The third of December had been fixed for the day of examination, and the children at Hazel Grove were so industrious that some days before that, both the presents and the studies were completed—except the bracelet, which went on very slowly indeed—but which Grace assured Clara should be ready in time. For the last few days, when the girls were out of school, time seemed to pass as slowly with them as it did with me on the morning I sat with Madame L'Estrange expecting Cecille. Now, as then, however, it did pass.

The first of December had been a stormy day, but the next morning was as clear and bright as if no cloud had ever been seen. But it was so cold that even the children preferred gathering around the fire to running out, and for me, I could scarcely persuade myself to look out. Poor Dr. Willis! how he shivered, and how cold even his horse looked, as he drove up to the gate at Hazel Grove, where he had been sent for, to visit a servant who was sick. He came in, rubbing his hands, and declaring it was the coldest day he had felt this year. "Ah! young ladies," said he, "you none of you know the comfort of this warm fire as I do. You must ride three miles facing this northwest wind before you can really enjoy it. But even that," he added a moment after, "is better than to sit still in the house with little or no fire as some poor people must do. By the by," he continued, turning to Mrs. Wilmot, "I stopped to see Cecille and her grandmother on my way here, and very glad I was to see them enjoying a blazing fire."

"I have been thinking of them this morning, and fearing that they would not be prepared for this suddenly severe cold," said Mrs. Wilmot. "How do they get their fuel?"

"It was wanting to know that which made me call this morning. Poverty certainly sharpens the wit, for that little child"—Cecille was so small that everybody thought of her as a little child—"manages as well as any man could do. The widow Daly supplies them with fuel for a small additional charge to her month's rent. The old lady needs a warm fire, for her dress is not thick enough—she ought to have flannel."

"And has she not?"

"No—I asked Cecille about it and she colored up and looked as much distressed, poor child, as if it had been her fault that her grandmother was without it. She shall have it, she says, in a few days, as soon as she gets some money that she is expecting. I offered to lend her some till then, but her grandmother had forbidden her borrowing."

"In which I think she is very wise," said Mrs. Wilmot, "but I wish whoever owes her money, knew how much she needs it just now; they might pay her, even if it be a little before the time. No one I hope would be so cruelly unjust as to keep her out of her little earnings one day after they were due."

I could not see Clara's face as I tried to do at this time, for she was looking out of the windows, but Grace colored as violently and looked as confused as if she had been guilty of what her mother thought so wrong. Her confusion attracted Mrs. Wilmot's attention. "Grace," said she, "you do not owe Cecille any thing I hope."

"No, mamma, I paid her the last week."

Mrs. Wilmot turned to speak to Clara, but she had left the room. Dr. Willis, having warmed himself, now asked to see his patient. This withdrew Mrs. Wilmot's attention from Cecille, and she probably did not again think of what had passed,—at least she asked no more questions about it. She left the parlor with Dr. Willis, and soon after I rose to go to my room. In going there I had to pass through the library. There were heavy curtains to the windows of this room, and as I entered, I heard sobs which seemed to come from behind one of these curtains, and then Grace, who had left the parlor a little before me, saying, "Do not cry so, Clara, pray do not cry so. Let us carry Cecille what money we have—that will be some help, you know, and your father will be here this evening and give you the rest."

"How often must I tell you, Grace, that I have not any money? Did you not see me give all that I had to the jeweller?" asked Clara impatiently.

"Yes, dear Clara,—but I have some."

"But I will not take your money, I tell you, after your saving it up so carefully."

"Yes, Clara, you will take it, if you love me as you used to do; you know I did not save it up for myself, Clara,—you know I would have given it all to that poor blind man, if I had not promised you to buy a bracelet for your locket. How glad I am now that it was not enough for the bracelet, so that we can have it for Cecille."

"And if I take it for Cecille," said Clara, "I should like to know how the locket will get fastened to the bracelet."

"Oh, never mind that," said Grace, "we can sew it on now and have it fastened better by-and-by, mamma will not care how it is done. So come, Clara, I know you will feel a great deal better after you have seen Cecille and given her some money, and told her how soon you hope to have the rest for her."

I heard no more, but after I went to my room I saw the two girls, wrapped in their cloaks, set out for Cecille's; so I knew that Clara had been persuaded.

Early in the afternoon of this day the children began to gaze from the windows which looked towards the road for the carriages of their friends, who were expected to attend the examination of the next day and to take them home on the day after. In about two hours after their watch commenced, a carriage arrived with Mr. and Mrs. Ormesby, and shortly after Mrs. Williams came, but the evening passed away—it was bed-time—and nothing had been seen or heard of Mr. Devaux. Clara became so agitated that as Mrs. Wilmot bade her good-night, she said to her in an affectionate and soothing tone, "Do not look so distressed, dear child, your father will be here perhaps before you are up in the morning."

But Clara rose the next morning to fresh disappointment. Her father had not come. Knowing the cause of her anxiety, I was much interested in her feelings and observed her closely. She ate but little breakfast, and every time the door opened she turned quickly towards it.

The other children were full of interest about their presents. They had been placed on the library table when Mrs. Wilmot went into the breakfast parlor. With them was the following note, sealed, and placed so that it must attract her attention the moment she entered the room:

"Dear Mamma—

Accept these keepsakes from your affectionate and grateful children, Clara, Martha, Kate, Emma, Grace, Lucy."

