MANY weeks now passed on tranquilly and without any marked event. The poor widow Barlow and her family had been frequently visited. Mr. Howard had been liberal in rendering her assistance, and Leila and her cousins had employed many of their leisure hours in working for the children, who were now comfortably clothed, and the elder ones put to school. Matilda had most cheerfully contributed her share, both in money and in work, and Mrs. Roberts gave a favourable report of her general improvement; her constant association with Selina and Leila was certainly producing a favourable effect on her character, but she was still easily misled by bad example, and often unprepared to meet the hour of trial; present gratification was generally yielded to, and though in most cases deep repentance followed, her feelings were as yet stronger than her principles, and the many good resolutions made in the hour of sorrow too often gave way before fresh temptation.

It was now nearly Midsummer; the precious seeds had not only sprung up into three healthy plants, but each plant presented flower-buds of promising appearance. The old gardener, however, would not hear of their being transplanted into separate pots till the autumn, assuring Leila that were he to do so sooner it would prevent the flower-buds from opening, and in every way retard the growth of the plant. This was a disappointment; but she consoled herself by having the flower-pot removed into her own room and placed on a flower-stand before the window, that she might watch the opening of the blossoms, having resolved to gather the first-blown flower for Mrs. Herbert.

Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, with Selina and Matilda, were now passing a few days at Woodlands, and Leila had obtained permission from her papa to invite Lydia Mildmay to spend the following day with them, as it was Matilda’s birthday, and she knew it would give her pleasure.

A brilliant sun awoke the sisters at an early hour, yet they found that Leila must have already visited them, for their pretty white bed was strewed with fresh flowers. The dew of the morning was still upon them, and Matilda thought no flowers before had ever smelt so sweet; she sprang up to rush into Leila’s room to thank her, when her steps were arrested by seeing a little table placed by her bed-side, over which a covering of embroidered muslin was thrown.

“This is Cousin Leila again,” she exclaimed, as she hastily lifted the white drapery, which proved to be an embroidered apron, worked by Leila for this happy occasion. On the table was placed a pretty little writing-desk, a present from her papa and mamma, a case in mother-of-pearl, with pens, pencil, sealing-wax, &c., from her Uncle Herbert, and a beautiful purse worked by Selina. Matilda was in ecstasies; how she got dressed she never very well knew; she had no distinct remembrance but of being half smothered with heat from being closely wrapped up in a shawl and carried back to her room by Nurse, who looked unutterable things. How she longed for twelve o’clock, the hour at which her friend was to arrive; for to show all those beauties to Lydia Mildmay would be such a renewal of her pleasure!

Twelve o’clock came at last; but Matilda was disappointed when Lydia saw her pretty bed, (for Matilda had carefully preserved the flowers upon it,) she only shrugged her shoulders, exclaiming, “How vastly poetical we are.” And though she said all that was civil when she saw the presents, her admiration fell far short of what had been expected; and all, that but the moment before had appeared so beautiful in Matilda’s eyes, fell considerably in her estimation, when Lydia, with an affected air of indifference, observed, “This seems a day for showing presents, so perhaps you would like to see a little trifle which my godmother presented to me some little time ago; at first I thought it rather pretty, though now I don’t think much of it;” and she took from her reticule a beautiful little etui of the most finished workmanship. It was a walnut-shell, bound and lined with gold, containing scissors, bodkin, and thimble, with small tablets of mother-of-pearl, and a gold pencil-case with an amethyst top. Matilda gazed in speechless admiration. If Lydia’s intention was to mortify her, she might have been satisfied with the look with which Matilda now contemplated all that had before given her so much pleasure; but after a little time she rallied again, and whispering to Leila that if her presents were not quite so beautiful, they were at least far more useful, she quite brightened up, and proposed that they should go into the conservatory to visit the parrots, and then into the garden.

