Sophie Kennedy's Experience; or The Stepmother, by Lucy Ellen Guernsey │ Project Gutenberg

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

"I have nothing to forgive," said Sophie, cordially
taking Carrie's outstretched hand, and kissing her.

Sophie Kennedy's Experience;

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by the
GEN. PROT. EPISCOPAL S. S. UNION and CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY,
in the Office of the Clerk of the United States' District Court for
The Southern District of New York.

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   THE following story was written with a view of doing something, if possible, towards overcoming the prejudice existing in the minds of children and grown people against Stepmothers. It is the impression of the writer that that most useful and sorely tried class of women have hardly received fair play at the hands of authors, from the times of Cinderella down to the present. No one will deny that it is a very difficult station. To take at once the whole charge of a family of children, usually after two or three years of unsettled habits of indulgence and mismanagement—with an abundance of friends, relatives, and acquaintances, all watching eagerly the conduct of the new mamma, and ready to take fire at the first approach to energetic government,—this is surely enough to tax to the uttermost the principles and capacity of any woman, particularly when she is young and inexperienced in the care of children.

   It is the serious impression of the Author that about as many stepmothers err on the side of indulgence as on that of strictness or severity. Of course, unprincipled and foolish women are to be found in this class as in every other; and in that case, it is usually hard to tell which are the greatest sufferers, her own children or her husband's.

   It is the Author's desire that the present little book may make matters easier for some good women who have assumed the charge of little ones not their own. She hopes, too, that if it falls into the hands of any young girl who has a second mother, it may lead her to consider seriously whether she is not sometimes wanting in the respect and obedience which her own mother would certainly have exacted. Should it accomplish either of these ends, the Author's best wishes for it will be fulfilled.

L. E. G.

   ROCHESTER, N. Y., Oct. 10, 1855.

CHAPTER I.

IT was recess, and most of the girls in the middle department of Miss Warner's school were gathered on the steps of the portico, as Laura Bartlett, who had not been in school the first part of the afternoon, made her appearance, evidently full of some great piece of information. Laura was news-carrier in general to the school, and Harriet Reed had in consequence given her the appellation of the "Daily Gazette." She was in such a hurry to communicate her tidings that she ran up the steps without holding up her dress, thereby gaining a serious stumble. But her ardor was not damped in the least.

"Oh, girls!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "I have heard such a piece of news. What do you think?"

"What is it, Laura, what is it?" exclaimed three or four voices. "Do tell us what you mean."

"Guess," answered Laura, feeling herself very important. "You shall guess, but you will never get at it, I know."

"I shall not try," said Harriet. "You will be sure to tell, if you are let alone."

Harriet was the oldest of the party, except Greta Carroll. She was a very sensible and steady girl, and had many good qualities. She was very witty likewise, and amused herself quite too frequently by laughing at her companions' faults and failings. Laura's eagerness for gathering and retailing news was a special subject for Harry's ridicule, and she often provoked her by refusing to listen to or credit her stories. She was quite right in this instance, for Laura was too eager to wait for the guesses of her schoolfellows. Out it came.

"Well—but you must never tell. Don't you think, Mr. Kennedy is going to be married again—in three weeks!"

"What a wonderful piece of news!" exclaimed Harry Reed. "I heard it three months ago—to Miss Allston."

"No, indeed, Miss Harry, you are out for once, for it is not Miss Allston. He is not going to marry Miss Allston at all, but a cousin of his first wife down in Virginia. So Sophie will have a stepmother."

"Poor little thing! It is too bad! So fond of her mother as she was too!" said several of the girls at once.

"I don't suppose she does yet," returned Laura, "but it is certainly true, and she will feel so bad. I declare it is right hard for her."

"I don't see why it is so hard," said Harriet. "I think it will be very good for her."

"A stepmother is—if Sophie Kennedy's father marries again, the new Mrs. Kennedy will be her stepmother. She will not be her very own mother, you see, but Sophie will have to obey her as if she were, and Mrs. Kennedy will take care of her just the same."

"Just as if she ever could be the same!" said Laura indignantly. "I think it is too cruel. It shows how much he cared for his first wife, any way."

"I would not talk so, if I were you, Laura," said Greta Carroll, who had not spoken before. "I am sure Mr. Kennedy did love his wife, and at any rate it is no business of—" Greta was going to say "yours," but she altered her mind and said "ours."

"Sophie is so quick-tempered and has so much feeling, that I am afraid it will not be very easy for her to get on with a stepmother," remarked Carry Woodford. "I know her own mother had enough to do to manage her, and of course a stranger I would not have the same patience with her, nor feel for her the same."

"I know Lydia Mather's mother used to scold her like any thing," observed Martha Pierce. "But then she was the greatest torment that ever was. I am sure she deserved it."

"Well, we shall see," said Laura, not observing that Sophie had come up and was standing just behind her, "but I am sure Mr. Kennedy's new wife will have her hands full with Sophie."

Harriet made her a signal to be silent, but it was too late, for Sophie had caught the words. She was a pale pretty little girl about twelve years old, with dark hair and large black eyes, and her general expression was rather sad, not to say a little peevish. She was neatly enough dressed, but there was a sort of unsuitableness in what she wore, which showed that she had no older person to guide her choice of apparel.

As she caught the words, "Mr. Kennedy's new wife," she turned as pale as death, and would have fallen if Greta had not caught her in her arms.

"See what you have done by your tattling, Laura," said Harriet in a very sufficiently sharp tone, assisting Greta to support Sophie. "Now don't begin to cry, child, but run and get some water. Stand away—do, girls! Let us take her into the dressing-room, Greta."

She was led and supported into the dressing-room by the two elder girls, and Laura brought her a glass of water, and a bottle of smelling-salts which she had borrowed at the next house.

"Thank you, Laura," said Harriet, repenting already of having spoken so hastily. "Now if you will go up stairs and tell Miss Warner that Sophie is not very well, and ask if Greta and I shall take her home—"

Sophie did not speak a word on the way home, and bidding the girls good night at the gate, she ran up stairs to her own room and locked herself in. She laid down on the bed and tried to collect her thoughts a little.

"Mr. Kennedy's new wife!" Could it possibly be true? She tried to think of every thing that could throw any light on the matter, and the more she considered upon it, the more she felt as if it must be so. She remembered that the house had been newly papered and painted lately, and that her mother's room had been fitted up with new furniture and curtains. She knew that her father had made several journeys lately and expected to go from home again soon, and she had heard Nancy the housekeeper speak of several things which must be done before his return.

