One night the children clustered about their aunt Madge, begging for a story.

"Fairy, you know," said Susy.

"A fairy story?" repeated aunt Madge. "I don't know about that. I told a little boy a fairy story once, and he went right off and whispered to his mother that I was a very wicked lady, for that story wasn't true, not a bit; and if a baby six months old should hear it, he wouldn't believe a word of it!"

"Poh! he was a smart boy," cried Horace.

"So I am afraid to tell fairy stories since that, for I don't like to be called a wicked lady, you know."

"There, now, auntie," said Susy, "don't you s'pose we know they're only play-stories? Just as if we hadn't a speck of sense!"

"Well, let me see," said aunt Madge, covering her eyes with her fingers. "Once upon a time when the moon was full——"

"Full of what?" said Prudy, who was leaning on the arm of her auntie's chair, and peeping up into her face, "full of fairies?"

"When the moon was round, my child," said auntie, stroking the little one's hair. "But wait. I'll tell a story Prudy can understand—wouldn't you, my dears? When I was a little girl——"

"That's right," cried the children. "O, tell about that."

"Was you about as big as me?" said Prudy, "and was your name little Madge?"

"Yes, they called me little Madge sometimes, and sometimes Maggie. When I was about as old as our Susy, I happened to go into the back-room one day, and saw uncle Edward's hatchet lying on the meat-block. I knew I had no right to touch it, but it came into my head that I would try to break open the clams. The hatchet, instead of cracking the shells, came down with full force on my foot! I had on thick boots, but it cut through my right boot deep into the bone. O, how I screamed!"

"I should have thought you would, auntie," cried Grace, fairly turning pale. "Did it bring the blood?"

"Yes, indeed! Why, when I went into the kitchen, my footsteps were tracked with little pools of blood, oozing out of my boot. Sister Maria screamed out,—'O, look at Maggie! She's cut her foot with that hatchet!'"

"'No, no, I haven't,' said I, for I was frightened almost to death, and afraid of being punished for disobedience. You see father had forbidden us little ones ever to touch the hatchet."

"Why, you told a right up and down——fib," said Susy, looking shocked.

"A real whopper," said Horace, shaking his head.

"So I did, children, and before my story is done you shall see what misery my sin caused me."

"Did Mr. 'Gustus Allen know about it?" asked little Prudy.

"I guess not," replied aunt Madge, blushing. "He lived ever so far off then."

"O dear," sighed Prudy, "I wish he hadn't gone to the wars. How it made you cry!"

"Hush up, please, can't you, Prudy?" said Susy. "Aunt Madge is telling a story."

"Well, they sent for the doctor in great haste, and then tried to pull off my boot; but my foot was so badly swollen, and bleeding so fast, that it took a great while. I can't tell how long, for I fainted. When the doctor saw the wound they said he looked very sober."

"'So, so, little girl,' said he (that was after I came to myself), 'you thought you'd make me a good job while you were about it. There's no half-way work about you. You are the child that had the tip of a finger clipped off in the corn-sheller, hey?'"

"I was always afraid of Dr. Foster, so I only buried my face in my apron, and cried."

"'She must have brought the hatchet down with a great deal of force,' said the doctor. 'See, Mrs. Parlin, how deep it went into the bone.'"

"'I fell and hit my foot,' I sobbed out. 'I never touched the hatchet!'"

"I knew well enough that the doctor didn't believe me."

"'So, so,' said he. 'Very well, never mind how 'twas done, but keep your foot still, little one, and we'll talk about the hatchet another time. Mrs. Parlin, if it goes to bleeding again, be sure to send for me.'"

"It was ever so long before I could walk a step. Every time any body spoke of my hurt, I said, 'Why, I was just coming into the house with those clams, and my foot slipped, and I fell and hit me on something. I don't know whether it was a hatchet or a stick of wood; but I never touched the hatchet!'"

"There, I shouldn't have thought that of you, auntie," said Grace.