The day seemed to pass very pleasantly to all; for though Lydia and Matilda were always going off by themselves, the hours never seemed long when Selina and Leila were together. Immediately after dinner the carriage was sent for. Lydia, to convey her home, as there was a large dinner party, and her mamma wished her to be present in the drawing-room. Matilda seemed quite unhappy in parting with her; indeed, having this intelligence communicated to her just as they were sitting down to dinner seemed quite to overset her. She held her hand at parting, and looked anxiously up in her face, then followed her a few steps as she was leaving the room, and for some minutes they whispered together. When Matilda returned, Leila observed that her eyes were full of tears. She went up to her, and took her kindly by the hand, but Matilda hastily pushed her away, and ran out of the room.

“What can be the matter with Matilda?” Leila inquired; “did you observe, Selina, she appeared quite angry with me? Do you think it is only that she is sorry Lydia has gone away, or have I done any thing to offend her? Should I go and ask her, do you think?”

“No, Leila, I think you had better not. You have done nothing to make her angry. I am sure it is not that. Matilda is never the better of being alone with Lydia Mildmay; I am quite sorry now we left them so much together; but I so dislike appearing to watch them; I fear something has happened, for I know the expression of Matilda’s face so well—it was not only at the moment of parting she was so much overset. Did you not observe her at dinner?”

“No, I did not look at her much, but I think she was in good spirits then; I remember now she laughed two or three times.”

“Yes, she tried to laugh; but she looked very unhappy; and it was only when she saw me looking at her that she laughed. At one time she kept crumbling all her bread down on the carpet, as if she did not know what she was about, and once or twice she could scarcely swallow. Then mamma said something to her, and she grew very red, and seemed to wish to hide her hands under the table.”

“O I can tell you what made her grow red then. I heard Aunt Stanley tell her that she must have forgotten to wash her hands before dinner; and, to be sure, her nails were quite as black as if she had been grubbing in the earth like little Alfred.”

Selina shook her head. “I don’t understand it,” she said; “but I fear Matilda has done something wrong.”

“Then I am sure it must be Lydia’s fault if she has,” Leila said eagerly: “for Mrs. Roberts says she improved so much of late. I am so sorry I invited Lydia, and papa advised me not; he said he thought we three would be quite happy together. I wish he had said steadily, ‘No, Leila, I don’t wish it;’ but he very seldom now tells me I am not to do a thing, as he used to do in the island; he says now that I am older I should learn to govern myself, and that in most cases he wishes only to advise. So it is my fault also if Matilda has done wrong, for I invited Lydia.”

“But, Leila, we must not blame Lydia without knowing. How can we but——” She was interrupted by Matilda looking into the room, she drew hastily back, but on Selina calling to her, she advanced a few steps, hesitated, and looking anxiously in Leila’s face for a moment, again left the room. They both observed that her eyes were swoln with weeping, and Selina, now seriously alarmed, said she must go into the drawing-room, and find out if her mamma was aware if any thing was wrong. She thought now she should speak to her mamma, and she would come up into Leila’s room and tell her what she had heard.

Selina had not been in the drawing-room many minutes when the door opened, and Leila darted in, exclaiming, “Oh! Selina, my flowers, my precious flowers! Clara’s flowers are dying.”

They all followed her into her room—every thing seemed in perfect order, and the flower-pot stood exactly where Leila had placed it; but two of the plants seemed withered, and when Mrs. Stanley touched them they fell from her hand on the carpet, they evidently had been broken off and carefully stuck into the earth again.

“Who can have done this?” Mrs. Stanley exclaimed, and her eyes fell upon Selina, who had become very pale. “Selina,” she said, “do you know any thing of this?”

“No, mamma, I do not.”

“But I see you suspect,” Mrs. Stanley said. “Where is Matilda?”

At that moment Amy entered the room, but seeing it occupied was retreating again, when Mrs. Stanley called to her. “Amy,” she said, “come here. Do you know any thing of this? did you overturn that flower-pot?”

“Miss Leila’s favourite flowers! O no, no, I did not. I was not aware it had been overturned.”

Her look of perfect truthfulness it was impossible to doubt.

When the flowers fell to the ground, Leila had hidden her face on her papa’s shoulder, and was struggling with her emotion; she now looked up, and turning to Mrs. Stanley, she said, “Aunt, there is still one plant left, and it must have been an accident. O don’t say any thing more about it.”