The more she thought of it, the more she felt as if it were true. Sophie remembered her mother very well, for she was eight years old when she died, and she had been very much with her. Her mother had taught Sophie herself to read and write, and sew, and many other things. They used to read the Bible together, and Sophie had been carefully instructed by her in religious matters. Now she was going to have a new mother—a stepmother! She felt as if she wanted to die.

Her ideas of stepmothers were derived from certain stories she had read, and from the talk of the girls at school. Stepmothers, she thought, were always cruel and hard-hearted. They always tyrannized over the unfortunate children under their care, and made them work from morning till night. Perhaps the lady would have daughters of her own, and would care a great deal more for them than for her. She imagined a hundred scenes in which she played the part of Cinderella or little Margaret, and wept very heartily, partly over her coming sorrows and partly over the memory of her own mother, so that at tea-time she was ashamed to show her red eyes to her father. However, she bathed them in rose-water, and washed her face, and then went down stairs, hoping that her father would not observe that she had been crying.

But she could not keep her voice from trembling as she spoke, and the evident constraint of her manner, so different from her usual freedom, immediately attracted her father's attention. He asked her tenderly if she were not well.

"Quite well, papa," she replied, with difficulty controlling her voice sufficiently to speak.

"I am sure something is the matter, my love," said Mr. Kennedy anxiously. "Come round to me, and let us see if we cannot find out the difficulty." He put his arm round her as he spoke, and drawing her close to his side kissed her.

Sophie had felt a moment before as if she never could say a word to her father upon the subject which occupied her mind. But the caress, and her habit of confiding every thing to him, overcame her reserve. She burst into tears and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Her father tried to persuade her to listen to him quietly and stop crying, but she would not be pacified, and the more he caressed and soothed her the more she cried, until she became really hysterical. At last seriously displeased with her, he called Nancy, and bade her take Miss Sophie to bed.

Sophie rose and went away without saying a word to her father or bidding him good night, the first time she had ever done such a thing in her life. She followed Nancy up stairs and accepted her assistance in undressing. As soon as she was in bed, Nancy, instead of taking away the candle as usual, drew a chair and sat down by the side of the bed.

Nancy was a colored woman about fifty years old. She was tall and large, and always dressed herself very neatly in a figured gingham or calico, with a white apron, and a gay-colored handkerchief tied round her head instead of a cap. She had come from Virginia with Sophie's mother when she was married, and had always remained in the family. Nancy was an excellent servant and a good Christian, and had taken care of Sophie ever since she was born.

"Well, Miss Sophie," said she quietly, "now I should like to know what all this is about. You seem to feel very bad about something, but I haven't found out what it is. Maybe I can help you if I knew."

"Well—yes. I know something that is going to happen. Maybe it isn't the same though."

"Well," said Nancy, "and why should you cry about that? I expect, Miss Sophie," she continued, "you have been hearing the girls at school talking some nonsense or other about stepmothers. Now, dear, don't you go to believe a word of it. I know all about it. I have seen a good deal of such things, and my belief is that stepmothers are oftener too indulgent than not kind enough. I know how it was with your dear grandma, my old Missus."

"To be sure, child; didn't you know it? She married the old judge, your grandpa, when your mamma was about six years old. And though she was as good a woman as ever lived, she regularly spoiled her at first. It was not till she got so there was no living with her, that she governed her at all, and it came mighty hard at first I can tell you."

"I don't want any one to spoil me," said Sophie, "but I thought stepmothers were always unkind to children."

"That's all nonsense," answered Nancy. "Do you suppose your good papa, after being so kind to you all your life, and doing every thing in the world for you, is going to turn cruel all at once, and bring some one here on purpose to make you miserable? For shame, Miss Sophie!"

Sophie was silent for a few moments, and then said, "But, Nancy, my own mamma is in heaven, and I don't want to forget her. I remember just how she used to look and speak, and how she talked to me when she was sick, and—" Sophie wept afresh at the remembrance of her mother.

"Nobody wants you to forget her, child. You ought always to remember her as long as you live. But that need not hinder you from loving your new mamma, and trying to please her. She will be the last person that will want you to forget her, I am sure."

"I haven't seen her since she was seventeen years old," said Nancy. "I used to know her very well then. She is your mamma's own cousin, and used to look very much like her, only her hair was darker and thicker, and she was half a head taller. She used to play and sing beautifully, and she could draw too, and paint beautiful large pictures."

"Perhaps she will teach me," said Sophie, to whom prospects seemed to brighten decidedly.

"I expect she will teach you a great deal if you are willing to learn. And besides, as I was going to tell you, she is your godmother, and you were named after her."

"But I don't remember any thing about her, Nancy, and I always thought I was named for my cousin Sophie."

"Well, so you are. She is your cousin and you were named for her. And it would be strange if you did remember her, when you have not seen her since you were six weeks old. I hope now, Miss Sophie," she continued after a pause, "that you will be more reasonable, and not go into such a fit another time. And above all, I hope you will be sorry that you were so undutiful to your papa as not to bid him good night."

Nancy now took the candle and left the room, leaving Sophie to her own reflections. They were of rather a mixed nature. She was greatly comforted by the picture Nancy had drawn of her dreaded stepmother, and surprised and delighted to learn, that she was the same as her cousin Sophie—her dear godmamma, who had sent her a Bible and Prayer Book. She was ashamed too to think how ungrateful she had allowed herself to be in her thoughts and her conduct towards her kind father.

Then she remembered that she had not yet said her prayers. When her mother lived, she had been very particular about her prayers and reading the Bible, but since her death she had been left much to herself, and had become, I am sorry to say, very negligent in such matters. She got up to say her prayers now, however, with a feeling that she really needed help and protection from her Heavenly Father, as well as forgiveness for her sins. Just as she had finished, she heard her father come into his room.

Hastily slipping on her shoes and her little dressing-gown, she went softly and tapped at his door. He opened it, and stood still, looking somewhat surprised at seeing Sophie, for it was now quite late.

"Good night, my daughter," said Mr. Kennedy kindly. He bent to kiss her, and as he did so, she whispered in his ear, "I am very sorry, papa."

"We will talk about the matter to-morrow, Sophie," replied her father. "It is time you were asleep now. Good night, my love."

Sophie crept back to her bed with her heart much lighter, and was soon fast asleep.

CHAPTER II.

LITTLE Emma Gaylord had been sitting very still for almost half an hour: a very long while for her, for she was a very lively talkative little girl, and was not often quiet long at a time.

