A GUILTY CONSCIENCE.

IF Gracie had been an unhappy and miserable child before, what was she now with all this load upon her conscience? For even pride and self-conceit could not attempt to justify such a deed. Jealousy had a good deal to say; and she tried to listen to that, and to believe also that she was not really to blame: she had been forced into it; she could not betray Hattie, who had done this from love to her. But she was more wretched than it would be easy to tell; and she was beginning to feel such a contempt for her chosen friend that this also was a sore spot in her heart. Day by day she was learning that there was nothing true or honorable or upright about Hattie. She hardly even seemed to think it much harm to tell a falsehood, or appeared ashamed when she was found out; and for some days she had had a growing feeling that it was not pleasant to have a friend with the character of a "story-teller," which Hattie now bore among her school-fellows. And Gracie; was she not just as bad, perhaps even worse? For Gracie had been taught all the value and beauty of truth, and had never till now wilfully fallen away from it; but she knew that the worth of that jewel was not much considered in Hattie's home, and so it had lost its preciousness in her eyes.

Miss Ashton, too, knew this; and so she was less severe with Hattie than she might have been with another child who had a better example and more encouragement to do right in this particular.

Lily, in her plain speaking, would probably have called Mr. and Mrs. Leroy by the same uncomplimentary name she had given to Mr. Raymond; for the same foolish system of management was carried on in their family. Probably they would have been much shocked to hear it said that they taught the lesson of deceit; but was it to be expected that Hattie could have much regard for the truth when she heard herself and her brothers and sisters threatened with punishments, which were not, perhaps could not be carried out; when promises were made to them which were not kept; when they were frightened by tales of bears, wolves, and old black men, and such things which had no existence?

"Willie, your mamma said she would send you to bed if you went there," was said to little Willie Leroy one day.

"Oh, I'm not afraid," answered Willie, contemptuously. "Mamma never does what she says;" and off he ran to the forbidden spot, his words proving quite true, although his mamma heard that he had disobeyed her so deliberately.

"Is your mother going to make you something for the fair?" Hattie was asked by one of her schoolmates.

"She says so; but I don't know if she will," was the answer.

Hattie's was not the simple faith of "Mamma says so," so sweet in little children. Mamma might or might not do as she had said she would, according to the convenience of the moment.

So it was no marvel that Hattie thought it no great harm to escape punishment or gain some fancied good by stretching the truth, or even telling a deliberate falsehood; or that, having a great love of talking, a story should outgrow its true dimensions in her hands; or that she did not see what was honest and upright as well as some children.

But with Gracie Howard it was very different.

Truth, and truth before all things, was the motto in her home, the lesson which from her babyhood had been taught to her by precept and by example; and the conscience which, in Hattie, was so easily put to sleep, would not let her rest. In vain did jealousy and ambition try to reconcile her to the act of dishonesty and meanness into which she had allowed herself to be drawn; in vain did she argue with herself that "it was all Hattie's fault;" she could not betray Hattie when she had done this just for her; or "there was no way of putting the mat back now; she could not help herself." Gracie sinned with her eyes open, and her conscience all alive to the wickedness of which she was guilty.

But her stubborn pride was beginning to give way in one point; for she had no mind to "lose the fun of the fair," as Hattie said,—though even the fair had lost some of its attraction with this weight upon her conscience,—and she resolved to send for her mother, and tell her she would ask Miss Ashton's pardon.

So when the long, weary afternoon had worn away, and Mrs. Howard came home, Gracie rang the bell, and sent a message begging her mother to come to her.

Mamma came thankfully; but one look at her little daughter's face was enough to convince her that she was in no softened mood, in no gentle and humbled spirit. It was with a sullen and still half-defiant manner that Gracie offered to do what was required of her; and her mother saw that it was fear of farther punishment, and not real sorrow and repentance, which moved her.

