The day was past, the visiters from the village had left us, and we were gathered around the parlor fire to spend our last evening together, for the next morning our little party at Hazel Grove would separate. Mrs. Wilmot had promised to return home with me for the holidays. Grace had long ago promised to spend that time with Clara, and Mrs. Wilmot had been prevailed upon to consent that Lucy should accompany her friend Martha.

The sound of carriage wheels drew Clara and Grace to the window.

"Oh, Clara!" exclaimed Grace, "it is your father."

"Yes," said Clara, joyfully, "I know the white horses,—but why do they not drive to the door? What is papa going to the stables for?"

The question was soon answered. A servant entered with a note for Mrs. Wilmot; she glanced at it and then handed it to Clara, saying, "There, my dear Clara, you will find there is no further cause for anxiety. Your father has been detained by business, but he has sent the carriage for you and Grace."

Clara had seized the offered note, and was reading with such eagerness, that I do not think she heard what Mrs. Wilmot said. As she saw from the note that her father was not coming,—still more, that he would have left home before she could arrive there the next day, on business which might oblige him to be absent for some weeks—the thought that she must either keep Cecille waiting during all that time, or make the dreaded betrayal of her fault to Mrs. Wilmot, oppressed her so much that she burst into tears.

"Clara, my dear child, what is the matter?" said Mrs. Wilmot drawing to her side. "This is something more than sorrow at not seeing your father." She paused, but Clara did not speak. "Is there any thing you wished him to do for you, my dear? Surely, if there is, you will not hesitate to speak your wish to me." Clara was still silent. "I am grieved at this silence, Clara, I thought you loved me and confided in my affection; but perhaps you would rather speak to me alone. Come with me to the library."

Mrs. Wilmot then left us, leading Clara with her. She closed the library door after her, and we could then hear only the low murmur of her voice or Clara's heavy sobs. Grace seemed very anxious. She approached the library door at one time as if she was going in,—then went to the farthest part of the room from it. At length, her mother opened the door and called her. Grace sprang to the door and was admitted. There was something sad in the tone of Mrs. Wilmot's voice, which made me certain that Clara had told her all; but I did not hear how she had told it, till many days after, when Mrs. Wilmot related the scene to me as I am about to describe it to you.

As soon as they entered, Mrs. Wilmot seated herself on a sofa, and placing Clara by her side, strove to win her confidence by every soothing and affectionate word and action. At last with great effort Clara said, "You will be so angry with me, mamma Wilmot, if I tell you, that you will never love me again."

"Clara, I am angry only with those who are obstinate in doing wrong—never with those who confess their faults and try to amend."

"But you will think me so cruel and unjust."

"Cruel I cannot believe you to have been, Clara, and if you have committed an act of injustice, and you may by confiding in me be assisted in making amends for it, it is a new reason, my child, why you should speak at once. What is it, Clara?" Mrs. Wilmot's eye rested just then on the locket which she wore on her wrist, and this prompted the question—"Clara, did you speak the whole truth to-day when you told me this locket was paid for? Do you owe nothing on it?"

"No, mamma Wilmot; nothing on that, but I owe—" she stopped.

"Not Cecille, Clara," said Mrs. Wilmot; "you could not be so thoughtless—so selfish—as to keep her hard earnings from her for a single day, for any purpose of your own. Speak, my child, and tell me it is not so."

Clara spoke not—moved not—except that her head sunk lower and lower, till it almost rested on her knees. "Tell me, Clara, if you have done this wrong, that I may make amends for it at once. Do you owe Cecille?"

"Yes," faltered Clara.

Mrs. Wilmot rose, and after calling Grace, seated herself at the library table and wrote a few lines to Cecille, in which she was about to enclose the price of a month's tuition, when Grace, who had seen her counting it out, said, "Mamma, Clara does not owe Cecille so much, she paid her some."

"Clara," asked Mrs. Wilmot, "how much do you owe Cecille?"

"I do not know exactly, ma'am."

"How much did you pay her?"

"All that Grace had. I do not know how much it was."

"How much was it, Grace?"

"One dollar and fifteen cents, mamma."

The money was enclosed, Mrs. Wilmot sealed the note and handed it to Grace, bidding her give it to a servant and tell him to take it immediately to Cecille. "But stay, Grace," she added, laying her hand on her arm and looking into her face, "you owe her nothing?"

"No, mamma—nothing," said Grace, meeting her mother's eye fully.

"God bless you, my child, for saving me that pain. I can wear your bracelet, Grace, with pleasure, for it has cost no one sorrow; but this locket, Clara,—you must receive it again, for I cannot wear it."

Mrs. Wilmot, while she was speaking, had taken the bracelet from her arm, and severing with a small penknife the silk which fastened the locket, replaced the bracelet on her wrist, confining it with a pin, and approaching Clara, laid the locket on her lap.

This was the deepest humiliation, the severest punishment that could have been inflicted on poor Clara.

She started up, flinging the now unvalued locket on the floor, and falling on her knees, clasped Mrs. Wilmot's hand, exclaiming, "Oh, mamma Wilmot! forgive me, and love me again."

Mrs. Wilmot seated herself, and raising Clara, said, "I do forgive you, my child, and it is because I love you, Clara, that I am so deeply pained by your doing wrong; but I must see some effort to amend—some proof that you have learned to regard what belongs to others, before I can again confide in you. I will give you an opportunity of recovering my confidence. You are now in my debt to the amount of one month's payment of Cecille, for I will return to Grace the money which she lent you. When, by economy and self-denial, you have paid this debt, I shall think that you have learned that you have no right to gratify even your amiable and generous feelings at the expense of another—that you have learned to be just before you are generous,—and then, Clara, I shall again confide in you as well as love you. But remember, it must be by economy and self-denial, not by any present from your father or any increase of your allowance. When this task is accomplished, give me back the locket, and I will wear it, with both pleasure and pride. Till then, you must wear it yourself, Clara. It may be useful to you by reminding you of your task and the reward of your success."

Clara wept—but more gently. There was now hope before her, and when Mrs. Wilmot kissed her and bade her good-night, though she was sad and humbled, she was more composed than she had been since telling Cecille that she could not pay her. Her fault had now been told—there was nothing to conceal, and this would have made her feel far happier than she had done, even had her punishment been much more severe than it was.

It must have been very mortifying to Clara to wear the locket herself before those who knew for what purpose she had bought it; but so anxious was she to regain her mamma Wilmot's good opinion by compliance with her wishes, that she appeared at breakfast the next morning with it on her wrist sewed to a piece of riband. She looked very unlike the lively and high-spirited Clara, for she was silent, and if others spoke to her, while answering them, she colored and seemed abashed.

Mrs. Wilmot had prepared a parting present for each of the children—for the four youngest, books, for Grace a very handsome paint-box, and for Clara, a work-box with many colored silks for her embroidery. After breakfast, calling them to her own room, she delivered these presents to them, commencing with the youngest. To all except Clara she said, that they were premiums or rewards for their good conduct. To Clara she said, the box was a mark of her affection and her approval of her as a scholar. Clara felt this distinction, and stood still without attempting to take her box.

"Why do you not take it, Clara?" asked Mrs. Wilmot.

She burst into tears as she replied, "I do not want it, mamma Wilmot, till you can love me just as well as you used to do."

"I do love you, my dear Clara, just as well as ever," said Mrs. Wilmot, kissing her; "but I will keep the box, since you wish it, until I can restore to you my full esteem and confidence, and then we will exchange gifts," touching the locket with her finger.

In an hour after this scene, we had said "good-by" to each other, and were travelling on our different roads.