Mrs. Adair waited a considerable time in the cottage, and then returned home without receiving any satisfactory account of her pupil. All that she could learn was, that a little girl in a green bonnet had been seen stepping into a stage-coach. As coaches were continually passing the end of the village, she knew it was in vain making further inquiries. She wrote, however, immediately to Mr. Bruce, and sent a messenger with the letter, that he might meet them in town.

It has been observed, that Miss Bruce, in most cases, acted without reflection. The idea that she had done wrong did not strike her with full force, until the carriage in which she had placed herself arrived in London: the lights from the lamps, however, seemed to throw light upon her thoughts. When the coach stopped at the inn, the bustle of people gathering their luggage together, the idea that she did not know the road to her father’s house, the certainty that she had acted in a very foolish manner, and fear of the reception from her father, excited many disagreeable thoughts. She was seated in a corner of the coach, at a loss how to proceed, when the coachman came to the door. “Miss,” said he “won’t you alight? perhaps you are waiting for somebody?”

“I will thank you to take me home,” and this was said in a very humble tone.

The man whistled at the request. “I don’t know, Miss, whether I can or no. Did not your friends know that you were coming? But now I think of it, you seemed in a fright when you got into the coach: what, was you running away, Miss?”

Vexed at the question, Miss Bruce quickly answered, “I am going to see my papa. I have business with him.”

“Well, your business is not mine, Miss; but somehow, I think you have been cheating your schoolmistress. But come your way, till I can see for somebody to go with you.”I only wish some of my young readers could have seen Miss Bruce, how simple she looked when she followed the coachman into the inn. She wished to be at school, and with Miss Damer again—but it was then too late.

And here I would advise young people to beware of the first wrong step, for it generally leads to trouble and mortification, and often to disgrace.

Miss Bruce stood some time unnoticed at the entrance of a large room, partitioned into boxes. Waiters and travellers just looked at the young lady, and then passed on: people were too much engaged, with dishes, papers, packages, and glasses, to attend to the little stranger.

At length, however, one solitary gentleman, who perhaps had daughters of his own, took compassion upon the forlorn traveller.

“Come hither, my dear, and sit by me.”

Miss Bruce gladly accepted the offer, for she was a strange figure for a stage coach passenger. Her white frock was rumpled, and in a sad state from the blow she had received; the tippet was in the same style; her old green silk garden bonnet hung half off her head. One of her long sleeves she had untied from her tippet, and taken it off; the other remained. Garden gloves, cut at the fingers, completed the dress. Thus neatly attired, in an hour and ten minutes after her arrival in London she was ushered by a new footman into her father’s study, where he was seated reading a pamphlet. In a moment he turned the book open upon the table, raised one of the candlesticks above his head, and with a keen satirical look exclaimed, “what runaway is this?”

“Papa, it is I!” This was said in a very trembling accent.

“And pray who is I, that comes thus attired, and unasked at this unseasonable hour? Only wants three minutes of eleven,” said Mr. Bruce as he fixed his eyes upon the time-piece. “With whom did you travel?”

“With a little boy, and a great man, papa, and a little woman, with a baby and a lapdog.”

As Miss Bruce was speaking, she would have given a trifle to have been at school again.

“A goodly company indeed, young lady! By this I conclude that you have disgraced yourself! Sit here” (pointing to a chair behind the door); “it is the only place for idle, thoughtless truants. And now give a reason for your conduct: But there is no reason, with foolish, giddy girls! I will have every word correct: no varnishing, or lies.”

After much hesitation, and many tears, Miss Bruce went through the whole of her story. While she was speaking, her father seemed lost in thought. No sooner had she finished, but he started from his chair, and with his eyes fixed upon the floor, walked some time from one end of the study to the other. He then stopped, and looked sternly at his daughter. “And so you have been trying your skill at boxing! An admirable accomplishment for a young lady! You have taken upon yourself to be rude to your school companion; to be ungrateful to Mrs. Adair, and ventured to ride ten miles in a stage-coach! And in what a dress! You are indeed an enterprizing young lady! Now let me tell you, Miss Bruce, one simple truth: you have acted in all things contrary to that which you know is right. But pray what is the meaning of the word right?”

“To do all things that I know I should do; I do not know any thing more, papa; indeed I do not.”“You know the right, but a perverse and wilful disposition leads you to do wrong.”

Mr. Bruce rang the bell, and ordered the housekeeper into his presence. When she entered the room, he commanded her to close the door. “Take my daughter,” said he, “to the chamber that was occupied last night. You are not to speak to her, nor allow any servant in the house to do so. Give her a little bread and milk: go, child.”

“Papa,”—here Miss Bruce sobbed; and would have added, “O, do forgive me!” but her father sternly bade her leave him.

Mr. Bruce looked at his daughter when she was asleep. He heard her murmuring and intreating; and listened to words that affected him deeply. He sat down by her bed-side until she was tranquil: and whether he shed tears of tenderness over her is best known to himself; but the following morning, though his feelings were softened, his countenance was equally stern. His carriage was at the door; and at ten o’clock he and his daughter arrived at Mrs. Adair’s. Neither at breakfast nor during the ride had he uttered one word. “Madam,” said he, the moment he beheld the mistress of his child, “I have brought a runaway. I will not make an apology for her conduct: it is not in my way; it rests entirely with yourself whether she will be accepted or rejected. Providence, in the justness of his ways, has deprived her of an excellent mother. How far servants are capable of giving right ideas of female decorum, you are yourself to judge. When I fixed Margaret with you, it was not to education alone that I looked; my views and hopes extended to principles, temper, and conduct. The mere mechanical parts of education may at all times be purchased for money; automatons may be made to perform wonders. But we all know that something more is wanting to give solidity and consequence to character. If you refuse my daughter, she will lose her best friend.”

“Not another word, Sir, on the subject; I still expect to make something of this little girl. She is rash, careless, and perhaps a little mischievous: but I am not without hope; and past grievances we will now forget. Go,” said Mrs. Adair, turning to her pupil, “bring a frock to me; remember I pardon you now, but I shall never do so again; and take care that you do not tell any person that you ran away, and were so foolish.—It is well she is my god-daughter, and my namesake,” said Mrs. Adair, as her pupil crossed the hall: then, addressing Mr. Bruce, she added, “Depend upon my word, Sir; I will be the friend of your daughter in remembrance of her mother; this is the strongest claim upon my attention; far more so than that of a name.”

“I bless you again and again for your kindness,” said Mr. Bruce with warmth. “I have now no fears for Margaret; she must remain with you, until you can say, ‘your daughter is now all I can desire.’”

“This is exacting too much; ‘all that you can desire,’ is beyond my power to make her; but I will try to make her a comfort to you. I have good ground to work upon, and I hope you will have reason to think, that I have not neglected the soil.”

As Mr. Bruce was returning to his carriage, his daughter, who was descending the stairs with a clean frock, flew to him, exclaiming, “do say you forgive me! I will never vex you again; O, dear papa, say you will but forgive me.”“Well, child, I do forgive you.”

“O, how good and kind you are! I will never forget it. But, dear papa, won’t you say something more?”

“God bless you, child! and may he always bless you.”

Mr. Bruce hastened to the carriage, drew up the window, and the boy drove off. Tears streamed from Miss Bruce’s eyes; “O, that papa would but have given me one kiss, I should have been so happy!”

“If you are good,” said Mrs. Adair, “when next he sees you he will give you two.”

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