"I suppose I ought not to have spoken so, mamma," she answered, when her mother asked her if she did not see how very naughty she had been; "but Miss Ashton is so unjust, and Nellie provokes me so."

"How is Miss Ashton unjust?" asked Mrs. Howard.

Gracie fidgeted and pouted, knowing that her mother would not be willing to accept the charges she was ready to bring.

"She's always praising Nellie for every thing she does, mamma; and in these days she never gives me one word of praise, even when every one has to see that I do the best. And—and—I b'lieve she tries to make me miss, so Nellie can go above me in the classes."

"Gracie," said her mother, "you know that that last accusation is untrue. As for the first, if Miss Ashton is sparing of her praise, my daughter, it is because she knows it is hurtful to you. Nellie is a timid child, trying to do her best, but with little confidence in her own powers; and praise, while it encourages and helps her to persevere, does not make her vain or conceited. But Miss Ashton sees that that which is needful for Nellie is hurtful to you; for it only increases your foolish vanity and self-esteem, and it is for your own good that she gives you a smaller share. You have, unhappily, so good an opinion of yourself, Gracie, that praise not only makes you disagreeable, but disposes you to take less trouble to improve yourself. Let me hear no more of Miss Ashton's injustice. When you deserve it, or it does not hurt you, Miss Ashton is as ready to give praise to you as she is to another. You say you are willing to ask her pardon for your impertinence; but I fear that you do not really see your fault."

"Are you not going to let me come out, then, mamma?"

"Yes, since you promise to do as I say; but I fear you are in no proper spirit, Gracie, and that you will fall into further trouble unless you become more submissive and modest."

"Hattie was here this afternoon, mamma," said Gracie, as she followed her mother from the room.

"So I understood," said Mrs. Howard, who had been waiting for the confession, having been informed of the circumstance by the servant.

"I left my mat in school yesterday," said Gracie, "and she thought I would want it, and came to bring it back."

She spoke in a low tone and with downcast eyes; for Gracie was so unused to deceit that she could not carry it out boldly, as a more practised child might have done.

Something in her manner struck her mother, who turned and looked at her.

"Did Hattie bring you any message from Miss Ashton?" she asked.

"No, mamma: she only came about the mat; and she begged me to ask Miss Ashton's pardon," answered Gracie with the same hesitation.

But her mother only thought that the averted face and drooping look were due to the shame which she felt at meeting the rest of the family after her late punishment and disgrace.

"I told Hattie you would not wish her to stay with me, mamma; but she would not go right away, but I would not let her stay very long."

"I am glad you were so honest, dear," said Mrs Howard.

Honest! Gracie knew how little she deserved such a character, and her mother's praise made her feel more guilty than ever.

She was received with open arms by the other children; for Gracie was the eldest of the flock, and, in spite of her self-conceit, she was a kind little sister, and the younger ones quite shared her own opinion, thinking no child so good and wise as their Gracie. And they had missed her very much; so now they all treated her as if she had been ill or absent, and made much of her.

But for once Gracie could not enjoy this, and it only seemed to make her feel more ashamed and guilty. What would mamma say, what would all say if they only knew?

Mrs. Howard had told Gracie that she might either go to school early in the morning and make her apology to Miss Ashton before the other scholars came, or she might write to her this evening, and send the note to her teacher.

Gracie had chosen to do the last; but when the younger children had gone to bed, and she tried to write the note, she found she could not bring her mind to it. Her conscience was so troubled, and her thoughts so full of her guilty secret, that the words she needed would not come to her; and as her mother saw her sitting with her elbows upon the table, biting the end of her pencil or scrawling idly over her blotter and seeming to make no progress at all, she believed, and with reason, that Gracie was not truly repentant for what she had done, and had only promised to beg Miss Ashton's pardon in order that she might be released from the imprisonment of which she had tired. Gracie was not usually at a loss for ideas or words where she had any thing to write.

