Kate did not think of the poor woman and her hungry children when she made up her mind to tell her mother such a monstrous lie.

She did not think how very wicked it was to deceive her mother, just to escape, perhaps, a severe rebuke for her carelessness.

She felt all the time that she was doing wrong, but she tried so hard to cover it up, that her conscience was not permitted to do its whole duty.

When we are tempted to do wrong, something within us tells us not to do it; but we often struggle to get rid of this feeling, and if we succeed the first time, it is easier the next time. And the more we do wrong, the easier it becomes to put down the little voice within us.

It was so with Kate. She had told falsehoods before, or it would not have been so easy for her to do it this time. If we do not take care of our consciences, as we do of our caps and bonnets, they are soon spoiled.

Did you ever notice that one of the wheels on your little wagon, when it becomes loose, soon wears out? The more it sags over on one side, the weaker it grows. While the wheel stands up straight, it does not seem to wear out at all.

It is just so with your conscience—your power to tell right from wrong. While you keep it up straight, it works well, and never wears out. But when it gets a little out of order, it grows worse very fast, and is not of much more value than a lighthouse without any light in it.

Kate's conscience had begun to sag over on one side. It was growing weak, and did not remind her of her wrong deeds with force enough to make itself heeded. If she could only escape the reproof of her mother, she did not care.

Thus moved by the wicked counsel of Ben Tinker, she hastened home. She tried to look as if nothing had happened, but her eyes were still very red from crying; and her mother wanted to know what had made her cry.

"Fanny Flynn struck me, and pulled my 'shaker' over my face," replied Kate.

"What did she do that for?"

"She asked me to give her a drink of the milk, and because I wouldn't, she struck me," answered Kate, placing her pail upon the kitchen table.

"She is a naughty girl, and I will go and see her mother about it. What did she say to you?"

"She asked me for a drink of the milk."

"What did you answer?"

"I told her it was for Mrs. O'Brien's children, and that it wouldn't be right for me to give it to her, and I would not."

"Well, I will see to that. I think it is a pity if I can't send one of my children out on an errand of charity without her being treated in this manner. She shall suffer for it."

"She is a naughty girl, mother; and I never mean to speak to her again as long as I live," said Kate, with much apparent earnestness.

"You did right not to give her any of the milk, and I am glad you did not. I am happy that my daughter has been brave enough to do right, and even to suffer for doing it. You are a good girl, Kate."

"I meant to be, mother."

"What did Mrs. O'Brien say when you gave her the milk?" continued Mrs. Lamb.

"She said she was much obliged to you," replied Kate, not daring to look her mother in the face.

"Did you see the children?"

"Yes, mother."

Mrs. Lamb was going to ask more questions about the family, but something called her attention away, and Kate was saved from telling more falsehoods.

She took a book and tried to read, but she could not, for she did not feel like a good girl. The little voice within told her how wicked she had been, and she began to wish that she had not deceived her mother.

While she sat with the book in her hand, her father came home; and her mother told him what Fanny Flynn had done. He was very angry when he had heard the story, and asked Kate a great many questions about the affair.

"You did well, Kate, and I am glad you were so brave and so smart," said Mr. Lamb.

"Of course I could not give her any of the milk when it was for the poor widow's hungry children."

"You did right, Kate," repeated her father. "The poor children might have had to go to bed hungry if you had given up the milk to that bad girl."

"I know it, father."

"Only think what a sad thing it would have been if the poor little ones had been sent hungry and crying to bed. That Fanny Flynn must be taken care of. When little girls get to be so bold as that, it is high time something was done."

"I think so, too, father."

"It is time for you to go to bed now, Kate," said her mother.

"I am ready, mother, for I am tired as I can be."

Kate was glad to get away from her father and mother, for while they were praising her for her good conduct, she knew very well that she did not deserve it.

What would her parents think if they knew that she had spilled all the milk on the ground? What would they say to her if they found out that she had told them so many lies?

The more she thought of her conduct, the more she felt that she had done wrong. She now saw that, if she had returned home and told her mother the truth, she would have excused the fault, and sent another pail of milk to the poor sick woman's hungry children.

She wished she had done so, for it would have been a great deal better to be scolded for her carelessness than to feel as guilty as she now felt. She was sure that it was far better to suffer a great deal than to do even a little wrong.

She was not satisfied either that her mother would have scolded her, if she had stated the whole truth to her—that Fanny Flynn had made her spill the milk.

She went to bed; but when her mother bade her good night, and took the lamp in her hand, she begged her to leave it, for she did not like to be alone in the dark.

It seemed just as though a wicked spirit was tormenting her; and though she was in the habit of going to sleep without a light, the darkness was terrible to her at this time. She did not even wish to be left alone, but she dared not ask her mother to stay with her.

When Mrs. Lamb had gone out, Kate covered her face wholly under the bedclothes, and shut her eyes as close as she could, trying in this manner to go to sleep. But her guilty conscience gave her no rest.

Then she opened her eyes, and looked around the room; but every thing in the chamber seemed to mock and reproach her. Again and again she shut her eyes, and tried to sleep.

The little voice within would speak now, in the silence of her chamber. She had never felt so bad before; perhaps because she had never been so wicked before. Do you want to know why she suffered so much? It was because she could not keep from her mind those hungry, crying children.