It was the worst thing she could have done for her cause. It was her custom to stand over Lena "till hevery drop of that beef-tea is taken," knowing, as she did, that her young charge was averse to the process; and, had she stood her ground she might have evaded or parried questions, and perhaps have conveyed to Miss Trevor her desire for secrecy; but her dark looks and sudden exit, evidently caused by the presence of the latter, put the timid old lady into one of her flutters.

"What is it, my dear?" she asked, turning to Mrs. Rush, and speaking in a kind of panic. "What did I do? Does she think—yes—think that the money has not gone? Oh, yes, indeed, yes, I sent it so carefully, carefully indeed, fully, and the dear boy has it, yes, has it, indeed, long before this, long!" Then to Lena, "Your brother, my dear, yes, brother. Oh, I would have gone home myself to take it to him, yes, take, if I could not have sent it quite safely, yes, safe; but they persuaded me to stay, and so I sent it by post, sent it, yes, post."

Lena gave a little gasp.

Here then was a partial solution of the mystery of that second hundred dollars. She and Bessie both saw it; Hannah had sent it to Percy, and by some strange means, through Miss Trevor. And Hannah was now evidently very angry and disturbed. What could it all mean?

Bessie wondered: but the matter was not of as much moment to her as it was to Lena, who was more bewildered, if possible, than ever. And she knew what must follow—questions, explanations, and disclosure to her aunt and uncle of Percy's wrong-doing. Now, however, that he was released from the other dangers that had threatened him, the child felt this to be almost a relief: she had so suffered under the knowledge that she was keeping his secret from them, had felt such a sense of positive guiltiness in their presence.

"What is all this, Miss Trevor?" asked Mrs. Rush. "Where have you met Lena's old nurse before? And what is this about Percy; for I take it for granted he is the brother of Lena of whom you are speaking."

Her manner was so grave that Miss Trevor was alarmed, and imagining that she had brought herself and her young cavalier into some difficulty, she became more incoherent, nervous and rambling than usual. Repeating herself over and over again, she related, in such a confused manner, the story of her encounter with Hannah, and of how the latter had entrusted her with the money for Percy; of how she had intended to return to Sylvandale at once when she had accepted the trust, but had been persuaded by her friends to remain in the city until after Easter, and how she, mindful of the task she had undertaken, and not knowing where she could find Hannah to inform her of the change in her plans, had sent the money by post; but, as she assured Mrs. Rush, with the greatest precautions. Only those who were accustomed to her ways of speech could have thoroughly understood her, and even Mrs. Rush, who had known the old lady from her own childhood, had some difficulty in patching together a connected tale; and all she arrived at in the end only increased her desire to know more of the matter and to understand for what purpose Hannah had sent such a sum of money to Percy, and in such a mysterious manner.

As for Lena, a new thorn was planted in her poor little heart, a new shame bowed her head.

This much she understood, that Hannah had been sending money to Percy. Was it possible that her reckless brother had been so lost to all sense of what was fitting that he had actually applied to his faithful old nurse, this servant in his father's family, for aid? Oh, Percy, Percy; shame, shame!

As we know, she wronged Percy in this; but as she had no means of ascertaining how Hannah had become possessed of his secret and of his extremity, it was the most natural thing in the world that she should think he had so far forgotten himself. She could guess at more than Mrs. Rush or Bessie Bradford could, and had no doubt to what purpose the money entrusted to Miss Trevor had been destined.

And an added pang of shame and regret was given to the proud, high-spirited child when, at the conclusion of Miss Trevor's rambling tale, her aunt turned to her, and said:

"Why, Lena, that gold must have been those cherished sovereigns which Hannah destined for her monument and 'epithet.' Why should she have sent them to Percy? It is not possible that she would trust them to the keeping of a careless schoolboy."

As yet, it was plain, Mrs. Rush had suspected nothing wrong, so far as Percy was concerned about the disposal of Hannah's money, but now when she observed the painful flush and startled, shamed look upon the little girl's face, she could not but see that Lena was distressed, and instantly coupled this with the low spirits and nervous restlessness which had, for some time past, so evidently retarded her recovery. Lena could make her no answer in words, but her expression and manner were enough, and Mrs. Rush asked no more, intending to leave the matter to the judgment of her husband. She gave no hint of her suspicions to Lena, moreover, passing over the child's agitation in silence; and when the carriage had returned with the colonel, and the visitors departed, she set herself to divert Lena, offering, if she chose, to read the "club papers" Maggie had brought with her.