"The girls in school were talking this afternoon about Sophie Kennedy having a stepmother, and they seemed—some of them at least—to think that it would be very hard for her, but Harry Reed said she thought it would be a good thing."

"Who is Harry Reed, Emma?" asked Miss Tilden. "I did not know you had any boys in your school."

"Harry Reed is not a boy, aunt Eliza," said Emma laughing; "she is a very nice girl indeed. Her name is Harriet, but she has a cousin Harriet who is called Hatty, and Harriet Howe is always called Haly; so the girls, and her father too I believe, call Harriet Reed, Harry."

"No, mamma, she did not have a chance. I do not think she knew of it until she heard the girls talking about it. Then she turned pale and almost fainted away, and when she got better, Harry and Greta took her home. And when Miss Warner heard of it, she scolded Laura Bartlett for talking about it at all. Why do people think that stepmothers are always unkind, mamma?"

"No, Emma, I have known several who were very kind. But they have to govern their children sometimes like other people, and as children do not like to be governed, they are apt to think themselves cruelly treated."

"There are people, however," remarked Miss Tilden, "who can never be just to other people's children."

"Such persons are not very often just to their own children," said Mrs. Gaylord.

"I do not know," answered Miss Tilden. "There was cousin Louisa. She never could allow that any one else's children were either good or pretty; nay, she was often really offended at hearing them praised, and I do not know that she was unjust to her own."

"Unless you call it injustice to make them useless to themselves and torments to all around them. Between misgovernment and no government I never saw a family of children more thoroughly spoiled."

"Then, mamma," said Emma, "you do not think Sophie's mother will be unkind to her?"

"No, Emma, I presume not. I think perhaps it will be rather hard for Sophie to come into regular habits of obedience and industry, and that her mother will have to be rather peremptory with her sometimes, but that will be the greatest kindness."

"To be sure," said Emma, "Sophie does just as she pleases now, and Nancy does every thing for her. She does not know how to sew as much as I do, I know, for I can mend my own stockings, and I heard Sophie say that Nancy always made and mended all her clothes."

"And I suppose," said Miss Tilden, "you would like to have a Nancy to make and mend all your clothes, would you not?"

"Some one is knocking at the side door, Emma," said Mrs. Gaylord. "I think Jane has gone out. Run and see who it is."

"It is two poor women, mamma, that want to see you very much," said Emma re-entering. "Jane has taken them into the kitchen to sit down."

Mrs. Gaylord went out to see the people who had called, and Emma busied herself with her favorite Hans Andersen's storybook. Presently her mother returned.

"There is a woman in Front-street in great distress, Eliza. She has two children sick—one badly burned, and they are strangers in the city. I think I will take Jane and go round immediately to see what can be done."

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Gaylord smiling. "I know all the people in the block where they live. Nothing has ever yet happened to me, though my visiting duties have led me into some strange places. They may be suffering very much, and I shall not feel easy to wait till morning. There is not the least danger I assure you, my dear," she added, seeing that her sister looked uneasy. "I know both the women well who have come for me. So good night, my daughter: you must be in bed before I return."

"You have no school to-day, have you, Emma?" said Mrs. Gaylord next morning at breakfast.

"I should like to have you go with me and see the poor little girl in Front-street. She is just about your age, and you can perhaps do something for her. I wish you would run over directly and see if Mr. Kennedy is willing to let Sophie go with me; I have a particular reason for wishing it. If she will accompany us, I will call for her about ten."

Sophie was at home, and pleased with the idea of going, and they set out together, Emma carrying a little basket full of old linen and other such matters. When they reached the common stair which led up to the room, Sophie shrunk back as if she were rather afraid.

Mrs. Gaylord observed the motion and said, "There is nothing to fear, Sophie. I believe none but respectable people live in this block."

"How many more stairs are there, mamma?" inquired Emma laughing, as they reached the top of the second long flight. "Do your people live in the moon?"

"Not quite, Emma; there is only one flight more. What would you do if you were obliged to carry every drop of water you used up all these stairs?"

"Because the rents are low, and the rooms when you are once in them are warm and light. But here we are at last. I will knock at the door."

Mrs. Gaylord opened the door, and they entered the apartment. It was a small room with an old cooking-stove in it, and two or three equally old chairs. A rickety table made of rough boards and a broken cradle were all the furniture. Some attempt had evidently been made to clean up the floor, but without much success, and the windows were darkened with dirt. On a bed made up on the floor in the corner lay a little girl about Sophie's age, but rather smaller. Her face was bound with an old handkerchief, and one of her hands was also tied up in a bundle of rags. A baby about eight months old lay in the cradle fast asleep. The poor child seemed pleased at the sight of Mrs. Gaylord, and held out her left hand to shake hands with her. Mrs. Gaylord took one of the old chairs, and sat down beside her.

"I had a bad night, ma'am," said Betsey in a soft, pleasant voice. "And this morning I was so bad that mother went for a doctor, but I feel better now. The baby slept all night, and mother thinks she is better."

"This is my daughter, Emma, that I have brought to see you," said Mrs. Gaylord; "and the other little girl is Sophie Kennedy. Is there any thing I can do for you before your mother comes in?"

"If you will undo this cloth on my hand, ma'am," answered Betsey. "It is tied too tight, I think, or else my hand gets worse, for it hurts me very much."

Mrs. Gaylord gently undid the dirty rag of a handkerchief, and both the girls shrunk from the sight it revealed. The whole hand was perfectly raw, and very much swelled and inflamed. Mrs. Gaylord cut some soft linen and wrapped it up, separating the fingers from each other as she did so. She then took the bandage from her face and dressed it anew. The operation was evidently painful, but Betsey bore it with great fortitude, though the girls could not bear to witness it.

"Very much, miss. But I am glad to have it done before mother comes in, it makes her feel so bad."

Just as she finished speaking, a poorly dressed woman entered, accompanied by the city physician, a great stout German, as kind-hearted and skilful as he was eccentric.

"It shmells meeshrable in here," said he, stopping on the threshold. "What for do you not clean up?"

"I've been trying to do a little," answered the poor woman, "but we only got here last night, and the children were so bad I could not do much."

"Well, well," said the doctor, "that will all be in good time." Then, after speaking to Mrs. Gaylord and nodding to the girls, he sat down on a box by Betsey's side.

"I have got a burn on my face and hand, sir," said Betsey, "and I have a bad cough besides."

"Hush, little girl," said the doctor gently. "I shall first hear your mother. Tell me now, good woman; how was it?"

