After this pleasant meeting, Cecille and I, as you may suppose, were very friendly. I visited her grandmother, as I had promised, and found her a very agreeable and excellent old lady. I often made my visits to her when Cecille was obliged to be away, and then she loved to sit and talk to me of her. I told her that Cecille said she had taken care of her when she was an infant, and had been to her as her own mamma. She replied to this, that she had tried to do her duty by her, and that she had been repaid tenfold for whatever she had done by Cecille's tenderness and respect.

"Ah, ma'am," she would say, "you do not know what it is to suffer want. We often did this, and I would have been sad indeed, if my little girl's cheerfulness had not made me ashamed. I could then speak little English, and Mr. Logan, who was our only friend after my son left us, could speak no French; so that all my comfort came through Cecille. One day, just before we left our last home, she came running to me, full of gladness, exclaiming, 'O, grandmamma, I have good news for you.' I thought at first that my son had come back, or at least that there was a letter from him; but it was that Cecille, in reading her Bible, had just met with a verse saying, that 'the young ravens may lack and suffer hunger, but they that fear the Lord shall not want any good thing.' 'And now, grandmamma,' she said, 'I am sure you will have whatever is good for you, for you fear the Lord.' I had often read the same verse in my Bible, but I had never felt it to be so full of comfort as I did then; and if ever I live to see my son's face again, and to go back to the home I love in France, I shall feel that I owe it to that dear child, for whom I thank God every day."

Madame L'Estrange always spoke in French, but I have translated what she said, that my readers may learn from Cecille's example that the youngest child may do good to the oldest and wisest. I would have them remark, too, how much wiser it is to cultivate cheerful feelings than to be fretful and dissatisfied. Do you not suppose that Cecille, though poor and alone in a strange country with her feeble old grandmother, was happier with her cheerful temper and her trust in the goodness of her kind heavenly Father, than those children who fret at being awoke in the morning, though they are surrounded with every comfort and have the kindest people to attend upon them,—who sit down with dissatisfied faces to a breakfast-table covered with good things because they fancy something which is not there, and who thus go through the whole day complaining of what they have and wishing for what they cannot get?

But, interested as I was in Cecille, you must not suppose that my whole attention was given to her, or that I failed to make friends of Clara and Grace and the rest of Mrs. Wilmot's children.

November seemed to be quite a busy month with these young girls, and I was told by Mrs. Wilmot that they were preparing for an examination, which would take place early in December, when their friends came to take them home for the Christmas holidays. This explained to me their unusual attention to their studies, but I saw there was something more in their minds, of which Mrs. Wilmot knew nothing. Instead of sitting, when they were at work, with their kind mamma Wilmot and myself, as they had formerly loved to do, they now asked to sit together in the schoolroom; and if, while they were there, either of us entered unexpectedly, they would shuffle away their work, as if they did not wish it seen. Harriet was with them at these times, but though I could not help feeling a little curious about their movements, I would not ask her any questions, because I was sure, if not bound to secrecy, she would tell me without questioning. I was not kept many days in ignorance. Mrs. Wilmot and I were sitting at work one afternoon, when Harriet came into the parlor and said, "Aunt Kitty, the girls ask you to go into the schoolroom; they want you to show them something about their work."

"I will do it, my dear," said Mrs. Wilmot, rising before me.

"Oh no, Mrs. Wilmot," said Harriet in most earnest tones, "they do not want you to go, ma'am; that is," she continued in a confused manner, "they did not tell me to ask you."

"Oh, well, my dear child, do not look so agitated," said Mrs. Wilmot smiling, "I will not go. I suppose I shall hear the secret in time. I am quite sure there is nothing improper in it, or Aunt Kitty would not be chosen as their confidant."

I went with Harriet to the schoolroom, and found that my assistance was wanted in showing Kate Ormesby how to make up a work-bag which she had been embroidering in worsted.

"And why was this a secret?" I asked.

Clara undertook to explain. They were getting some presents ready for Mamma Wilmot, and they did not wish her to know any thing about them till the day of the examination, when they intended to put them on her table with a note which they would all sign. Then their work was exhibited. There was a needle-book from one—a pincushion from another—a pair of slippers embroidered on canvass from a third, and the work-bag which I have already named. These were the presents prepared by Lucy, Martha, Emma, and Kate.

"And now where are your presents?" I asked, turning to Clara and Grace.

"Mine is not done yet," said Clara.

"Well, what is it to be?"

"A locket, set with Grace's hair and mine, and with our names on the back of it."

"And yours, Grace?"

She colored and looked down.

"Show it to Aunt Kitty, Grace," said Harriet; "I am sure she will think it very pretty."

"I do not wonder you are ashamed of it, Grace," said Clara, quickly, "when you might have had such a handsome one, so cheaply too."

"It would not have been cheap for me, Clara."

"Well, I should think a handsome hair bracelet cheap for anybody at two dollars and a half, but some people never think they can get enough for their money."

I saw that these words were very painful to Grace, who turned away with her eyes full of tears; and as there is nothing more disagreeable to me than to hear little girls quarrel, I interrupted any farther remarks from Clara, by urging Grace to show me her present. With a timid manner she took out of her basket a bracelet of hair, very simply woven, which she had just commenced. It was pretty, and I said so; yet I acknowledge I thought, with Clara, it would scarce be handsome enough for such a locket as she described. Again I asked myself, can Grace be selfish, that she would not spend her money on a present for her mother? That she had the money for the bracelet I could not doubt, for I knew that she had the same allowance for pocket-money that Clara had, and she was able to buy a locket, which I was sure, from the description, must cost more than two dollars and a half. Besides, if she had not the money, Clara could not have expected her to buy it, or have been angry with her, as she evidently was, for not doing so. These thoughts probably made me look grave, and, if I might judge from her sad countenance, poor Grace was little comforted by my praise of her work. I observed, after this, that there was a little coolness between Clara and Grace. They were not so constantly together as they had been, and sometimes Clara spoke to her friend in a very tart tone, while Grace always seemed gentle, and even humble, as if she was seeking forgiveness for some wrong she had done. This did not convince me that Clara was right and Grace was wrong, for I have often seen the person who was most to blame in a quarrel, the most angry—while the least faulty was conciliating and anxious for peace.

After this the girls admitted me into all the mysteries of their little plot. I assisted them in their work where assistance was needed, and was consulted on all their arrangements. There was a very interesting debate on the question whether the presents should be placed on Mrs. Wilmot's toilet table before she was awake in the morning, and so meet her eye when she first arose; or whether they should be laid on the library table, while she was at breakfast. I gave my opinion in favor of the last arrangement; and at length brought them all over to my way of thinking, by reminding them that we could not be quite sure Mrs. Wilmot would sleep on that morning until we were ready for her to awake.

About a week before the examination Clara's locket was sent home by the jeweller. She brought it to me, and I saw, by his mark on the paper around it, that its cost was four dollars. It was plainly but handsomely made, and the initial letters of her name and Grace's were very prettily engraved upon the back. When the bracelet was finished they were both to be sent to the jeweller, who would put them together with small gold rings. For this Grace would pay him. Clara continued to look, and even sometimes to speak, as if she thought it would be quite a disgrace to her locket to be seen in such company. Grace bore this in silence, though she was evidently much distressed at it.