Clara was so much absorbed in her anxiety about her father's delay that she seemed to have little interest in these arrangements, and Grace was occupied with her. Thus to the younger children was left the management of an affair which had occupied all their minds so long. I had undertaken to get Mrs. Wilmot to the library, so, after breakfast, calling her out of the parlor, I led the way thither and walked directly up to the table. The children followed, and were in time to see her glistening eyes as she read the note, and to receive her caresses as she raised her head and saw them standing near the door. After the first emotion of receiving the presents had subsided, they were examined and admired. "This," said Mrs. Wilmot, as she clasped the locket on her arm, "is a joint present, I suppose, from Grace and Clara. It is too expensive to have been from one."

"The bracelet only is mine, mamma," said Grace in a low voice, as if again she felt a little ashamed of her present, "Clara bought the locket herself."

"My dear Clara, how long you must have been saving your money, and how much self-denial you must have practised before you could pay for so costly an ornament! It is paid for," she added inquiringly, as she saw the color mount to Clara's very temples on hearing her praise.

"Yes, ma'am," said Clara, and Mrs. Wilmot again fastened the locket, which she had unclasped while asking her question.

"Is not this hair yours and Clara's, Grace?" asked Mrs. Wilmot, bending down her head to examine the bracelet.

"Yes, mamma."

"And who wove the bracelet for you?"

"I wove it. I know it is not handsome enough for the locket, mamma, but it was the best I could do, and I had not money enough to buy one."

"It is very neatly done, my dear, and if it were less pretty than it is, I should thank you for it far more than for a handsomer one which had cost more than you could properly give. But I thank all my children, and accept all their presents with pleasure, because I am sure they all know that they cannot be generous without first being just. You would none of you," she continued, looking tenderly round upon them, "you would none of you grieve me, by giving me that which was not really your own, and nothing is your own till it is paid for—not even the premiums you are to have to-day, and which you must now come to the schoolroom and win by well-said lessons." This was said gayly, as Mrs. Wilmot turned towards the schoolroom, whither she was followed by all the children—all light-hearted and happy, except Clara.

Poor Clara! how painfully she felt every word Mrs. Wilmot had said. Whatever were her faults, she had always been quite sure that she had one virtue—generosity, and now she began to feel that, in this instance at least, she had been very ungenerous, for she had gratified herself in making the most costly present to her mamma Wilmot at the expense of poor Cecille. And when she entered the schoolroom, there stood Cecille, whom the girls had invited. How she shrank from meeting her eye! How she dreaded to approach her, lest Cecille should ask if her father had come!

Some of Mrs. Wilmot's friends from the neighboring village arrived, and then the examination commenced. Examinations I doubt not you have all attended, but perhaps none conducted exactly as this was. The object here, was not to show which scholar was best, or how far one surpassed all others, but how good all were. Each little girl was encouraged to do her best, and they all rejoiced in the success of each one. After they had been examined in their various studies, some of their work was exhibited—among the rest, Clara's embroidery and Grace's painting. These were very highly extolled, and Cecille, being pointed out by Mrs. Wilmot as their teacher, received many compliments, and some persons from the village inquired her terms, and thought she might have several pupils there when the holidays were over. I was much pleased to hear this, as it promised greater gain for my little friend.

Clara had appeared well in all her studies, her work had been admired, her young companions had evinced their affection for her in a hundred different ways, and Mrs. Wilmot had spoken to her with more than her usual tenderness, because she saw that she was distressed by her father's delay. Yet, notwithstanding all this, Clara had never been so unhappy as on this day. All coldness, however, had vanished between her and Grace, who never passed her without a pressure of the hand, or some soothing word or action. As the day passed on and the afternoon wore away without any tidings of Mr. Devaux, the color deepened on Clara's face, and she grew so nervous and agitated, that I, who watched her closely, expected every moment to see her burst into tears. All this distress must have appeared very unreasonable to those who supposed that it was caused only by anxiety about her father, whom Mrs. Wilmot had not very confidently expected. But there were three persons present—Cecille, Grace, and I—who better understood its cause. On her father's coming would depend Clara's power of keeping her promise with Cecille. Cecille's present want of the money, of which perhaps Clara would have thought little but for the remarks of Dr. Willis on the day before, was sufficient to make her earnestly desirous of paying her: but Clara had yet another reason; she dreaded lest Mrs. Wilmot should hear of this debt.

My young readers will have learned from the remarks made by Mrs. Wilmot in the morning to her children, even at the very moment of receiving their presents, how strict was her sense of justice. No principle had she endeavored to inculcate on her pupils more earnestly than this, and Clara could not forget that she had only the day before called the person cruelly unjust, who should keep Cecille's money from her for a day. It was the first time Clara had ever desired to keep secret from Mrs. Wilmot any thing she had done, and this, my dear young friends, is the worst of all unhappiness, to have done what we are ashamed or afraid to confess. Clara had been perhaps a little vain of her locket and of her generosity, as she thought it, in making such a present, but I have no doubt she would now gladly have changed places with Grace, and have been the giver of only the humble bracelet. I do not think Grace was now at all ashamed of her bracelet—indeed she seemed to love to look upon it; and well she might, since it was a proof that not even Clara's contempt or anger, or the desire to show her regard to her mother, could make her forget the principles of justice which that dear mother had taught her. She had proved her generosity by giving all she had—all that was her own—but she had refused, for any reason, to spend that which was not her own.