"Night before last, sir, at the place where we stopped, it was done. You see, the child has coughed very bad these six weeks, and I own I was fairly beat out watching her, the baby too being worrysome on account of its teeth. So we stayed at a sort of tavern there was there; and the woman of the house was very good to us, I must say, and gave Betsey something that seemed to ease her cough, and said she would sit up all night with her, if I would go to bed.

"So I being so tired, and Betsey too, poor child, saying, 'Do, please, mother,' they over-persuaded me, and I went. But, oh, doctor, see what happened. In the middle of the night, the man of the house came home as drunk as a beast, and stumbled up stairs into the room. Betsey had dropped asleep, and the woman having stepped out a moment, what does he do but take the candle off the table and go to look at the child, and he being drunk dropped the candle on the bed.

"And so," said the poor woman sobbing, "when the child screamed, we both ran in together, and there was the bed all on fire, and before we could put it out, she was burned as you see."

"Now, doctor—now, ma'am," said Betsey eagerly, "was it her fault? How could she know that the man would come home drunk?"

"No, my little child," said the good doctor kindly; "I cannot say I think it was any one's fault, except the drunken toad of a man."

"You look very young to be this girl's mother," remarked the doctor. "Is she your own child?"

"All the same as my own, sir. I married her father when she was six years old and never was an own child better, or easier to rule. It's now going on eight months since the father died, and left me with this little one, the first I had, about five weeks old. I did what I could to support them and myself decently, and Betsey worked like a little woman. Somehow she took cold about eight or nine weeks ago, and she has never got over it, but grew worse and worse all the time. The winters in that part of the country are very hard, and having something beforehand, I thought I would come over here, and try to get some quiet country place where I could work for a living, for I've no great love for the city. But when we got here last night, the poor things were so bad, I was glad to get the first corner I could to put my head in. But I hope she will get well, for it would go near to break my heart to lose her."

"I tink you are one very good woman." said the doctor emphatically. "I shall do what I can for your girl, you may depend. What do you say, little child, will you have me for your doctor?"

Mrs. Gaylord again removed the wrappings, and the doctor after examining the burns, with a fresh burst of indignation against "the drunken toad" who had caused the mischief, took his leave, promising to call again in an hour. Mrs. Gaylord rose to go at the same time, being desirous to learn his opinion of the case.

"We must make her as comfortable as we can, madam, but I fear there is no cure possible. She may linger a long time, but she will never be well."

"They seem very destitute of clothes, but those they have are very decent," said Mrs. Gaylord. "I wonder how it happened!"

"The woman has told me that her goods were lost overboard in the storm on the lakes," said Dr. Werner. "Good day, madam, I shall see you again soon."

"I wish I could do something for Betsey, mamma," said little Emma as they walked homeward.

"You can, my love. I shall get some cotton cloth for nightgowns as we go home, and you may help make them. We must get them done as soon as possible."

"May I come and help you, Mrs. Gaylord," asked Sophie. "I cannot sew very fast, but I will try my best."

"Certainly, Sophie, we shall be very glad of your help. Ask your father to let you come over this afternoon."

"I was going out with Laura Bartlett this afternoon," said Sophie hesitating, "but I don't care much about it. I would rather come and sew with you and Emma."

"Then excuse me, my dear, but I think you should keep your engagement. Promises are not to be trifled with, you know. Laura no doubt will depend upon you, and you should not disappoint her."

"I know very well," said Sophie, "how disagreeable that is. The other day Carry Woodford promised to call for me just after dinner, to go and see Anne Weston before she went away. But she did not come, and I waited and waited till night for her, and so I did not see Anne after all, and Carry had no very good reason either. But this would be different."

"I might stop and see Laura, and ask her if she cares about going," said Sophie; "and if she does not, I will come."

"That would do very well," replied Mrs. Gaylord. "If Laura will excuse you, I shall be happy to see you."

When Sophie got home, she related to her father the story of her morning's visit, dwelling particularly on the affection of Betsey and her mother for each other, for Sophie had fine perceptions, and the beautiful in any shape made a great impression on her. Mr. Kennedy listened with great interest, and when she had finished, said quietly,—

"Oh, papa!" said Sophie imploringly, and with crimson blushes. "Please don't talk about that. I am so sorry. I will never be so foolish again."

"I hope not, my pet. But Sophie, if your mamma should be obliged to restrain you or reprove you, how will it be then? You have almost run wild for the last three years. Do you think you can submit cheerfully to be brought into regular orderly habits like other little girls?"

"I don't know, papa, but I think I could. After all, it is pleasanter to be told what to do, than it is to do things and then be sorry afterwards. Nancy has been telling me about mamma, and I think I shall like her very much indeed."

"Yes, papa, to help make some nightgowns for Betsey. Laura did not care about going out."

Mr. Kennedy was much pleased. "I am always glad to have you with Mrs. Gaylord, Sophie, and with Margaret Carroll and her cousins. As for Laura, she chatters rather too much."

"Laura does not mean any harm, papa. She likes to hear herself talk, but she is very good-natured after all."

"These very good-natured people often do a deal of mischief," said her father. "You may give this three-dollar bill to Mrs. Gaylord, if you please, Sophie, and ask her to lay it out for Betsey and her mother as she thinks best."

CHAPTER III.

IN about a week, Mr. Kennedy left home to bring back Sophie's new mamma, leaving Nancy and Mrs. Gaylord to make all the necessary arrangements for her reception. He expected to be gone from home about four weeks, during which time Sophie was to go to school as usual. He had at first thought of making it a holiday time, but Sophie herself petitioned against it.

"The time will not seem nearly as long if I am at work as usual, as it would if I were at home all day, with nothing to do but to count the hours."

So Sophie went to school accordingly. And if she was not quite as diligent as usual, and sometimes fell into a reverie over her books, and now and then forgot to answer in the right place, Miss Warner was a reasonable person, and made all due allowances.

"It is perfectly natural," she said, in reply to one of her assistants, who had made some complaint of this state of things. "She will settle again presently. We should any of us do the same under the same circumstances."

"How absent you are growing, Sophie!" said Harry Reed to her one day. "You will soon have no head left."

"I know it," said Sophie; "it is because I am all the time thinking about—" She left the sentence unfinished, and proceeded in a more lively tone: "But I am really getting better, Harry, since I have been sitting with Greta Carroll. She tells me, when she sees me forgetting to study. What a good girl she is!"