Lena assented, more to divert attention from herself and to turn her aunt's thoughts from the subject of the mysterious doings of Hannah, than from any real interest in the compositions; but as Mrs. Rush read her attention was presently attracted.

"This is one of Maggie's, I see," said Mrs. Rush, perceiving one in Maggie's handwriting. "Oh, no," glancing at the commencement and seeing that it was by no means in Maggie's style, "it is another effusion of Frankie's; she has only written it out from his dictation. I wonder if it will be as droll as 'Babylon Babylon.'"

"THE MAN THAT BROKE GOOD FRIDAY."

"Once there was a boy, and he never told a lie, and his name wasn't George Washington either. And I don't think it was anything so great to tell about that everlasting cherry-tree that everybody's tired hearing about; and when I come to be the Father of my Country and I do something bad, I'll just go and tell my papa about it without waiting for him to go poking round and having to ask me if I did it. I think it is awfully mean to do a fault and wait till somebody comes and asks you about it; it is skimpy of telling the truth. And if you do bad things your fathers don't always claps you in their arms and say they'd rather you'd do a hundred bad things than tell a lie; sometimes they punish you, all the same, and you don't always get out of it that way.

"Well, this boy didn't think so much of himself because he didn't tell lies; he was used to not telling them, and he didn't get himself put into the history books about it and make himself chestnuts. He was very polite to girls, too, and always got up and gave them a chair and gave them the best of everything, just like our Hal. Hal's awfully generous, and Fred is, too; only Fred teases, and the boys call Hal 'Troubadour.'

"Well, there was a man lived by this boy's house, and he was a real bad man, and it came Good Friday, and this man didn't go to church or anything; but he bought a flag—a great big, new one, and he put it right up on his flag-staff with his own hands. He just must have been glad that God was dead. The good boy saw it, and he knew it wasn't any use to tell that man he was breaking Good Friday, 'cause he would just say 'mind your own business,' so the boy ran to the President and told him about it, and the President came down out of his Capitol and ran with the truth-telling boy and came to the man and said, 'Hi, there, you! Pull down that flag this minute on Good Friday! And the man was awfully frightened 'cause he knew the President has such lots of soldiers and policemen, and he was afraid he'd set them on him; so he pulled down the flag mighty quick. But he was so mad he made faces at the President; but the President didn't care a bit. Presidents grow used to disagreeable things, and it is worse having people not vote for you than it is to be made faces at. He had a lot of laws to make that day and he thought he'd make a new one about putting up flags on Good Friday; so he hurried home to his Capitol; but when he came there, he said to his wife:

"'My dear, I'm afraid that man might do something horrid to that truth-telling boy—I know just by the look of him he don't like people who tell the truth; so you run and peep round the corner and watch!'

"And the President's wife said, 'Yes, your Presidency, I will'; and she put on her best frock and her crown, so as to make the man think she was very grand, so he'd be respectful to her, and she kissed the President for good-by and went and peeped around the corner.

"Well, you see after the President went away that man had grown madder and madder, but he didn't dare to put the flag up again, only he didn't like it 'cause somebody meddled with his business; generally people don't like it if you meddle with their business; and he stamped his feet and clenched his hands, and just screamed, he was so mad. It sometimes makes you feel a little better to scream if you're mad, only your fathers and mothers don't like it, but this man was so old and grown up his father and mother had had to die long ago; but they saw him out of heaven and were mad at him. Well, all of a sudden he said, 'I guess it was that boy who never tells lies; he looked real mad when he saw that flag, and I'll pay him off, oh, won't I though!' Then he cut off a great big piece of his flag-staff; he forgot the flag wouldn't go so high if he did it, and he was going to run at that boy who didn't tell lies; but the boy wasn't going to wait for him to ask, and he went up to him and said:

"'Hi, there, you! I told the President about you; I don't want you to ask me any kestions, 'cause always I speak the truth without waiting for people to ask me, and I did it, so, there now!'

"Then the bad man struck at the boy with the piece of the flag-staff in his hand; but the boy was too quick for him, and he couldn't reach him, and the President's wife screamed right out and ran for her husband's soldiers. She would have gone to help the boy herself; but she had to be very proud and stiff of herself because she was the President's wife.

"When the President heard her scream he knew it was because that man was trying to do something to the boy; so he looked in his laws dictionary to find what to do to him; but the man that made the dictionary never thought that any one would be so bad as to break Good Friday, so there was nothing about it. So he made a new law himself very quick and told the soldiers what to do, and they came; and the President's wife was hollering like anything and nervous; but the boy was just laughing and jumping around the man, saying, 'Catch me; why don't you catch me, old Good Friday breaker.'

