The journal was a pretty little red book, which lay sometimes on the piano, sometimes on the centre-table, and was often opened innocently enough by callers. If it had been the simple, matter-of-fact little book that it ought to have been, the reading of it would have done no harm. But Mary had a habit of recording her emotions, also her opinions of her friends,—a bad habit, which she did not break off till it had nearly brought her into trouble.

“What does Fred Allen mean by calling me ‘Miss Fanny dear, with mouth stretched from ear to ear’?” asked Fanny Townsend, indignantly.

“How do you know he did?”

“Saw it in your journal. And you put a period after ‘Miss’! Needn’t accuse me of laughing, Flaxie Frizzle, when I happen to know that my mother considers you a great giggler, and dreads to have you come to our house.”

“Does she? Then I’ll stay away! And if I did put a period after ‘Miss’ it was a mistake. But I’ve no respect for people that read other people’s private journals!”

“Hope you don’t call that private. Why, I thought ’twas a Sabbath-school book, or I wouldn’t have touched it.” And whether she would or not, Fanny was obliged to laugh; so the breach was healed for the time. But after this Mary began a new journal, which she conducted on different principles, trying moreover to keep it in its proper place in her writing-desk.

There were secret signs and mysterious allusions in this new journal, however, the letters “C. C.” recurring again and again in all sorts of places, without any apparent meaning or connection. She evidently enjoyed scribbling them, and no harm was done, since nobody but “we girls” knew what they meant. “C. C.” was a precious secret, which we may pry into for ourselves by-and-by.

Mary was now in her thirteenth year, and though she still enjoyed hanging May-baskets, driving hoops, skipping the rope, and even playing dolls, her growing mind was never idle. She enjoyed her lessons at school, for she memorized with ease; she liked to draw; but sitting at the piano was a weariness; and she considered it a trial that, in addition to her own practising, she should be expected to teach and superintend Ethel. She was strict with her little pupil, and found frequent occasion for sermonettes, but Ethel got on famously, and Mary received and deserved high praise as teacher.

She missed her cousin Fred when he went home at last, not to return, but she told Lady Fotheringay (Blanche Jones) in confidence that she “could improve her mind better when he was gone.” Moreover, Preston would soon be home for his summer vacation.

She was beginning to question what she was made for. Something grand and wonderful, no doubt; something much better than studying, reading, sewing, and doing errands. There were times when this favored child of fortune even said to herself that life was hard, and that her mother was over-strict in requiring her to mend her clothes and do a stint of some sort of sewing on Saturdays. Wasn’t she old enough yet to have outgrown stints?

“Why can’t pillow-cases be hemmed by machine?” complained she to Ethel. “And there you are,—almost six years old, with not a thing to do! I can tell you I used to sew patchwork at your age by the yard! C. C. I keep saying that over to comfort myself, Ethel, but you don’t know what it stands for. Oh no, not chocolate candy; better than that!—Wish I lived at the south, where colored servants do everything. There’s Grandma Hyde now; if we had her black Venus, and her black Mary, and her yellow Thomas, I shouldn’t have to dust parlors and run of errands! Mamma is always talking to me about being useful. Little girls are never talked to in that way; it’s we older girls who have to bear all the brunt. It tires me to death to sew, sew, sew! Now it’s such fun to run in the woods. Mr. Lee says we ought to admire nature, and I’m going after flag-root this afternoon instead of mending my stockings—I think it’s my duty!”

As Mary rattled on in this way, little Ethel listened most attentively. Her sister Flaxie stood as a pattern to her of all the virtues,—ah, if Flaxie had but known it!—and she looked forward to the time when she should be exactly like her, with just such curls, and just that superior way of lecturing little people. It was not worth while to be any better than Flaxie. If Flaxie objected to sewing and mending, Ethel would object to it also.

“If my mamma ever makes me sit on a chair to sew patchwork, I’ll go South! If she makes me mend stockings, I’ll go in the woods! I won’t be useful if Flaxie isn’t; no indeedy!”

Thus while Flaxie’s sermonettes were forgotten, her chance words and her example took deep hold of the little one’s mind.

Everybody said Mary was growing up a sweet girl, more “lovesome” and womanly than had once been expected. In truth Mary thought so herself. Plenty of well-meaning but injudicious people had told her she was pretty; and she knew that Mrs. Lee liked to look at her face because it was so “expressive,” and Mrs. Patten because it was so “thoughtful,” and somebody else because it was so “intelligent.” Ethel had a figure like a roly-poly pudding; but Mary was tall and slight, and even Mrs. Prim admitted that she was “graceful.”

One Sunday morning early in May she sat in church, apparently paying strict attention to the sermon, but really thinking.

“I dare say, now, Mrs. Townsend is looking at me, and wishing Fanny were more like me. Nobody else of my age sits as still as I do, except Sadie Stockwell, and she has a stiff spine. There’s Major Patten, I remember he said once to father, ‘Dr. Gray, your second girl is a child to be proud of.’ I know he did, for I was coming into the room and heard him.”