"I can't do it," she said pettishly at last, pushing paper and pencil from her. "I s'pose I'll have to go to Miss Ashton in the morning, and I b'lieve I'll go to bed now. Good-night, mamma."

And Gracie went to her room, wishing to escape from her own thoughts, and bring this miserable day to a close as soon as possible.

But the next morning it was no better; and now it seemed harder to go to Miss Ashton and speak than it would be to write. But it was too late now: she had no time to compose a note, "make it up" as she would have said, and to copy it before school, and she must abide by her choice of the previous night.

She started early for school, according to her mother's desire, with many charges from her to remember how grievously she had offended Miss Ashton, and to put away pride and self-conceit and make her apology in a proper spirit.

Had there not been that guilty secret fretting at Gracie's heart, she might have been induced to be more submissive; but, as it was, she felt so unhappy that it only increased her reluctance to make amends to Miss Ashton and acknowledge how wrong she had been.

She asked for her teacher at once when she reached the house, anxious to "have it over;" and, when the young lady appeared, blurted out, "I beg your pardon, Miss Ashton."

Miss Ashton sat down, and, taking Gracie's half-reluctant hand, drew her kindly towards her.

"It is freely granted, my dear," she said. "And are you truly sorry, Gracie?"

Gracie fidgeted and wriggled uneasily; but we who know what she had done can readily believe that it was more pride than a strict love of the truth which led her to say to herself that she was "not sorry," and "she could not tell a story by saying so."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am, and I won't do so again," she repeated, seeing that Miss Ashton waited for her answer.

Miss Ashton did not wish to force her to say that which she did not feel, and she saw that it was of no use to argue with her in her present stubborn mood; but she talked quietly and kindly to her, setting before her the folly and the wrong of the self-love and vanity which were ruling her conduct, and day by day spoiling all that was good and fair in her character.

"See what trouble they have brought you into now, Gracie," she said; "and unless you check them in time, my child, they will lead you deeper into sin. I scarcely know you for the same little girl who first came to me, so much have these faults grown upon you; and they are fast destroying all the affection and confidence of your school-fellows. Why, Gracie, I have heard one little girl say that 'Gracie thought so much of herself that it sometimes made her forget to be very true.'"

Gracie started. Was this the character her self-love was earning for her? she who desired to stand so high in all points with the world.

Ah! but it was for the praise of man, and not for the honor and glory of God that Gracie strove to outshine all others; and she walked by her own strength, and the poor, weak prop must fail her and would lay her low.

"Forget to be very true!"

How far she had done this, even Miss Ashton did not dream; but it seemed to Gracie that she had chosen her words to give her the deepest thrust, and she bowed her head in shame and fear.

But Miss Ashton, knowing nothing of what was passing in that guilty young heart, was glad to see this, and believed that her words were at last making some impression on Gracie, and that she was taking her counsel and reproof in a different spirit from that in which she generally received them.

Strange to say, in all the miserable and remorseful thoughts which had made her wretched since yesterday afternoon, it had not once entered her mind how she was to face Nellie when the poor child should make known the misfortune which had befallen her.

One by one the children came in, and how awkward Gracie felt in meeting them may readily be imagined by any one who has suffered from some similar and well-merited disgrace. Still she tried, as she whispered to Hattie she should do, to "behave as if nothing had happened;" and when little Belle, after looking at her wistfully for a moment as if undecided how to act, came up and kissed her, saying, "I'm glad to see you, Gracie," she answered rather ungraciously, "I'm sure it's not so very long since you saw me," and sent the dear little girl away feeling very much rebuffed.

And yet she really felt Belle's innocent friendliness, and her sweet attempt to make her welcome and at her ease; but pride would not let her show it.

Nellie was one of the last to arrive, and her troubled and woe-begone face startled Gracie and smote her to the heart.

"Such a dreadful thing has happened to me," said Nellie, when she was questioned by the other children; and the tears started to her eyes afresh as she spoke.

