But this was soon lost sight of in the new interest of the duckling; and Mamie was speedily taken into the secret.

She was pleased with this addition to the afternoon's entertainment, and therefore did not express the disapprobation which Mabel had rather looked for, saying "nothing hateful," but becoming as eager as the other children to give the poor little bird his first "lesson in swimming." In fact, I am afraid that all four intensely enjoyed this bit of mischief,—the outwitting of Mrs. Clark being considered a great triumph, and quite a feat on Mabel's part.

And now they felt secure from interference. Lulu could not be brought here upon the rocks, and her nurse must keep her above on the bank; and the maids who attended Mabel and the little Gordons, having made their charges promise not to leave the broad, flat rock where they were quite safe, had preferred to join her, and keep an eye upon the children from a little distance. No one else was near, save some strangers seated upon a ledge above them; and now, closing around the pool, they were ready for "such fun."

Stooping down to the tiny sheet of water, Mabel at last hastily withdrew her hand from beneath her skirt, and gently dropped the duckling into it.

But instead of seeming to enjoy his introduction to the new element, and beginning to swim fearlessly about, as some of the children knew young ducks usually do, he rolled over on his side with drooping head and wings, and lay floating helplessly on the water, the only motion he made being a feeble opening and shutting of his bill, as though gasping for air.

"What a stupid little duck!" said Mamie. "He ought to swim right away. Once I saw a whole litter of ducklings go right in the water, and swim as well as the big ducks. Here, sir! get up and swim."

And she lifted the duckling's head with her finger, and tried to put him in an upright position; but the instant she let him go he fell over again.

"You naughty, lazy thing!" said Mabel. "Now you've got to swim, sir, so you may as well do it. Here, let's poke him with this stick."

"I think there's something the matter with him," said Julia. "He looks kind of flabby and sick; don't you think he does?"

"Oh, yes! look at his eyes; they're growing all white," said Mamie.

"Take him out of the water," said Alice. "You, Mabel; he's yours."

But if the duckling were sick or ailing, Mabel had no desire to claim him. She was frightened now, and the words of the other children added to her alarm.

"What have you done to him, Mabel?" asked Julia.

"I didn't do any thing," she answered snappishly; "and you shan't say I did."

"Was he this way when you found him?" asked Alice, lifting the duck out of the water.

"I don't know," pouted Mabel. "No, he wasn't; 'cause he wiggled and squirmed so I could hardly hold him at first."

"I expect you've hurt him then," said Mamie. "You ought to be ashamed to touch him."

Alas, poor little Wagtail! As Alice laid him upon the rock he fluttered his wings feebly, stretched out his feet, gasped once more, and lay quite motionless. No wonder that he had, at last, lain "quiet and good" in the thoughtless little hand which had grasped him so tightly to still his "wiggling."

"O Mabel! you have hurt him. He's dead, I believe," said Julia in a tone of horrified distress.

Thoroughly ashamed and sorry now that she believed herself to have done such fearful mischief, Mabel raised a doleful cry which speedily brought her own nurse and the maid of the little Gordons to inquire into the cause of the trouble.

The story was told by Julia, for Mabel could not make herself understood; but, to the surprise of all the children, it was looked upon as a good joke by both the women, who laughed immoderately when they heard it.

Nannette, knowing that she would be called to account if Mabel appeared with red eyes and swollen cheeks, hastened to soothe and comfort her little mistress, telling her she need not be troubled, since her mamma would make good the loss of the duckling to Mrs. Clark, and would not let the latter scold her.

But Mabel was hard to be comforted. She felt as if she had been cruel as well as naughty, and it made her very uncomfortable to think that the poor little bird had come to its death in her hands. Though wilful and rather selfish, she was a tender-hearted child where pain or suffering was concerned, and now it was with a kind of sick horror that she shuddered and cried over her work. So great was her distress that even Mamie, forgetting the smothered ill-will between them, tried to console her, but all in vain; and she made such an ado that it attracted the attention of the party on the rock beyond them, and one of the ladies rose and came towards them.

"What is the trouble? Can I be of any help here?" she asked in a kind voice. Then seeing the dead bird, she added, "Ah! I see, your duckling is dead. How did it come, my dear?" laying her hand on Mabel's head.