But Mrs. Stanley would not yield to this. “No, my love,” she said, “it is quite necessary that I should endeavour to discover the truth. The overturning of the flower-pot might have been an accident, but the attempt to deceive, the replanting the flowers in the earth, could not have been accidental. Now, Amy, recollect yourself, and tell me if you have seen any one leaving this room lately?”

Amy was silent.

“I insist upon knowing,” Mrs. Stanley said.

“I saw Miss Matilda come out of the room, ma’am,” Amy answered in a trembling voice.

“Was it before Miss Mildmay went home, or after?” Mrs. Stanley inquired.

“It was after, ma’am.”

“And did you observe any thing particular in Miss Matilda’s appearance? Did she look distressed?”

Amy was again silent.

“Speak out, Amy, I desire you,” Mrs. Stanley said.

“Miss Matilda was crying, ma’am.”

“You may go, Amy, and send Miss Matilda to me.”

Amy left the room. Mr. Howard also rose and quitted the room just as Matilda was entering it; she came in trembling excessively, and looking very pale, but the moment Mrs. Stanley placed the flower-pot before her and said, “Matilda, do you know any thing of this?” the deepest colour suffused her face, and mounted to her temples. She remained silent.

“You were in your cousin’s room after dinner, were you not?” Mrs. Stanley inquired.

“Yes, mamma.” The words were scarcely audible.

Mrs. Stanley fixed her eyes upon her face. “Matilda,” she said, “I happened to be in your cousin’s room immediately before dinner; I went to look for a book. The flowers then looked perfectly fresh; you must have overturned the flower-pot when Amy saw you coming out of the room this evening.”

Matilda’s agitation increased; she tried to speak, but Mrs. Stanley with difficulty could make out the words, “No, mamma.”

Mrs. Stanley herself now became much agitated. “Oh, Matilda,” she said, “I conjure you to speak out, and tell me clearly what did happen; do not let me have the pain of feeling that my child has not only shown duplicity in the attempt to conceal what at first was probably only an accident, but is now adding falsehood to her fault; tell me distinctly, did you or did you not overthrow that flower-pot and break those flowers?”

There was no answer.

Leila went up to her and whispered, “Matilda, dear Matilda, speak the truth, don’t be afraid; I am not angry, I don’t care now for the flowers, that is, I don’t care very much, I am not so sorry for them now, indeed I am not. But say you did it, O do say it; don’t make God angry with you. O pray that this temptation may be taken from you; He will give you strength.”

Matilda was still silent, but the piteous look she cast on Leila was heart-rending.

Mrs. Stanley again spoke. “Matilda,” she said, “I see it is vain to prolong this scene. Go to your room, and on your knees pray earnestly to your heavenly Father to touch your sinful heart; when you have asked forgiveness of Him, and have resolved to make a full and free confession of your fault, send for me, I will be ready to come to you at any moment.”

Matilda left the room; Mrs. Stanley soon after followed. Selina and Leila were left alone; Selina was silently weeping. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Leila then said, “Selina, we cannot be quite certain that Matilda is deceiving us; Lydia may have done this.”

Selina shook her head. “O that I could think so, but I cannot. I know the expression of Matilda’s face too well. I always know when she has done wrong; and you forget, Leila, that mamma saw the flowers just before dinner, and they looked quite fresh then; and Lydia was not in your room after dinner, you know we were all with her till the moment she went away. When did you last observe them yourself? You must have been in the room when you were changing your dress for dinner.”

Leila looked much distressed as she answered, “Yes, I saw them, and they did look fresh; I remember it, because I observed drops of water on the leaves, and the earth looked wet, and I knew that Amy must have watered them—she often does so when the day has been warm; Amy was very fond of my poor flowers.” She had no sooner uttered the words than she coloured. “It was very wrong in me to say this, and to make you more sorry, for indeed it is not the flowers I am thinking most of now: and you know, Selina, I have still three more seeds to sow. How wise it was of papa to advise me to keep them in case of accidents, and not to risk all at once. O if I would always take papa’s advice, every thing would be well; if I had taken his advice about Lydia, and had not invited her, Matilda would have been with us as usual during the whole time, and this would not have happened. And yet papa says I must learn to judge for myself, I must not lean too much on others; how difficult all this is. Do you think we should go to Matilda now?”