"What is it? What is it?" asked a number of eager voices.

"I don't know how it can have happened," said Nellie, hardly able to speak for the sobs she vainly tried to keep back. "I have been so, so careful; but there is an ugly spot like ink or something on my mat. I can't think how it ever came there, for I put it in my desk very carefully when school began yesterday, and did not take it out till I got home, and I did not know there was any ink near it. But when I unrolled it last evening the stain was there, and mamma thinks it is ink, and she cannot get it out. And I've taken such pains to keep the mat clean and nice."

And here poor Nellie's voice broke down entirely, while Gracie, feeling as if her self-command, too, must give way, opened her desk and put her head therein, with a horrible choking feeling in her throat.

"We'll all tell Mrs. Howard it came somehow through not any fault of yours," said Lily. "Never mind, Nellie, yours is the best mat, anyhow: we all know it;" and Lily cast a defiant and provoking glance at Gracie, which was quite lost upon the latter.

Lily had suggested on the day before, that when Gracie came back to school they should "all behave just as if nothing had happened," just what Gracie intended to do; but generous Lily had said it in quite a different spirit from that in which Gracie proposed it to herself.

But Gracie's rebuff to Belle, and the seeming indifference with which she treated Nellie's misfortune, roused Lily's indignation once more; for she thought, as did many of the other children, that Gracie did not feel sorry for Nellie's trouble, since it gave her the greater chance of having her own work pronounced the best.

"Yes, we will tell Mrs. Howard," said Dora Johnson: "yours was really the best mat of all, though Gracie's was almost as nice; and we will tell her something happened to it that you could not help, and perhaps she will not mind it."

"Perhaps a vase standing on it would cover the spot," said Laura Middleton.

Nellie shook her head.

"No," she said, "that would not make it any better. Mrs. Howard said that the best and neatest mat must take the highest premium, and mine is not the neatest now. I wouldn't feel comfortable to do any thing that was not quite fair, even if you all said I might."

"That was not quite fair!"

More and more ashamed, and feeling how far behind Nellie left her in honesty and fairness, Gracie still sat fumbling in her desk, looking for nothing.

"Well," said Dora, "we'll speak to Mrs. Howard about it, and see what she says: won't we, Gracie?"

Gracie muttered something which might mean either yes or no.

"Augh!" said Lily, "what do you talk to that proudy about it for? She don't care a bit. I b'lieve she's just glad and wouldn't help Nellie if she could."

Gracie made no answer: she was too miserable for words or to think of answering Lily's taunts, and she would have given up all thought of having any thing to do with the fair to have had Nellie's mat safely in her possession once more. Oh, if she had never yielded to temptation or to Hattie's persuasions!

"How you do act!" whispered Hattie to Gracie. "If you don't take care they will suspect something."

"I can't help it," returned Gracie in the same tone: "it is such an awful story that we have told."

"It is not a story," said Hattie; "we've neither of us said one word about the mat."

This was a new view of the matter; but it brought no comfort to Gracie's conscience She knew that the acted deceit was as bad as the spoken one, perhaps in this case even worse.

She felt as if she could not bear this any longer, as if she must tell, must confess what she had done; and yet—how? How could she lower herself so in the eyes of her schoolmates? she who had always held herself so high, been so scornful over the least meanness, equivocation, or approach to falsehood!

A more wretched little girl than Gracie was that morning it would have been hard to find; but her teacher and schoolmates thought her want of spirit arose from the recollection of her late naughtiness and the feeling of shame, and took as little notice of it as possible.

And Lily, repenting of her resentment when she saw how dull and miserable Gracie seemed, threw her arms about her neck as they were leaving school, and said, "Please forgive me my provokingness this morning, Gracie. I ought to be ashamed, and I am."

But Gracie could not return, scarcely suffer, the caress, and dared not trust herself to speak, as she thought how furious Lily's indignation would be if she but knew the truth.