Mabel had ceased her cries at sound of the strange voice, but she did not speak; and Mamie answered for her.

"She killed it herself, ma'am. She didn't mean to, but then she had no business to touch it."

At this indisputable but unpleasant truth, Mabel broke out again, having first relieved her feelings by making her "very ugliest face" at Mamie for "telling tales of her." Then turning to the lady, she said with a heavy sob, "Indeed, I didn't mean to hurt it, ma'am; indeed, I didn't."

"I am sure you did not," said the lady soothingly, sitting down on the rock beside Mabel. "But where did the duckling come from? Was it yours?"

No; there was an added trouble. Mabel did not speak, but hung her head; while Julia, after a moment's hesitation, answered,—

"No, ma'am, it was not hers; it was not any of ours. It was Mrs. Clark's, a very cross woman who keeps the house where we board; and I s'pose Mabel is afraid of her too. I know I would be."

"There's no need of saying any thing about it to Mrs. Clark, I'm thinking," said the nurse of the little Gordons. "Put it under the bank where you found it, Miss Mabel, and she'll never know."

The lady looked with grave eyes at Mabel, as if watching her to see if she would listen to such wrong advice. Neither Mabel nor the other children noticed this; but she was pleased to see the former shake her head decidedly, as she answered, sobbing,—

"No, no, I wouldn't do that. I'll have to tell. Once I hid something, and didn't tell I did it,—Belle and Lily knew about it, and Mamie too,—and it made me such a lot of trouble; and I'm never going to not tell again. But I don't care for that old Mrs. Clark. Papa won't let her scold me. But, oh, dear! I wish I hadn't squeezed the poor little duck; I wish I hadn't! I never thought he'd go and kill himself just for that. I squeezed him pretty softly too. Oh, dear! and I meant to put him back safely, too, when we had done swimming him."

And looking confidingly up in the lady's sweet, sympathizing face, Mabel told the whole story of the finding of the duckling beneath the currant bush, and how she had brought him away.

"I am glad, dear," said the lady, when Mabel had finished, "that you have made up your mind to confess what you have done, and not to attempt to hide it. I believe you acted without thought, and perhaps did not intend to do any thing very naughty; but you would make a little wrong a great wrong by trying to hide it."

"Yes," said Mamie to herself, "and God would know it anyway, for 'the eyes of the Lord are in every place,' and He sees whatever we do; so He saw Mabel take that little duck."

Mamie had been somewhat mindful of Lily's reproof since the last day they were here, and was more careful how she took the words of the Bible heedlessly upon her lips; but I am sorry to say she was rather more anxious to test the conduct of others by her watchword than she was her own, unless indeed she imagined herself particularly well-behaved and virtuous; when she would feel as if she was laying up a very good account for herself in the eyes of her Maker.

She almost started; for it seemed as if the stranger lady must have read her thoughts when the latter said to Mabel,—

"And even if you had hidden this from us all, dear, you know there is one Eye from which you could not hide it; an Eye which sees even the very wish to do wrong, and you could not have been comfortable or happy knowing that, could you?"

"No, ma'am," said Mabel, recalling the misery of the time she had spoken of; the time when she had taken a locket belonging to her Cousin Belle, not with the intention of keeping it, it is true; but when she knew Belle did not wish her even to touch it, and the locket had mysteriously disappeared, and so she had been brought into great trouble and disgrace for a time. "Yes, ma'am, and I'm always going to tell, always."

There is no saying how far the consciousness that her father and mother would shield her from blame, and make good the loss to Mrs. Clark, went to support Mabel's resolution to confess all; but as she was by no means a deceitful or dishonest child, we will hope that she would have made this amends, even with the prospect of a severe scolding as the consequence.

So perhaps the lady's words made less impression on her than they did upon Mamie, on whose conscience they smote unpleasantly, as she could not help feeling that, in her heart, there was the wish, and even the half-formed intention, to do wrong if opportunity should offer.

"And now what will you do with the poor little duckling?" said the lady, taking the dead bird in her hand, and smoothing its downy back. "Shall we let one of the women toss it away in the waves?"

"Oh, no, ma'am!" said Mabel; "don't you think I ought to give it back to Mrs. Clark, even if it is dead? She might want to have it stuffed and put under a glass shade like a canary of mine that died, and papa had him stuffed for me."