"You and she are great friends," proceeded Sophie; "and yet you are as different as summer and winter. But Laura Bartlett says, she sets up for a saint, because she is so particular about prayers, and such things."

"Laura Bartlett is an impertinent chatterbox," said Harry, with great indignation. "She had better be careful what she says, or she may find herself in trouble, some of these days."

"There it is!" exclaimed Sophie, laughing. "Now Greta would never have said that."

Harriet looked a good deal mortified at the comparison. She was quite conscious of her hasty manner of speaking, and often made excellent resolutions in regard to it. These were formed at first with the fullest confidence in her own powers of keeping them, but numerous failures had rather weakened this confidence. She now changed color so much that Sophie thought she had really offended her.

"I beg your pardon, Harry, for being so saucy," she said. "You and Greta are so kind to me that I forget you are grown-up young ladies, seventeen years old, while I am only a little girl."

"I am not angry with you, child," said Harry, trying to speak as if nothing was the matter, but not quite succeeding—"but we must not waste any more time now. I wonder where that French book is that I had this morning. I must look over my lesson before school."

"It is on Miss Field's table, up stairs. I will run and get it for you," said Sophie, happy to do any thing for Harry, of whom she was very fond.

"Has she?" said Harry, finding her place, and not appearing much interested in the news.

"Yes," answered Sophie, "and I stopped to speak to her while Miss Field found your book. She said she had heard that my new mother was very handsome, and asked me if I knew."

"I said I did not know, but I was sure I should like her, whether she was or not."

"Very good," said Harry. "And now let me give you one piece of advice: don't let the girls draw you into talking about your father's affairs. There are some of them just foolish enough to do it, but it is very wrong, and will only bring you into trouble. Now mind what I tell you, and whatever they say, do you say nothing. Now, if you like, you may get your book and study here, and I will tell you the hard words."

As the time drew on for Mr. Kennedy to return home, Sophie grew more and more restless. And when the very day arrived, she felt as if she could never wait till six o'clock in the evening. She awaked much earlier than usual, and got up, because she could not go to sleep again.

When breakfast was ready, she thought, as she sat down alone, "To-morrow papa and mamma will be here." And she tried to fancy how the table would look, when a thought came into her mind which made her feel rather grave. She had been used to make tea and coffee for her father for almost two years, and he had never liked to sit down without her. Now her mamma would take her place, of course, and she herself would be only a secondary person. Sophie had no heart to finish her breakfast after this. She wandered about the house, feeling very sad, she hardly knew why, and quite dreading to have the hour arrive, which she had begun by expecting so impatiently.

Mrs. Gaylord, who had come over to consult Nancy about some final arrangements, noticed the little girl's depression, and suggested the propriety of finding her some employment.

"Suppose mistress should send her to the little sick girl, with some of the apple-jelly I made this morning: there was more than enough to fill the moulds, and I put the rest into a little pot, thinking to run over with it myself, but I see I shall not have time. I suppose there could be no danger in her going down there alone."

"O no!" answered Mrs. Gaylord. "Emma often goes and spends the whole afternoon there. Sophie, will you go over and take some jelly to Betsey, and read to her a while? She had a bad night, and nurse told me she was rather low-spirited this morning."

"Just as you please, my dear; you will be the better for something to do, and Betsey will be glad to see you. You know her mother is away at her work a great deal now, and nurse cannot be with her all the time."

"I will go, to be sure," said Sophie, ashamed of her hesitation. "Will you get the things ready, aunty, while I put my bonnet on?"

Betsey's friends had removed the family from the dirty attic and noisy street where we first found them, and placed them as boarders with an elderly woman, who was often employed in this way by the charitable society. Nurse Brown's house was in a very quiet and pleasant street, in the outskirts of the city, where invalids would not be disturbed with noise, and where they could enjoy almost as much fresh air as if they were in the country.

The morning was fresh and fine, and the trees in the prime of their October beauty. As Sophie walked on through the leaves, now dropping so fast that no sweeping could keep them from covering the walks, she began to feel her heart much lightened. She stopped under a hard-maple tree, and gathering a handful of its most brilliant leaves, she arranged them into a bouquet.

"I wonder if they have such leaves in Virginia," she thought; "I will arrange some and put in the parlor vases when I go home."

Just then some one called her—and, looking up, she saw Greta Carroll, in her garden bonnet, and with her hands full of flowers, standing at a gate across the street, and ran to speak to her. "Are you going to nurse Brown's, Sophie? Will you take these flowers to Betsey?"

Sophie exclaimed at the beauty of the bouquet. There were verbenas and heliotropes, petunias and dahlias, and variegated snap-dragons, and one monthly rosebud.

"When you come back, I will give you some for yourself," said Greta, enjoying the little girl's admiration. "The frost will come to take them so soon, that I do not at all mind gathering them; and the garden is overrun, besides."

"We have hardly any flowers, except such as will grow of themselves," remarked Sophie. "Papa has no time to attend to them. I do hope mamma will love flowers, we have such a nice place for them."

"You shall have some for her to-night, at any rate," answered Greta, "and next week I will give you some chrisanthemums, which will blossom till Christmas. Good-by, dear."

Sophie tripped on her way, admiring the beauty of the flowers, and pleased at the thought of having some for her mamma.

When she arrived at nurse Brown's gate, she found good Dr. Werner just entering. Sophie had quite gotten over her fear of him. And though she sometimes smiled at his odd English, and could not help wishing he would not smoke such strong cigars, she was always pleased to meet him. And he, on his part, was much interested in the bright-eyed little girl.

"Ah, ah, my little friend, you come with both hands full. What will you make with the pretty flowers?"

"I am going to give them to Betsey, sir. And Nancy has sent her some apple-jelly." Sophie opened her basket, and displayed her treasures.

"That is good, very good," said the doctor, smacking his lips, and pretending to cast longing eyes towards the dainties, "but now suppose I should steal you while you are going up stairs?"

"We should say, 'rob you,'" said Sophie, modestly. "We say, one steals something, but one robs a person."

"I think that is all one," said the doctor, good-humoredly, "but I shall never learn English right. Do you wait here now till I shall dress the burns, for it is not good for you to see that done, and then I will call you. I will be the bitter medicine, and you shall be the good sugar to take away the bad taste."

"Do you hear, little girl—you must not talk much to her, for she is very weak. You shall only sit by her, and read very softly, and perhaps she will go to sleep."

