and Bessie forget their ruined gardens, or recover their usual spirits that day. Indeed it was rather a mournful day for the whole family. The melancholy faces of the two little girls grieved their older friends; and, besides, it was sad to know that children like Lem and Dolly should take delight in such wicked, wanton mischief, and to know that there seemed to be no way to do them good; since they only came near those who were weaker and younger than themselves to do them harm, and ran from those who were older and wiser, in fear of the punishment and reproof their wickedness deserved. Neither by kindness nor severity did it seem possible to reach these poor creatures.

Mr. Porter said that one of the dogs should be fastened in the garden for a few nights, till he should see what might be done about having Lem and Dolly removed to some place where they could give no more annoyance to himself and his boarders.

"My darlings," said Mrs. Bradford that night, when she had gone upstairs with the children, "what are you going to do now?"

"To say our prayers, mamma," answered Bessie, rather surprised at the question.

"What prayers, Maggie?"

"Why, 'Now I lay me,' and 'Pray God bless,' and 'Our Father which art in Heaven,'" said Maggie.

"And when we say 'Our Father,' what do we say about forgiveness?"

"'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,'" said Bessie. "I know what you mean, mamma."

"And so do I," said Maggie; "but I cannot do it, mamma, I cannot forgive Lem and Dolly as I want to be forgiven myself, so I think I had better leave out that part of 'Our Father,' to-night. I wouldn't like to pray a story."

"Nor would I wish you to say what you did not feel, dearie, but I should like you to pray that from your heart."

"But I could not, mamma," said Maggie. "Why, we have forgiven Lem and Dolly so often, and it is not a bit of use."

"Do you remember what I was reading to you the other night?" said mamma, "how Peter came to our Lord, and asked Him how often he should forgive his enemy. What answer did Jesus make?"

"He said 'forgive him till seventy times seven,'" said Bessie.

"O mamma!" said Maggie. "I never could do that. I think I could be like Peter, and forgive Lem and Dolly seven times; but every time I do it, it grows harder and harder, and I never could do it by the time it was seventy times seven. That is such a lot! Every bit of forgiveness in me would be used up by that time."

"Our Lord only said 'seventy times seven,' to show that we must forgive a great number of times, Maggie. He did not mean to measure our forgiveness any more than He measures His own. He is ready to pardon all who go to Him, as often and as freely as they need. But we must ask Him from our hearts; and can we do so if those hearts are full of unkindness and hard feeling towards those who have injured us? I know how hard it is for you both, my darlings; I know by my own feelings how hard it is to forgive Lem and Dolly; but I cannot hope to be forgiven myself for what I have done wrong this day, unless I forgive them the harm they have done to me."

"They did not harm you, mamma, did they?" asked Maggie.

"Yes: they hurt my two little blossoms, Maggie and Bessie, and so grieved me very much. But I can hope my flowers will soon get the better of the harm they have received; not only of their sorrow, but also of their anger and hard feeling towards those poor, unhappy children. Suppose you had at this moment a chance to do a kind thing, or speak a kind word to Lem and Dolly,—would either of you do it?"

"Mamma," said Bessie, "I think I would. It would be very hard, and I'm afraid I wouldn't quite like to do it; but I would try to think how often Jesus forgave me, and I would say, 'forgive me my trespasses' as I forgive Lem and Dolly, and maybe that would make it easier."

"It will indeed, my darling; and what does my Maggie say?"

"I'll try too, mamma—but—but—I can't help thinking I'd be pretty glad if the chance never came."