The lady could hardly keep back a smile at the idea of the ugly little duck preserved beneath a glass shade, like some rare and valued pet; but she only said, approvingly,—

"Very well; perhaps you are right to wish to give it back to the owner."

"And if Mrs. Clark don't want him any more we might have a grand funeral for him, and bury him to-morrow," said Julia Gordon.

"Oh, I hope she won't want him," said Mabel, rather cheered by the prospect of funeral honors to her victim.

"Would you like," said the lady, "that I should tell you a thing which happened to me when I was a little girl?"

"Yes'm," said Mabel, brightening afresh at the suggestion; and in the eager faces which were turned towards her the kind stranger saw that her offer met with general approval. Our little friends, like most children, were always ready for a story.

"When I was a child," she began, "I was not the best-behaved one in the world. I do not think I meant to be very naughty, but I was thoughtless and wilful, perhaps a little obstinate when I had once made up my mind to do or have a thing; and although I had a good, wise, and tender mother, I was impatient of contradiction even from her. As to my brothers and sisters, all older than I was, I would not listen to the least advice or interference from them.

"I was about ten years old, and we were spending the summer, as usual, at my grandfather's country-seat up in the mountains. On the side of the hill, at a short distance from grandpapa's, were the farm-house, dairy, orchard, and kitchen-garden; and all these I thought much more amusing places than the house, lawn, and flower-garden where I properly belonged, and where my mother generally preferred to have me play. For there were more ways and places for me to get into mischief down at the farm than there were at the house; and I am afraid mother knew very well that my heedlessness and self-will led me often to do the thing I wished rather than the thing that was right. Still I was not forbidden to go to the farm; and, so long as my brothers or sisters were with me, she never objected.

"The thing of all others which attracted me most at the farm was a half-grown black kitten. Mother could not bear cats, so we never had one at home, or at grandpapa's; but up at the farm-house, I could amuse myself by the hour with this playful little creature, which grew very fond of me.

"One morning we had some young visitors; and of course we must show them all the beauties and curiosities of the place. Among them was the orchard, although the apples there were as yet hardly larger than nuts.

"As we were passing through it one of my brothers spied a nest in a tree.

"'Hallo, Annie!' he said, 'there's a nest. I'll bring it down for you if you want it.'

"I did want it; but one of my sisters begged Will to make sure that it was empty.

"'Oh, it must be empty; it's too late for birds to be in it,' said Will, who like myself was rather headstrong and heedless; and raising a whip he carried, he whisked the lash over and around the nest.

"Ah! the nest was not empty, though it really was late in the season for the young ones; and, the next moment, a beautiful bird fell fluttering at our feet, its wing broken by the blow from Will's whip, while its mate flew from the nest, terrified almost out of her life.

"A more crestfallen, distressed being than Will it would have been hard to find; for he was very tender-hearted, and would not hurt a living thing purposely. We were all much disturbed, and at once set about doing all we could for the poor little sufferer. My eldest brother bound up its wing as well as he was able, and we brought some hay with which Will climbed the tree, and made a bed in a forked branch near the nest. He said there were four half-fledged birds in the nest, and was more disturbed than ever at the mischief he had done. But he promised himself and us that he would care for parent-birds as well as nestlings, as long as either should need it; knowing that the poor little mother would have too much to do to feed both husband and children.

"Brother Ned handed up the wounded bird, and Will put it carefully in the bed he had made for it; after which, the rest of us went on, and left him digging a supply of worms which he intended to put in a convenient place, as a store from which the mother-bird might help herself without the trouble of looking for them. He was still quite quiet and out of spirits when he joined us at the dairy some half-hour later, though he told us the mother-bird had returned, and her poor mate had eaten a caterpillar placed handy for him.

"That afternoon my sister Rosa and I went up to the orchard with Will to see about his birds, and carry them food and water.

"As we passed the door of the farm-house, Blackie, the kitten, came running out to see us, and I took her up in my arms to take her with me.

"'Don't bring that cat,' said Will. 'She might get at the birds.'

"'No, she won't. I shan't let her,' I answered.

"'But she might,' said Rosa; 'she's so quick and active, she'd be up the tree before you knew it.'

"'No, she shan't,' I repeated positively; 'I'll keep her in my arms all the time, and I'm going to take her.'