Sophie, who had not seen Betsey for several days, was struck by the alteration in her appearance. She had grown much thinner; her skin looked like paper, and, on the well cheek, which was not concealed by the bandage, was a round spot of deep crimson. Poor little Betsey seemed to be fast passing away. She opened her eyes, and smiled at the sight of Sophie, but did not appear to have energy enough to speak. The sight of the flowers seemed to revive her: she took them in her hands, and smelt of them with evident pleasure.

"How sweet they are!" she said in a whisper. "I am so glad of them! I thought I should never see any more flowers."

"They came from Greta Carroll," said Sophie, "the young lady who gave you the caps, you know. She is as pretty as the flowers herself, and just as sweet."

"Every one is very good to us," said Betsey. "I am glad we came here, for mother will have some kind friends to help her. I am afraid she will grieve sadly when I am gone."

"DO you think you shall die, Betsey?" asked Sophie, surprised at the way in which she spoke.

"O yes, miss; I have known it this great while. I never say a word to mother about it, for it makes her feel so bad, and she cannot help hoping. But I shall never be any better; and only for leaving mother, I should not mind. I am not afraid."

"God can take care of your mother, you know," said Sophie, timidly, after a little pause.

"I know it," said Betsey; "it is not that. It is only that I feel sorry to leave her. But it will not be long."

"Shall I read to you, Betsey?" asked Sophie, after a few moments' silence. "Dr. Werner said you must not talk much."

"If you please Miss Sophie. I should like to hear the hundred and third and hundred and fourth psalms first."

Sophie read in a low voice, sitting close to the bed. At the verse, "Look how high the heaven is, in comparison of the earth: so great is the Lord's mercy toward them that fear him," Betsey repeated the words and went on to the next herself.

"How beautiful that is!" she murmured. "As far as the east is from the west, so far has he set our sins from us. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him."

At the words, "He sendeth the springs," she roused herself again. "I know where there is just such a place in Canada, where we used to live. There is a little sort of ravine runs up from the river, with high rocks on both sides, and at the end of it there is a clear beautiful spring that runs so cool and sweet over the rocks. I can see how it looks just now, with the red sumach leaves dropping into it. Don't you love to be in the country, miss?"

"Yes, dearly," answered Sophie, "but I have almost always lived in the city. I think perhaps we shall spend next summer in the country."

"If you do," said Betsey, "and if you find any such pretty spring, you may think it is a keepsake to remember me by. Are you tired of reading, dear?"

"Oh, no," replied Sophie eagerly; "I often read two hours at a time to papa. What shall I read next?"

Sophie turned over, and read the wonderfully beautiful words of divine consolation. She had never seen half the meaning in them that she found now, as she repeated them for the comfort of the poor dying child, for whom they seemed so full of heavenly peace. Betsey now and then repeated the words after her, and finally fell asleep with them on her lips.

Sophie sat looking at her a few minutes without moving. "After all," she thought, "Betsey does not seem to be unhappy. The only thing that troubles her, is the thought of leaving her mother: and she seems so sure of seeing her again. She is not at all afraid of dying. I suppose it is because she is so good. I mean to ask her about it some day when she is better, and able to talk."

Sophie sat by Betsey till nurse Brown came in, and then went home, not forgetting to call for the flowers Greta had promised her.

When she arrived at home, she filled the parlor vases, and put a beautiful bouquet on her mother's dressing-table. After dinner Nancy asked her to dust and arrange the books in the parlors, and this occupied her until it was time to dress herself. Then feeling very much agitated, but not unhappy, she went down and seated herself by the parlor fire, for the evening was chilly, and a little blaze was very pleasant. She took a book from the table and tried to read, but found it impossible to fix her attention a moment. Finally she gave up all attempt at employment, and sat still by the fire, listening for the railroad whistle, or the wheels of the carriage.

Nancy was almost as nervous in her way. She was one moment in the kitchen where the dinner was cooking, then in Mrs. Kennedy's own room, then she overlooked Sophie's dress to see that all was right, and then she cast a vigilant glance upon the table and its appointments to see that nothing was wrong.

Sophie was sure the cars had run off the track, or else that they were not coming till to-morrow, a dozen times, before they finally announced themselves by a prolonged screech to be within a mile of the city. After that she could sit still no longer, and she stood at the window, or walked up and down the room, wishing and yet dreading to have the meeting over, till the carriage turned into the street and stopped.

Nancy went down to the gate to meet the travellers, but Sophie stood timidly at the door. She heard her father's voice, and then a lady's, speaking to Nancy, and with a strange feeling of anxiety and fear she shrunk aside from the door as they entered.

Mr. Kennedy lifted Sophie in his arms, and kissed her more fervently than he had ever done before. Then he took her hand, and put it into that of the lady who stood beside him.

"This is my little girl, Sophia," he said, in a tone of deep feeling. "Sophie, this lady is your mother."

Sophie had fully determined not to cry, whatever happened, but her father's tone and warm embrace quite overset her, and as she threw her arms around her new mamma's neck, she burst into tears. Nobody found fault with her for crying this time, however. Her mamma only pressed her face close to hers, and kissed her over and over again, while her father walked rather hastily to the other end of the hall, and stood for a minute looking out of the window, though it was quite too dark to see any thing.

"Come, Sophie, have you got a good fire for us? It is really cold this evening."

"Yes, papa," said Sophie, brushing away her tears, and opening the parlor door, "fire and lights, and dinner too, when mamma is ready."

"Did Nancy arrange all these beautiful flowers and leaves?" asked Mrs. Kennedy, speaking for the first time.

"No, mamma. Greta gave me the flowers, and I arranged them. I thought you would like to see them."

"You guessed rightly, my love; I am very fond of flowers, and these are beautiful. I am surprised to see such a variety so late in the season."

"The frost keeps off wonderfully!" remarked Mr. Kennedy. "And we have had so much rain that the gardens are in fine order."

"Thank you, Sophie, I will change my dress, if there is time before dinner. I feel as if I were covered with dust. Will you show me the way?"

"Here is your room, mamma; and I believe it is all in order for you. This is the bathing-room, and here are two closets; and here are your trunks, already. I will come and call you when dinner is ready."

"Wait one minute, Sophie," said Mrs. Kennedy, who was unlocking one of her trunks. She removed one or two dresses, and then took out a little morocco box like a watch-case, which she placed in Sophie's hands.

Sophie opened the pretty little case; and there, on a white velvet cushion, lay a little enamelled Geneva watch, with its key, and a beautifully-worked hair chain.