"Well, this boy had a fairy of his own—this is partly a fairy tale and partly a Bible story, 'cause it is about Good Friday; and I don't know if it's very pious to mix up the two, but I have to end up the story—and this fairy came to help him, and she opened a hole in the ground and let the man fall right through to Africa, where the cannibals got him and eat him up; but he was so bad he disagreed with them, so even after he was killed he was a nuisance. Then the President gave the boy a beautiful present, and told him he'd vote for him to be President when he grew up, and he'd give him a whole regiment of soldiers for his own.

"So this is what you get for always telling the truth, and for not being afraid to tell when you've done a bad thing. Anybody is an awful old meaner to hide it when he's done it, and you ought to tell right out and not be sneaky. A boy who hides what he's done is a sneak, I don't care. The End."

There were some parts of this fanciful tale which made Lena wince, as she saw how much clearer an idea of right and wrong, truth and justice, had this little boy of seven than had her own brother of more than twice his age. If Percy could but think that it was "mean and sneaky" to endeavor to hide a fault, could but see how much nobler and more manly it was to make confession, and, so far as possible, reparation. True, the money had been repaid to Seabrooke; but through what a source had it come to him; and there were so many other things to confess, things which had led to this very trouble with Seabrooke. The rambling, half-incoherent nonsense written, or rather, dictated by the little brother of her young friends made her feel more than ever the shame and meanness of Percy's conduct, and she could not laugh at Frankie's contribution to the "Cheeryble Sisters," as her aunt did.

And Frankie practised that which he preached, as Lena very well knew. Mischievous and heedless, almost to recklessness, he was not only always ready to confess his wrong-doing when questioned, but when conscious of his fault, did not wait for his parents to "go poking about to find him out," but would go straightway and accuse himself. Like all the Bradford children, strictly truthful and upright, he scorned concealment or evasion, and accepted the consequences of his naughtiness without attempt at either. But well could Lena remember how in the nursery days from which she and Percy had but so recently escaped, he would hide, by every possible device, his own misdoings, even to the very verge of suffering others to be blamed for them. Hannah would even then strive to shield him from detection and punishment at his parents' hands, thus fostering his weakness and moral cowardice. With over-severity on the one hand, and over-indulgence on the other, what wonder was it that Percy's faults had grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength?

It cannot be said that Lena put all this into words, even to herself: but such thoughts were there, or those very much like them. She was given to reasoning and pondering over things in the recesses of her own mind, and she was uncommonly clear-sighted for a girl of her age. Probably the child was not the happier for that.

To Maggie and Bessie, in their joyous lives, full of the tenderness and confidence and sympathy which existed between them and their parents, such ideas would never have come, even while they wondered at and pitied the utter lack in Lena's existence of all that made the happiness of theirs.

And another trouble, perhaps now the greatest which weighed upon Lena's mind, was the knowledge that their faithful old nurse had sacrificed her long-cherished gold, with its particular purpose, to the rescue of Percy from his dilemma. For, after hearing Miss Trevor's story, Lena could not—did not doubt that this was so.

And Aunt May, having also heard the tale, would tell Uncle Horace; there was no doubt of that. Lena was not at all relieved by the fact that her aunt asked no questions, never once alluded to the subject. She suspected something wrong, and was only waiting for an opportunity to submit it to the colonel. Lena did not imagine, of course, that her aunt blamed her in any way in the matter; there was no reason that she should do so, and in one respect it would be almost a relief to have her aunt and uncle know all. But for Percy's sake she still shrank from that.

But Hannah, and Hannah's cherished money! Dear, faithful old Hannah!
Oh, the shame, the shame of it!

Mrs. Rush, with her suspicions already tending Percy-wise in connection with Lena's late low spirits, and noting how devoid of interest she seemed to be in the papers she was reading for her benefit, had those suspicions more than ever confirmed since she observed the effect Miss Trevor's revelation had had upon her; she felt assured now that Percy had fallen into some trouble from which his sister and his old nurse had endeavored to extricate him. And it must be indeed a serious trouble which made needful such secrecy, such mysterious, underhand doings.