"And though Will begged me, and was even angry about it, I persisted in taking the cat with me.

"And I did keep her fast in my arms, although she struggled to be free, and even scratched me severely when she saw, as she immediately did, what Will was at.

"He found the little creature somewhat better than when he had left it in the morning, and it was quite tame, fluttering but little when he climbed the tree, and almost taking the worm he offered from his hand. He supplied it with all it needed, and came down as soon as possible, as the mother-bird had again flown from the nest when he came near.

"How kitty's eyes gleamed and sparkled, and how fiercely she struggled in my arms! It was all I could do to keep my hold; and I was so afraid that she would escape in spite of me, that I was sorry that I had not listened to my sister and brother and left her behind.

"But at last we were ready to go; and when I put puss down at the farm-house door, I relieved my feelings and visited my own obstinacy on her by giving her two or three good cuffs. It never came into the mind of any one of us as she scampered away and hid beneath the stoop, that she might find her way back to the nest by herself, or of all the mischief she would work there.

"You may be very sure that the first thing to be thought of in the morning was the helpless birds up in the orchard; and directly after breakfast Will and I went over to the farm. As we passed the house-door, kitty came frisking out to me, as usual; but mindful of the trouble I had had with her the day before, I bade her stay at home.

"All in vain, however; puss was determined to follow. Whether she guessed where we were going or no, I cannot tell; but it really seemed as if she did, and, feeling guilty, wanted to be on the spot when we discovered her cruelty. Come she would, although Will threw stones at her, and I beat her with a stick, and chased her back many times; we would take only a few steps onwards, and there she was after us again. At last Will turned an empty barrel over her, put a stone on top of it, and there we left her mewing piteously.

"But we might have let her come on; the mischief was done. When we reached the tree, what destruction was there! The lame bird was gone from his bed of hay, and a few bright feathers scattered about told what his fate had been; the nest hung, torn and ragged, empty of its young inhabitants; while the mother-bird was flying wildly to and fro, wheeling round and round her ruined home, and uttering piteous, mournful notes.

"Will looked at me, and I at him; but for the moment, neither of us could find words for the thought that was in both our minds; but if the painful truth had needed to be made plainer, it was done so at that instant by puss, who sprang suddenly forward, and pounced on something among the long grass beneath the tree. Will was upon her like a flash, and with some difficulty succeeded in taking her prey from her. It was one of the nestlings, but quite dead and stiff. Perhaps he had been killed by a fall from the tree when the cat attacked his home, or perhaps her cruel claws had crushed the life out of him when she had gorged herself upon his father and brothers, and could eat no more.

"Will, great boy though he was, could not keep back his tears, and vowed all manner of vengeance on puss for the destruction of his adopted family. As for me, I was heart-broken, for I could not but feel that it was all my fault; and while poor pussy had only followed her own natural instincts in destroying the birds, I had been obstinate and wilful, and so brought about such a sad thing; for if I had not carried the cat there, she would probably not have discovered the nest.

"And I am forced to believe that Will made good his word in the most severe manner; for from that day I never saw kitty again, although I went to the farm as often as before; but I never had the courage to ask any questions, feeling quite sure that puss and birds had all come to a violent death through my obstinacy."

"Is that all, ma'am?" asked Mabel, when the lady had ceased speaking.

"That is all," she answered; "and, judging from your grave little faces, I should think it was enough."

"Oh, we like it very much, and we are sorry it is finished," Julia hastened to say.

"Yes," said Mabel with a long sigh; "and I think that story is rather a comfort."

"How so?" asked the lady.

"'Cause it's nice to know you could be naughty once when you are so good now."

"How do you know I am good now, or that I have improved any since I was a child?" said the lady smilingly.

"I should think you must be good when you are so kind to us," answered Mabel, slipping her hand confidingly into that of her new friend.

"Well, perhaps I may have improved in the way of believing others could be as wise as myself, and in giving up my own will now and then," said the lady; "for that was a severe lesson to me."

"But how did the pussy get out from the barrel?" asked Mamie.

"Oh! I forgot that. Some one of the family had heard her mewing, and let her out, not knowing of any particular reason why she should be kept a prisoner."

Then she bade the children good-by, and leaving them to their play went back to her own friends.