"Why, mamma!" exclaimed the little girl, hardly daring to trust her eyes. "Not for 'me'! Not a real watch! Oh, how glad I am! Thank you very much, mamma. What a beauty it is! And such a lovely chain! It is just the color of your curls."

"That is not very remarkable, considering how recently they were neighbors," said Mrs. Kennedy, smiling. "I made it for you myself, and I am glad you are pleased with it. It would be thought—the watch, I mean—rather an expensive present for a girl like you, by many people, but I remembered how pleased I was at your age, when your grandmamma gave me one, and with what delight I used to wind it up, and refer to it. Moreover, Sophie, I am very punctual, and always want every one about me to be the same; and you will have no excuse for being behind-hand, now that you have a watch of your own."

"I do not think I am very particular, my dear. I am not as neat as that New England lady, who used a white quilt five years without washing."

"But I like to have things nice about me, and I am not fond of having people dilatory, because that wastes so much time. But you need not be alarmed, my child. We shall find out each other's ways by degrees, and if I should ever find fault, it will be because I think it necessary, and not because I like it."

Mrs. Kennedy had finished dressing by this time, and she and Sophie returned to the parlor together. At dinner, Sophie quite forgot to feel bad at not sitting at the head of the table, she was so much occupied in looking at her mother, and admiring her white hands and graceful manners. She began to feel quite unconstrained and at her ease, and talked to her father about her school, and her playmates, and her chickens, as freely as if they had been alone together.

"She is not any better, papa: I do not think she will ever be, for Dr. Werner says she has the consumption. I was there this morning and read to her a long time."

"She is a little English girl, mamma, who is sick at nurse Brown's." And Sophie gave an account of Betsey's adventures and sufferings, ending with—"And for all that, mamma, and though she thinks she will certainly die, she is not at all unhappy; and when she is a little better, she seems to enjoy looking at flowers and pictures, as much as any one. She does not seem to feel bad about any thing except going away from her mother."

"You think, I suppose, you would not be as cheerful as she is under the same circumstances."

"No, mamma, I am sure I do not think I could, especially if I thought so much about dying as she does. But I suppose it is because she is so good."

"We will talk about it again, Sophie. Perhaps we shall be able to ask her about it some time. Do you go and see her very often?"

"Pretty often, now she is at nurse Brown's," answered Sophie. "She always seems glad to see any of us when we go in. She is alone a good deal, for her mother goes out to work, and nurse Brown is apt to be busy. She will be glad to see you, mamma, I am sure."

Sophie looked surprised. She did not know what her father meant by asking her to play, but Mrs. Kennedy rose, and opening the new piano, sat down and ran her fingers over the keys.

"It is a very brilliant instrument," she said, pausing a moment, and then beginning one of Beethoven's waltzes.

Sophie listened perfectly entranced till the last soft tones died away, and then, with a long-drawn sigh, she exclaimed, "Oh, what music! Please, mamma, play another."

Mrs. Kennedy played another and another, and then sang several songs, and still Sophie was not satisfied. She remembered, however, that her mother must be tired with her journey, and forbore to ask for one more.

Mrs. Kennedy left the piano and sat down again by the fire. "Have you ever taken music lessons, Sophie?" she inquired.

"No, mamma, not exactly. Greta taught me the letters, and how to read music a little, and I have learned to play two or three tunes on her piano, for we have never had a piano till lately."

Sophie hesitated, but finally went to the piano and played one or two tunes very prettily. She had a quick ear and a good perception of time, so that she seldom made mistakes.

"I should think you would learn music pretty easily," said Mrs. Kennedy. "You seem to have a good ear, and your touch is light and steady. You cannot do much with music, however, when you go to school."

"In that case we must see about some music lessons," said her mother. "It is a pity you should not learn, if you have a good ear. But you will need a great deal of patience."

"I am sure I cannot learn then," said Sophie, "for I have not a particle of patience. If I cannot learn any thing directly, I never can learn it at all."

"Perhaps we had better begin with lessons in patience then, which is an acquirement much more necessary than music," remarked Mrs. Kennedy.

"People usually learn it when they are obliged to do so," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "But, Sophie, how do you get on in school, if you have no patience?"

"I don't know. We always expect teachers to be patient. It seems easy enough for them."

"Nevertheless, it is as hard for them as for any one else. But they know they must be, and so they learn it. And that is the only way any one learns."

"And that is time you were asleep, my dear. You will be complaining of headache in the morning. So take your lamp, and do not forget to wind up your watch."

When Sophie was alone in her room, she began to think over the events of the day which seemed so long to look back upon. She could hardly persuade herself that she had been reading to the sick girl only that morning: it seemed as if it must have been a week ago at least. Her mind was so full of her new mamma's words and looks and music that she could think of nothing else. She said her prayers, however, and then feeling very happy, she lay down and dropped asleep, almost before her head touched the pillow.

CHAPTER IV.

THE next day, which was Saturday, was occupied by Mrs. Kennedy in making acquaintance with the house, and in unpacking and putting away the contents of her travelling trunks. Sophie was very much interested in this proceeding, and particularly delighted with the sight of her mother's portfolios of drawings and paintings.

"Yes, my dear; all the pictures in that purple book are sketches from nature. There is a sketch of your grandmother's house there somewhere."

Sophie opened the book and found the sketch. "Oh, what a lovely place!" she exclaimed. "Did grandmamma live in such a place as this?"

"Yes, that is a very good portrait of the house; the two high windows that you see at the corner of the verandah were in your mamma's room."

"Not much, Sophie. Your mother had a very bright color, and brown hair, and her face was very full and round, when I last saw her. Your voice puts me in mind of her sometimes. I hope you will be half as good and sensible. Your mother was one of the steadiest persons I ever saw. If she once made up her mind that any course was right—if she saw her way clear before her, she always went straight forward, at any sacrifice to herself."

Sophie sighed, but made no remark. Presently her mother took out two workboxes, one after the other.

"Probably because you do not know how. But you must learn to sew, my dear child. It is an art much more necessary than drawing, or playing on the piano. I have brought you a work-box, you see, and I think we must make that one of our first lessons, shall we?"

"Yes, mamma," said Sophie, admiring the pretty box with its complete appointments, but a little alarmed at being set down to sew. "But I would much rather learn to draw."

"What do you like?" asked her mother. "I like to read, mamma, and to study some things."

"History, mamma, especially natural history; and I like to translate French, and sometimes to write compositions, when I feel like it."

"You will have to acquire a taste, then, my dear, for figures are almost as necessary as sewing. I suspect the fact is, you like to do what you can do easily."