Directly after morning services came Sunday school, and Mary was in Mrs. Lee’s class. Mrs. Lee was an enthusiastic young woman, fond of all her scholars, but it was easy to see that Mary was her prime favorite. Mrs. Gray’s class of boys—Phil being the youngest—sat in the next seat. The lesson to-day was short, and after recitation Mrs. Lee showed her own class and Mrs. Gray’s some pictures which her uncle had brought her from China.

“What is that queer thing?” said Fanny, as she and Mary touched bonnets over one of the pictures.

“That is called a baby-tower. My uncle says it is a good representation of the dreadful place they drop girl-babies into sometimes. You know girls are lightly esteemed in heathen countries.”

“Drop girl-babies into it?” asked Blanche Jones. “Doesn’t it hurt them?”

“Not much, I believe; but it kills them.”

“Oh, Mrs. Lee!” It was Mary who spoke, in tones of horror.

“The tower is half full of lime, and the lime stops their breath. So I presume they hardly suffer at all.”

Mary’s eyes were full of tears, and she sprang up eagerly, exclaiming,—

“Oh, Mrs. Lee! Oh, mamma, did you hear that? I declare, it’s too bad! Can’t the missionaries stop their killing babies so?”

“You sweet child,” said Mrs. Lee.

But Mrs. Gray only said,—

“Yes, my daughter, the missionaries are doing their best; but everything can’t be done in a day.”

“But it ought to be done this very minute, mamma.”

Mary’s whole face glowed; and Mrs. Lee, who sat directly in front of her, could not refrain from leaning over the pew and kissing her.

“We ought to bring more money, seems to me,” suggested good, moon-faced Blanche Jones, pressing her fat hands together.

“Yes, a cent every Sunday is too little,” said one of Mrs. Gray’s little boys.

“Yes, a cent is too little,” agreed Fanny Townsend earnestly.

“How thoughtless we’ve been,” said Mary, in high excitement. “For my part, I mean to give those Chinese every cent of my pin-money this month. Do you care if I do, mamma?”

“No; you have my full consent. Only do not make up your mind in a hurry,” replied Mrs. Gray; but her manner was cold in comparison with Mrs. Lee’s cordial hand-shake and “God bless you, my precious girl.”

“I’m a real pet with Mrs. Lee,” thought Mary, her heart throbbing high.

Blanche, Fanny, and the two older girls in the class,—Sadie Patten and Lucy Abbott,—were silent. They knew that Mary’s pin-money amounted to four dollars a month, and though they had thought of doing something themselves, this brilliant offer discouraged them at once: they could not make up their minds to anything so munificent.

Going home that noon, Mary “walked on thorns,” though she tried to be humble. By the next day, her feelings toward the Chinese had undergone a slight chill; and when her mother alluded to Captain Emerson—Mrs. Lee’s uncle—and his pictures, Mary did not care to converse on the subject. She even felt a pang of regret at the recollection of her hasty promise. Those girl-babies were far off now; she could not see them in imagination, as at first. Days passed, and the poor things were fading out of mind, buried deep in the lime of the tower.

“My daughter,” said Mrs. Gray, on Saturday, “let me see your portmonnaie.” It contained three dollars and a half now. Mrs. Gray counted the bills. “Have you any especial use for this money, Mary?”

“I don’t know. Would you buy those stereoscopic views of Rome and the Alps that Mr. Snow said I could choose from different sets?”

Mrs. Gray smiled quietly.

“What good will the views do the babies in China?”

There was a sudden droop of Mary’s head.

“Why, mamma, as true as you live I forgot all about those babies; I really did! You see, mamma, I didn’t stop to think last Sunday. Must I give all my money to Mrs. Lee—three dollars and a half?”

“To Mrs. Lee? I was under the impression that you were to give it to the missionaries to convert the Chinese.”

“Oh, yes, but I said it to Mrs. Lee; the missionaries don’t know anything about it.”

“So it seems,” returned Mrs. Gray dryly; “you said it to Mrs. Lee merely to please her.” Mary’s head sank still lower. “Well, you might ask Mrs. Lee to let you off, my daughter.”

“But, mamma, how it would look to go to her and ask that! I couldn’t!”

“Then you’ll be obliged to give the money,” responded Mrs. Gray unfeelingly. How easily she might have said, “Never mind, Mary, I will see Mrs. Lee and arrange it for you.” And she was usually a thoughtful, obliging mother. Mary pressed the bills together in her hand, spread them out tenderly, gazed at them as if she loved them. It was a large sum, and looked larger through her tears.

“I can’t ask Mrs. Lee to let me off; you know I can’t, mamma. I’d rather lose the money!”

“Lose the money!” So that was the way she regarded it! A strange sort of benevolence surely!

“Take heed, therefore, that ye do not your alms before men to be seen of them; otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.” This was Mr. Lee’s text next day.

“Oh, that means me,” groaned Mary inwardly. “I’ve been seen of Mrs. Lee, and I’ve been seen of Blanche and Fanny and the other girls; and that’s just what I did it for, and not for the people in China! Oh, dear! oh, dear! to think what a humbug I am!”