"Poh!" cried Horace, "they must have known you was a-foolin'; of course they did!"

"Well, every time the doctor came to see me, he laughed and asked me how I cut my foot."

"'Just the same as I did in the first place, you know,' said I. 'I don't know nothing about it, only I never touched the hatchet!'"

"'Well,' he would answer, 'you remember the old saying, A lie well stuck to, is better than the truth wavering.'"

"I didn't know what that meant, but he laughed so that I knew he was making sport of me. I knew nobody believed me. The hatchet had been found red with blood, and mother looked, O, so sad! but I had told that falsehood so many times that it did seem as if I hadn't any courage left to tell the truth. It had grown to be very easy to keep saying, I never touched the hatchet.'"

"Makes me think of that play, 'My father's lost his hatchet,'" whispered Susy to Grace.

"Every one tried to amuse me while I was sick, but there was always a thorn in my pillow."

"A thorn?" said Prudy.

"Not a real thorn, dear. I mean I had told a wrong story, and I couldn't feel happy."

Here Susy turned away her head and looked out of the window, though she saw nothing there but grandpa coming in from the garden with a watering-pot.

"Whenever father looked at me, I felt just as if he was thinking, 'Margaret doesn't tell the truth;' and when mother spoke my name quick, I was afraid she was going to say something about the hatchet."

"I got well, only I limped a little. Then it was almost time to think of making presents for the Christmas tree. I didn't like to have Christmas come while I was feeling so. People are so good that day, I thought. That is the time when every body loves you, and spends money for you. I wanted to confess, and feel clean; but then I had told that lie over so many times that I thought I couldn't take it back."

"I talked it over with myself a great while though, and at last said I, 'I will; I'll do it!' First, I asked God to forgive me and help me, and when I had got as far as that, the thing was half done, children."

"I went into the parlor where your grandfather was—he wasn't deaf then. I thought I should choke; but I caught hold of one of the buttons on his coat, and spoke as fast as I could."

"'O father,' said I, 'I've told more than a hundred thousand lies. I did take that hatchet! Will you forgive me?'"

"Did he?" asked Susy.

"Forgive! I guess he did! My dear child, it was just what he had been waiting to do! And, O, I can tell you he talked to me in such a way about the awful sin of lying, that I never, never forgot it, and shan't, if I live to be a hundred years old."

"My father had forgiven me: I was sure God had forgiven me too; and after that, I felt as if I could look people in the face once more, and I had a splendid time Christmas.—I believe that's about all the story there is to it, children."

"Well," said Grace, "I'm much obliged to you, auntie; I think it's just as nice as a fairy story—don't you, Susy?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Susy, looking confused. "See here, auntie, I've lost your gold ring!"

"My ring?" said aunt Madge. "I forgot that I let you take it."

"Don't you know I asked you for it when you stood by the table making bread? and it slipped off my finger this afternoon into the water barrel!"

"Why, Susy!"

"And I was a coward, and didn't dare tell you, auntie. I thought maybe you'd forget I had it, and some time when you asked for it, I was going to say, 'Hadn't you better take a pair of tongs and see if it isn't in the water barrel?'"

"O, Susy!" said aunt Madge.

"She isn't any worse than me, auntie," said Grace. "Ma asked me how the mud came on my handkerchief, and I said Prudy wiped my boots with it. And so she did, auntie, but I told her to; and wasn't I such a coward for laying it off on little Prudy? I am ashamed—you may believe I am."

"I am glad you have told me the whole truth now," replied aunt Madge, "though it does make me feel sad, too, for it's too much like my hatchet story. O, do remember from this time, children, and never, never, dare be cowards again!"

Just then grandpa Parlin came to the door with a sad face, saying,—

"Margaret, please come up stairs, and see if you can soothe poor little Harry by singing. He is so restless that neither Maria nor I can do any thing with him."

This baby, Horace's brother, was sick all the time now, and once in a while Margaret's sweet voice would charm him to sleep when every thing else failed.