In spite of all Dotty had said about her own innocence, she felt so guilty that she was ready to sentence herself to the “penitential.”

“Well, little one, how have things gone to-day?”

So said her father; for at the table she sat gazing mournfully at a piece of sponge cake.

“I don’t know, papa. May I have a new slate? ’cause I’ve broke mine across the middle.”

Mrs. Parlin, as well as her husband, noticed Dotty’s sorrowful face; but she made no remark till she went up stairs to put the child to bed. Then she took her into her own chamber, and seating herself in a sewing-chair, before the fire, drew Dotty into her lap. Nothing was said; but the little girl understood the action very well.

“Yes’m, I did do wrong. How’d you know it, mamma?”

After this she hid her face, and the two sat in silence for several moments, Mrs. Parlin holding Dotty’s hand, and gently stroking it.

“Mamma, ’twas Tate Penny made me do it. Won’t you please to not let me sit with Tate?”

“What did she make you do?”

“Made me tell a ’normous story, big as a house.”

“You can’t mean a lie?”

“Yes’m; I didn’t say a lie, but did a lie; did it with my hand.”

“What do you mean, Dotty?”

“I held it up, mamma, same’s to say, I never; but I did, and the alum hadn’t kept me from it; not a bit.”

The little girl was quivering all over with agitation.

“By and by, when you can talk better, you may tell me what you did with your hand, and what you mean by the alum.”

“O, dear, mamma! I’m all choked up, and can’t talk; but ’tisn’t my alum, ’cause that didn’t do a thing to my tongue. Norah gave me some as big as the end of a slate pencil; but it never did a thing to my tongue. I could talk as fast as I could speak. But I wouldn’t, and I didn’t; and then Tate made me most shake my neck off; till bimeby I didn’t care, and the teacher didn’t care either. It’s against the rule; but there she sits in the desk,—Miss Parker does,—and don’t hear anything, only when she’s hearing classes and things; and then never looks anywhere, only right at the Reader, and picks a place in her neck.”

“Don’t talk quite so fast, dear, and then I shall understand you better.”

“I said, mamma, she don’t see us break the rules, ’thout she’s walking up the aisle, or sometimes when she looks up quick out of a book. She says it’s against the rules to whisper; but we do, and she likes us just the same; only if we don’t put up our hand she don’t like us, and don’t praise us. I don’t want her a-praising me, not when I’ve been naughty—should you, mamma? But Tate does. Tate held up her hand, and I didn’t mean to; but the first thing I knew, I—I—”

“Why, Dotty!”

“Well, I shouldn’t, not if Tate hadn’t! ’Twas wicked; ’twas lying one to another, mamma; but Tate has done it five hundred million times! She’s a worse girl’n I am. O, dear me!”

“I cannot stop now to talk of Tate Penny,” said Mrs. Parlin; “we must attend first to Dotty Dimple.”

“Yes’m. I knew you’d ’tend to me. I don’t b’lieve Tate’s mother ’tends to her. I don’t s’pect Tate knows much about the Bible, p’raps. Isn’t it awful?”

Dotty picked away at the tidy on the back of the chair with an air of unconcern; but Mrs. Parlin observed that her mouth was twitching at the corners.

“Dotty!”

“Yes’m.”

“You seem very anxious to set Tate Penny right. She has told a wrong story: what ought she to do about it?”

Dotty hung her head.

“Don’t you know?”

“Yes’m.”

“If she should say to her teacher, ‘Miss Parker, I’ve deceived you; I’m sorry,’ would that be enough?”

“No, mamma; and she wouldn’t say so—Tate wouldn’t.”

“But why wouldn’t it be enough, Dotty?”

“O, ’cause, mamma, it isn’t Miss Parker she’s ’bused.”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“Why, ’twas somebody else—’twas—God.”

By this time Dotty’s head was on her mother’s bosom.

“Then you think Tate has offended her heavenly Father?”

“Yes’m, I do.”

“Why do you think so?”

“O, ’cause He put it in the Bible that she mustn’t tell a lie.”

“Yes, dear.”

“And He went and put it in another place, too,” added Dotty, laying her hand on her left side; “right in here.”

“True, my child.”

“He put a whisper right into her heart, mamma. She can’t hear it, but she can feel it, just like a watch ticking; and it says, ‘Please, Tate, don’t you tell a lie!’”

“Very well, Dotty. I am glad to see that you understand it so clearly. And now that Tate has disobeyed this whisper, what must she do?”

“Be sorry.”

“Is that enough?”

“You know the rest, mamma.”

“But tell, me, dear, as if I did not know.”

“Ask God to forgive her,” replied Dotty, with her lips close to her mother’s sleeve.

“Then what must Dotty Dimple do? Hasn’t she, too, been a naughty girl?”

The child slid out of Mrs. Parlin’s lap, and knelt before her on the rug.

“O, mamma,” said she, in a choked voice, “I’m afraid He won’t forgive me.”

“Are you sorry you did wrong?”

“Yes’m, I am. And ’twasn’t Tate Penny made me; ’twas me did it myself.”

“That is right, Dotty; so it was.”

“But I won’t hold up my hand again, ’thout it’s to put my hair behind my ears. I won’t do it to purpose—no, indeed!”

“Then, Dotty, you need not be afraid. ‘If we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us.’”

“Certain true, will He, mamma?”

“Yes, dear; we may always be sure of it.”

Dotty sighed heavily.

“But you see, mamma, I knew I was doing a lie, and I did it to purpose.”

“It was a great sin, my child; mother wouldn’t say it wasn’t. But if you are sorry, and tell God so, He is so ‘faithful and just,’ that He will certainly forgive you. He says He will.”

Dotty paused a moment, while a look of relief passed over her troubled face, then whispered, brokenly,—

“O, our Father, please will you forgive me? ’Twas me did it—not Tate; and I did it to purpose; but I’m so sorry, and don’t ever mean to do it again. For Christ’s sake, Amen!”