I hope you every one miss me as much as I do you! Really and truly, I am dreadfully homesick for school! But this is my special letter, so I must not take time for anything else. I’m sorry I promised to write the first one, because I don’t know just how to write it, and I have such a mean, silly little story to tell, that I’m ashamed of it, anyhow.

I chose that verse about “confessing before men,” for the one to write my letter on. And I meant to go to the young people’s meeting, and to the Band, and confess Him in some way that would be nice to tell; and I didn’t do anything of the kind.

Don’t you think my story is about a cat! Who would have supposed that a cat would get mixed up with a verse like that?

We went to grandma’s, as usual, for the month of November, but things there were very unusual, for aunt Kate was married, and the house was full of company and confusion.

It is about the wedding day that I’m to tell you. I wish you could have seen the tables after they were ready. They did look too lovely for anything! The central table was magnificent. All the old silver and queer, quaint china which have been in grandma’s family for ages, had been brought out for decoration, and people say that the tablecloth was the finest piece of old damask that has ever been used in this part of the world. If I had Nettie’s descriptive powers, I could give you a picture of the whole; but as it is, I want you to confine your attention to one dish—the loveliest cut-glass beauty that was ever seen. It was amber-colored sometimes, with little threads of crimson running through it, which reminded one of a sunset. Besides, it was a very peculiarly-shaped dish, and as frail as a cobweb. Uncle Fred found it in Paris, and brought it to the bride. Uncle Fred, you understand, is the bridegroom.

Well, it was on the special wedding table, just before the bride’s seat, and was filled with the most exquisite flowers.

Grandma did not want the dish used, because it was so frail and so rare, but aunt Kate insisted that it should be placed just there, and be filled with orange-buds.

Grandma had just seen that the very last touches had been put to the table, and had taken the children in for a look, and then had said, as she shut the dining-room door: “Now, don’t one of you children open that door again. I wouldn’t have anything go wrong in there for a great deal.”

Then she went up to take a last look at aunt Kate, before she became Mrs. Fred Somerville.

Just at that moment little Sallie Evans came running down the hall, her eyes full of tears. Her mamma had called her just as grandma took the children in to see the tables, and she had missed the sight.

“And now I sha’n’t see them at all, till everything is spoiled,” she said, “for they aren’t going to let the little bits of cousins come to the first table.” And she sobbed outright.

Now it never entered my mind that grandma meant me, when she said, “You children,” because—well, because, you know, I am thirteen, and there are three at home, younger than I, and I’m used to being trusted. So I said, “Never mind, Sallie, I’ll let you look at them; but you must look fast, for it is almost time for the wedding.”

So, in we went. And Sallie, who is the most beauty-loving little creature of eight, whom I ever saw, seemed to have eyes only for that lovely glass dish, which she had never seen before. She clasped her hands together with an eager little “Oh!” and ran towards it. I don’t suppose she would have touched it, but I was excited, and so afraid she would, that I ran after her, calling out, “Don’t touch anything!” and put out my hand to prevent it. And then, I don’t know how it happened—does anybody know how such accidents happen? The lace from my sleeve caught in one of the points of the glass, or in one of the stems of flowers, or somehow,—I don’t suppose I could do it again if I tried,—but over that glass went, the water pouring itself out in the most disgusting way, on the damask cloth, and a long crooked piece snapped from the upper edge of the dish!

O, dear! Don’t ask me how I felt. I couldn’t describe it, even though I were sitting on the dear old bed at No. 7, with half a dozen of you beside me, and the rest cuddled around close at hand.

There wasn’t any time to do anything. I heard them calling, at that moment, for I was one of the bridesmaids. I just had to force back my tears and my fright, and run and take my place in the procession. We all got through it somehow. I hope aunt Kate heard what the minister said; I didn’t; but it is safe to say that she was not thinking of what I was.

Immediately after the ceremony, we went to the dining-room, and then the awful accident was discovered. I don’t know which I was the most sorry for, grandma or myself. I didn’t mean to tell about it then, because I thought it wouldn’t be the proper time; and then, of course, it would be dreadful to have to speak before them at all.

But what should grandma do, after we were all seated, and the eating had begun, but lean over to aunt Kate and say in a low tone: “That is some of Jill’s work; if I don’t get rid of a cat who can open doors, before I am a day older, it will be because I am not smart enough.”

Now, Jill is the cutest cat that was ever born, I do believe; there isn’t a door in grandma’s house that she cannot manage to open almost as well as though she had hands.

I never thought of her blaming the cat; and now the story came out, just as they guessed it had happened, and all the people at our end of the table talked it over.

Even then, I don’t know whether I would have spoken, because Jill is only a cat, you know, and her feelings couldn’t be hurt by bearing blame that didn’t belong to her for a few hours, until I could see grandma alone. But, just as I was thinking that, I heard grandma say: “The fault rests with little John. I charged him a dozen times to keep watch of that cat, and not on any account let her out of the barn to-day; and that is all the good it did! I think I have given John a lesson on obedience that he will remember.”

Now John is the little errand boy; a real nice chubby little fellow, who was very fond of aunt Kate, and who had never tasted wedding cake, and he was to drive one of the carriages to the depot that very day, to see the bridal party off.

It all came over me like a flash—how grandma would forbid his coming in to the wedding supper, and how she would not let him drive to the depot, but would send him to bed; and I felt just as though I should choke!

Even then, it didn’t seem to me that I could speak out then and there; and I don’t believe I could have done it, but for the verse.

Girls, I know you don’t see how the verse is coming in, and I can’t explain myself how it seemed to fit; there was certainly nothing about “confessing” Jesus in my telling of what I had done. And yet, you see, I knew I ought to tell, and I know it is what Jesus would do in my place, and it would be showing that I wanted to copy him, and—well, anyhow, it seemed to fit exactly, though I can’t explain it. And I spoke right out, loud and fast: “Grandmother, it wasn’t the cat; John didn’t let the cat out; it was I did it.”

My voice sounded so loud that it almost seemed as though they could hear me down at the church; the people at our table all stopped talking, and I just knew they could hear my heart beat.

“You!” said grandma. “You let the cat out?”

“No, ma’am,” I said, “I broke the dish.”

Then she questioned, and I answered, until somehow, she had the whole story.

I don’t think any tears dropped, but my eyes and my throat felt full of them. It didn’t seem to me that I could say another word, and then grandma said: “Well, well, child, there are worse things in the world than broken dishes. Eat your wedding cake, and think no more about it.” And I heard her call one of the waiters, and say to him: “Tell little John that he may dress himself again in his best suit, and come to the dining-room as soon as he is ready.” Then I knew that I had been none too soon with my confession.

And the bride, my dear, sweet aunt Kate, leaned over toward me and spoke low, “There are better things than glass dishes,” she said; “there are little nieces who are true.”

And papa looked across the table at me, and nodded, and smiled.

And in spite of the lovely broken dish, and the tablecloth, and my being ashamed, and all, I never felt happier in my life.

And as for the verse, if you girls can’t fit it to the cat story, I shall not be surprised; for I can’t explain it myself, but I know they fitted when the time came. Good-by!

Water that flows from a spring, does not freeze in the coldest winter. And those sentiments of true friendship which flow from the heart cannot be frozen by adversity.