A few days after the events related in the last chapter, Mary came into my room to show me a basket and a doll's dress which Florence had given her. They were neither of them quite new, but they were not at all the worse for wear, and Mary was quite delighted with them, and with Florence for giving them. "Aunt Kitty, I do love Florence," said she, "she is so generous."

"Is she, my dear?" said I, in a very quiet tone.

"Why yes, Aunt Kitty, do you not see what she has given me?—and she has a book for Harriet, a very pretty book, which she means to give her when she is going away,—and she gives away money; you know she gave half a dollar to that poor woman the other day."

"All this, Mary, does not prove that Florence is generous."

"Well, I do not see, Aunt Kitty, how anybody can be more generous than to give away their playthings, and their books, and their money."

At this moment Harriet entered the room. Mary, from thinking that I was opposed to her in opinion, had become very much in earnest on the subject, and she called out, "I am very glad you are come, Harriet. Only think, Aunt Kitty does not think Florence is generous. Now Harriet, is she not generous—is she not very generous?"

"I do not know, Mary,—sometimes she is, but I did not think she was the other day, when she would not give her ripe plum to that poor sick child who wanted it so much."

Mary colored; "But, Harriet, I am sure the wooden horse she gave him was worth more than a dozen plums."

"I dare say it was, Mary, but the child did not want that."

Mary became now a little angry, as she was apt to do when she could not convince those with whom she was arguing.

"Well, Harriet, I think it is very unkind in you to speak so of Florence, and to say she is not generous, when she thinks so much of you."

"Stop, stop, Mary," said I, "you are now as unjust to Harriet as you accuse her of being to Florence. She did not say that Florence was not generous, but only that she had not made up her mind on that subject, that she had not seen enough to convince her that she was; and this, remember, was all which I said. Florence may be as generous as you think her, but you have not told me enough to convince me of it. When we have known her longer we shall all be able to judge better what she is. In the mean time I am very glad you like her, for I am very much interested in her myself."

"Well, Aunt Kitty, I do like her," said Mary, in a very energetic manner, "and I am sure I shall never be any better able to judge her than I am now."

I made no reply, and the conversation ended.

Mary did not forget it, however, nor feel quite satisfied with its termination, for the next morning, as I was sitting in my room alone, she came in, and after moving about a little while, seated herself by me and said, "Aunt Kitty, I want to ask you a question."

"Well, my dear, what is it?"

"I want to know when you do think a person is generous?"

"A person is generous, Mary, when he gives up his own gratification or advantage for the gratification or advantage of another."

"Well, that was what I always thought, Aunt Kitty—and now I am sure a little girl does that when she gives away her books and her playthings, and her money, does she not?"

"When a little girl becomes tired of books and playthings, Mary, they cease to amuse her, do they not?"

"Yes, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, "if she get tired of them,—but I never get tired of books and playthings if they are pretty."

"Perhaps you may not, my dear," I replied, "but some other little girls do, and those little girls are most apt to do so who have the greatest number of such things. Now, should they give away those of which they are tired—which had ceased to amuse them—could you say they had given up a gratification?"

"No, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, speaking very slowly, for she was beginning to understand my meaning.

"Then this would not be what we mean by being generous?"

"No, Aunt Kitty,—but money—you know nobody gets tired of money—suppose a little girl gives that."

"Well, Mary, suppose she gives money, and that she knows when giving it that some kind friend will replace it, or indeed, give her a yet larger sum to encourage what he thinks a good feeling—could you say she had given up a gratification—would this prove her to be very generous?"

As I asked this question I looked in Mary's face with a smile,—the smile she gave me in return was plainly forced.

After waiting a moment, during which she seemed to be thinking very deeply, she spoke again. "Well, Aunt Kitty, but suppose she is not tired of the books and playthings, and does not expect to get the money back?"

Mary felt quite sure of her ground now, and looked steadily in my face. "Then, Mary, she would be a generous girl, provided she did not expect to receive in exchange for her gift some other selfish gratification or advantage which she valued yet more highly."

Again Mary was silent and thoughtful for a while, then said, "Why, Aunt Kitty, I heard my father say once, when he gave some money to help some poor sick soldiers, that it was a great gratification to him; did that make him not generous?"

"No, no, Mary, for that was not a selfish gratification. That gratification was caused by the good which he knew the money would do them,—but if your father had given it for the praise which he expected to receive for so doing, or if he had done it to please persons from whom he hoped afterwards to receive some other favor in return—would he have been generous, do you think?"

"No, Aunt Kitty," said Mary, promptly.

"I think, Mary, you are now beginning to understand fully what generosity is. Remember, to be generous, you must not only give up something—but it must be something you value—something which is a gratification or advantage to you—and you must give it up for the gratification or advantage of another. Ignorant or thoughtless people sometimes call a person generous because he is careless of money, and throws it away on foolish, useless things; do you think him so?"

"No, Aunt Kitty."

"And why not, my dear?" Mary hesitated. "I have been teaching you a useful lesson, Mary," said I, "and I would see if you have learned it well,—tell me, then, why you would not think such a person generous."

"Because, Aunt Kitty, what he gives up is not for the gratification or advantage of another."

"Right, my love, you have learned your lesson well, and will, I hope, often put it in practice."

At this moment, Harriet put her head into the room, calling out, "Mary, do come and see how Florence has dressed up Rover."

Rover was the name of a dog which had been lately given to Florence, and which was a great pet with her. Away ran Mary—all her grave thoughts quite forgotten for the present.