“No, I think mamma wished her to be alone.”

“Then let us go into the garden, I feel so unhappy; I don’t like sitting still.”

The door of Matilda’s room they saw was not entirely shut as they passed.

“Perhaps she might speak to me,” Selina said. She advanced a few steps into the room; Matilda had thrown herself upon the bed. The flowers with which it had been so lately decked now lay scattered on the floor. Matilda evidently saw her, for she looked up for a moment, but she did not speak, and they passed on to the garden.

The whole evening wore slowly away, and no message came from Matilda; every time the drawing-room door opened, Selina and Leila were in anxious expectation—but still no message came. The young people went early to bed: how brightly had the morning dawned upon them, and now all was turned to sorrow. The first thing which struck Leila on entering her room was the muslin apron which she had embroidered for Matilda folded up and laid upon her bed; had she looked into her aunt’s room, she would have seen the writing-desk also returned, and placed upon the table. Had Matilda done this? had she felt that she was unworthy of retaining those gifts which had been given her as marks of love and affection? Leila prayed earnestly for Matilda, but it was long before she could compose herself to sleep; the piteous look which Matilda had cast upon her haunted her imagination.

Meanwhile poor Selina was not less unhappy. On entering the bed-room, she found Matilda seated at the table writing a letter. She looked much fluttered when Selina entered, and hastily threw her pocket-handkerchief over something on the table. Selina felt almost certain it was the etui which Matilda had admired so much. Matilda seemed unwilling to begin to undress; after a short time she said, making a visible effort to speak calmly, “Selina, do go to bed, and go quickly. I can’t come just yet; don’t ask me why.”

Selina began to undress. She then took her Bible to read as usual before saying her prayers. “Matilda,” she said, after a few minutes, “may I read you this text which I have turned up?”

There seemed a silent assent.

Selina read, “There hath no temptation taken you, but such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that you are able, but will with the temptation make a way to escape, that you may be able to bear it.” “Yes,” Selina said, “and it is by praying to God that we shall obtain His assistance,” and she knelt down by the side of her bed.

For some time after she had lain down, all was still in the room. Selina had turned her face from her sister, that she might not seem to watch her. After some time Matilda rose; she stood for a moment by the bed, then put something very gently below the pillow; she started when Selina said, “Matilda, I am not asleep;” but she knelt down, said her prayers, and then got into bed.

“How very cold you are, dear Matilda,” Selina said; “and how you tremble. O why will you not tell me all?”

Matilda pressed her hand. “Good night, dearest; try to sleep.”

Matilda seemed more composed; Selina felt comfort, she knew not why. After a considerable time Selina did sleep. She was awakened early by the bright morning sun, but when she opened her eyes she saw Matilda was not there. She called to her, there was no answer. Much alarmed, she sprang out of bed and flew to the window. She saw Matilda fully dressed, standing below a tree speaking to the gardener’s boy; she put a small packet into his hand, and pointed across the lawn in the direction of Mr. Mildmay’s. The packet was larger than a letter, Selina felt sure it was the etui. She retreated from the window, and when Matilda returned, took no notice of what she had seen. At the breakfast-table there was no Matilda with her smiling face. All the morning she continued in her room, seated by the window; she had her work in her hand, but was generally looking out along the approach as if she expected some one. About the middle of the day a servant in livery was seen approaching; he held a letter in his hand; as he stopped below her window, she strained her eyes to catch the address, but could not. Poor Matilda! how her heart beat, and how her colour went and came; but no one entered her room—the letter then could not have been for her. She called to Amy, who said she believed the servant had brought a letter for Mrs. Stanley. At that moment Selina came running in. “Matilda,” she said, “Mrs. Mildmay has written to say that Lydia has lost her ruby ring, and she begs it may be carefully looked for; she returned home, she says, with only one glove, and Mrs. Mildmay thinks she may have pulled it off in the glove, and trusts we may be able to find it.”