Suddenly Mrs. Rush saw Lena's countenance change; a look of relief passed over it, and her head was lifted and her eye brightened again. For it had flashed upon the child that there was a way out of a part of the difficulty, at least. That second hundred dollars could be taken to return to Hannah that which she had sacrificed. Percy had written that he would bring it to her when she came home for the Easter holidays; she would somehow contrive to have it turned into gold and give it back to the old woman, telling her at the same time that she and Percy had discovered her generosity, and loved her all the more for her faithful tenderness.

Ah! she said to herself, how stupid she had been not to see this at once, and how strange that Percy had not thought of doing it when he must at least have suspected the truth after applying to Hannah.

Mrs. Rush took up the second paper and glanced over it, then laughed.

"This is Lily's," she said. "Spelling does not seem to be her strong point."

"No," answered Lena, "she says she never can spell, and I do not think she tries very hard. Miss Ashton takes a great deal of trouble with her, too; but Lily just laughs at her own spelling and does not seem to think that it matters very much. But she is so nice," she added, apologetically, "and we all like her so much."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Rush, "Lily is a dear child, and so truly noble and upright and conscientious, in spite of her sometimes careless way of speaking of right and wrong. Shall I read this, Lena; do you care to hear it?" For she had noticed that Lena appeared distraite during the reading of Frankie's composition.

"Oh, yes, if you please, Aunt Marian," answered Lena, more cheerfully than she had spoken before. "Lily's compositions are always rather droll, even if they are not very correct."

"But does Miss Ashton leave it to Lily's own choice to say whether she will write compositions or no?" asked Mrs. Rush.

"Oh, no," answered Lena, "she has to write them regularly, as the rest of us do; but she has never before been willing to have one read in the club, and even this she will not allow to go in our book."

"'Good Resolutions' is the title of the piece," said Mrs. Rush, beginning to read from the paper in her hand.

"Good resolutions are capitle things if you keep them, but generally they are made to be broken; at least I am afraid mine are. I think I've made about a thousand in my life, and about nine hundred and ninety-seven have been broken. But there is one good resolution I made I have never broken and never shall, and that is, forever and ever and ever to hate Oliver Cromwell. I shall always kepe that. I know of lots of bad men, but I think he was the worst I ever knew. He made believe he was very pious, but he was not at all, he was a hipokrit and deceiver; and he made believe he had the king killed for writeousness' sake, and I know he only did it so as to take the head place himself. I think I can't bear Cromwell more than any one I ever knew. I just hate him, and it is no use for any one to say he was doing what he thought was best for his country and he meant well. I don't believe it, and I hate people who mean well; they are always tiresome. The poor dear king! I would like to have been there when they tryed him, and I would have been like Lady Fairfax and would have called out, 'Oliver Cromwell is a rogue and a traitor,' and not been afrade of anybody when I wanted to stand up for my king. I love Lady Fairfax."

"What a stanch little royalist Lily is and would have been had she lived in those days," said Mrs. Rush, smiling as she came to a pause.

"Yes," said Lena, "she always stands up for kings and the rights of kings."

"But I am amazed," said Mrs. Rush, "that Lily does not write a better composition than this. It is really not as good as some which I have seen written by the younger children of the class, Bessie, Belle and Amy."

"No," answered Lena, "and we all think it is because Lily does not choose to take pains with her compositions. She is so bright and clever about all her other lessons, history, geography, French, and everything but composition and spelling; but she only laughs about her bad report for those two, and does not seem to care at all or to take any trouble to improve in them. Miss Ashton is sometimes quite vexed with her, and says it is only carelessness."

"And even the wish to earn the prize did not spur her on?" asked Mrs.
Rush.

"Oh, no," answered Lena, "she only said she knew she could never gain it, and wasn't going to try. I think Maggie persuaded her to write a paper to be read in the club in the hope that it would make her take a little pains and try to improve."

"But it hardly seems to have answered the purpose," said Mrs. Rush. "But" she added, as she took up again Lily's paper, which she had laid upon the table, "she is a dear child, and as you say, very bright. Do you wish to hear more of this, dear; or are you tired?"

"Oh, yes, please," answered Lena, who was now so relieved by the remembrance that the debt to Hannah could be paid as soon as her brother returned, that she felt as if some heavy weight had been lifted from her, and looked, spoke, and acted like a different child from the one of a few moments since; "if you please, Aunt Marian. Lily goes on for some time in such a nonsensical way and then comes out with something so clever and droll that we cannot help laughing. I would like to hear the rest of it; and there is Bessie's piece, too."

But before Mrs. Rush had time to commence once more the reading of Lily's composition, the colonel sent up a message to ask his wife to come to him.