Selina looked earnestly at Matilda, but her expression she could not make out; she had brightened up considerably at first, but now there was only agitation visible, and she made no effort to assist in looking for the lost glove. It was not to be found in Matilda’s room; the drawing-room and dining-room had already been searched. They now proceeded to Leila’s apartment. Here they were equally unsuccessful: under the bed, under every chair, they searched in vain. Suddenly it struck Selina that it was at dinner, while Lydia was still there, that her mamma had observed that Matilda’s nails were black. There was a small window in one corner of Leila’s room which looked out upon the court; she threw open this window and gazed eagerly out; she saw something lying which might be a glove. Amy ran down into the court, and returned with the glove in her hand. The ring was sticking in one of the fingers, but the pale kid glove was much stained with earth, and could not have been used again. A new light seemed to dawn on Mrs. Stanley; “Amy,” she said, “go to the coachman, and tell him I shall require the carriage as quickly as possible, I must drive over to Mrs. Mildmay’s.” Then turning to Selina, she whispered, “I wish Matilda to return to her room, and let no one question her.”

The hour of Mrs. Stanley’s absence was an anxious hour to all. Selina and Leila were both with Matilda when the carriage was seen returning; when it stopped before the door Matilda seemed scarcely able to breathe. Mrs. Stanley entered and took her in her arms. “My poor child,” she said, “you have been very, very wrong; but, thank God, you have not told an untruth. O Matilda, how you have been injured by bad example, and how far the evil might have spread, had I not discovered Lydia’s artful character! Mrs. Mildmay told me she suspected something was wrong when she found you had written to Lydia, and sent back her etui; and even before I went she had extracted from her a sort of half confession. Unhappy girl! but she now seems completely penitent.” Then turning to Leila and Selina, she continued, “She seemed anxious to tell me all; she said that she had insisted on going into Leila’s room, as she wished to see her books and some pretty ornaments she had observed on the mantel-piece; that when she overturned the flower-stand, Matilda had wished her immediately to confess it, but she would not; that she had stuck the flowers into the earth and watered them, in the hope of keeping them fresh as long as she remained, and that she had bribed Matilda to perfect silence by offering her the etui; that Matilda at first refused, but afterwards yielded, and that Lydia had made her promise that she was to answer no questions, that she was not on any account to say she had not done it. Alas! my child, how you grieved the Holy Spirit when you took that wicked bribe; but deeply have you suffered, and I will inflict no further punishment upon you, than that you should remain in your room during the day. Think deeply of all that has passed, and of the misery you have endured, and pray earnestly to God for his forgiveness, and for strength to resist future temptation. Also you must give me your promise to give up all intimacy with Lydia Mildmay, and never to trust yourself alone with her again, unless in after years I give you leave to do so.”

Matilda threw herself again into her mamma’s arms, but she could not speak. She then slowly left the room.

“Selina,” she said, when soon after she was alone with her sister, “you can never know how unhappy I have been. I cannot tell it you. O it was so dreadful when mamma questioned me, and I dared not tell! And when I thought you all believed I was telling untruths, and that you could never love me again, I thought my heart would break. I did not know what was right and what was wrong, and for a long time I could not pray. But then I did, and God seemed to put it into my heart to send back the etui, and ask leave to tell; and I was a little happier after that. But when you took my hand in bed, and asked me again to tell, I grew worse again. I could not sleep; (only now and then a little;) my best time was when I stood under the tree, and saw the gardener’s boy running across the lawn with my letter, the air was so fresh, and the birds were singing, and the sun made every thing so beautiful. I felt quite happy then.”

The tears were running down Selina’s cheeks.

“I am making you sorry,” she continued; “I will not tell you any more. You know I am happy now, O so happy! and I will not forget this time, I am sure—no, I never, never will forget. Now go, dearest, to Leila, for I think mamma wishes me to be alone; but come in sometimes, with cousin Leila, and just kiss me and go away again.”