"The best natural taste, as you call it, would be a natural taste for work, but that very few people possess. Nothing worth doing can be done without work."

"Why—people that have a great genius for music or painting, like Mozart or Paganini, or some of the great painters."

"You have chosen your instances rather unluckily: Mozart, who composed and played the most difficult pieces at six years old, was a wonder of study and industry. Paganini often practised for hours at a single strain. Michael Angelo studied unceasingly, as have all the great painters. No doubt other people have had as much genius as Michael Angelo, but wanting the genius for work, their gifts were all in vain."

"Well, mamma," said Sophie, sighing, "I suppose I must learn to sew, but I do not like to. I wish one could get along without it."

"You will like it better when you learn to sew fast and easily. As for the arithmetic, we will see about it. Perhaps you have not begun in the right way; there is a good deal in that. The next week will probably be too much broken up by visits to allow of our doing much, but I hope, after that, we shall both settle to our regular employments."

The next day was Sunday, and Sophie was glad to see the sun shining when she arose. Before she was quite dressed, her mother rapped at her door:

Sophie was not quite ready, but she made as much haste as possible, and accompanied her mother down stairs. She found all the servants assembled in the dining-room, and her father sitting with the large Bible and Prayer Book before him. As soon as they had seated themselves, he read a chapter in the New Testament, and a Psalm, and then they had prayers.

Sophie was pleased and affected by the scene, for she had strong religious feelings, though she had never learned to apply them in actions. But she saw the propriety of beginning the day with a solemn appeal to the Disposer and Father of all, and particularly the Sabbath—God's peculiar day. It made her think, too, of the time when her mother was living, and able to join in their prayers; and she prayed that she might be allowed to join her again in that land where there are no more partings.

"No, mamma, not now," answered Sophie. "I used to go, but my teacher got married and went away, and then I did not care any more about it."

"I read, mamma, and write my compositions, and sometimes I learn my lessons. Do you think it is wrong to study on Sunday?" she inquired, seeing that her mother looked rather grave.

"That depends upon what you study, Sophie," answered her mother. "I do not think it is right to use Sunday for lessons which should be learned during the week. As long as we have one day in the week set apart for religious improvement, we should, I think, use it for that purpose."

"But, mamma," said Sophie, "Sunday is such a dull day, if one does nothing but read the Bible. Somehow it is all so familiar, and I have read it so many times that I can never keep my mind fixed upon it."

"We used to learn two or three verses in the Testament, papa, and say them to Miss Fisher, and she explained them to us. And we learned hymns, and talked about our library books. I liked it very well then, but I do not care about it now."

"We must try to hit upon some new method of studying the Bible, Sophie," remarked Mrs. Kennedy. "Perhaps you may find that you are not as familiar with it as you imagine. I wonder if you can tell me now what countryman Abraham was?"

Mrs. Kennedy smiled, and shook her head. "There were no people called Jews till long after his time, my dear. You may take that for your Sunday's lesson, and see if you can find out."

Sophie was a little vexed at being in the wrong. She was, as the girls at school said, rather "touchy." And when any little thing happened to displease her, she would color and bite her lips and look very unamiable.

Mrs. Kennedy took no notice of these demonstrations of displeasure, but continued, notwithstanding Sophie drew up her head in a manner which she considered very dignified, "We are, perhaps, rather inclined to overrate our stock of knowledge until we are called upon to make use of it."

"In the Book of Genesis you will find all about him. But we must not sit too long over the breakfast-table, or the girls will not have time to get ready for church."

Sophie was quite delighted with her mother's appearance, when she came down stairs, ready for church. She wore nothing expensive, but all her clothes were so well chosen and put on, that Sophie thought she had never seen any one better dressed. And yet Mrs. Kennedy did not appear to think much about it either, though she was rather anxious to get into church early.

They accordingly arrived at the church-door just as the second bells began to toll, and there were very few people in church. After they had taken their seats, Mrs. Kennedy opened a Bible that was in the pew, and read till it was time for service to begin. A good many people stared rather uncivilly, but she did not seem to pay any attention to them, though Sophie thought she blushed once or twice as she looked up and caught some one's eyes fixed full upon her.

Sophie noticed that she read the Psalm and responses in an audible voice, and that she paid the greatest attention to the sermon.

As they came out of church, several of the school-girls spoke to Sophie, and Mrs. Gaylord came round at the door to shake hands with her father. Laura Bartlett also made her way round; and, while talking to Sophie, she contrived, as she said, "to have a good look at the bride," in order that she might give a description of her dress and appearance to such of her schoolmates as attended different churches, and therefore had not the felicity of beholding her first appearance. It is wonderful to reflect what a talent some people have for collecting information, and melancholy that it is so thrown away. If Laura had turned her attention to the antiquities of Rome, for instance, she might have rivalled the great Niebuhr himself, but her curiosity did not extend itself greatly in the direction of books.

The next week passed away very quietly and pleasantly for Sophie. As her mother had predicted, the time was too much broken up by visits, for any regular occupation.

Mrs. Kennedy was all the time becoming better and better acquainted with her daughter's disposition and acquirements. She perceived that Sophie was a good deal spoiled by neglect and indulgence, and that she had faults which would call forth all her patience and forbearance. She foresaw that she must be contented with small beginnings and long-continued efforts, but she was encouraged by seeing that Sophie had very good qualities to begin upon. She was affectionate, intelligent, tolerably truthful, fond of some sorts of study, and as little selfish as could possibly be expected under her circumstances.

What selfishness she had was negative rather than positive in its character. She was very ready to serve those about her, when it could be done in an active way. For instance, she would run to the farthest corner of the house to bring a book for her father; and, ten to one, she would leave every door in her way wide open, though she knew how much it annoyed him. She would sit for hours beside Nancy when she had a fit of sick-headache, and do every thing she could think of to alleviate her suffering. But she would never take the trouble to put away her bonnet and shawl when she came home, or to overlook her own clothes when they came up from the wash. As some one says, she was capable of great sacrifices, but not of small ones.

"I am afraid you will have great trouble with the child!" said Mr. Kennedy one day to his wife.

"I expected it, when I took the charge upon myself," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "She is just at the age when children are always troublesome, and she would naturally be more so from her peculiar circumstances."

"I shall endeavor to get along without any contention," answered his wife. "She does not seem to have any very bad faults. In fact, it is not such a difficult matter to keep children from doing what they ought not to do: the trouble is to make them do what they ought to do."

The next week the lessons began. Mrs. Kennedy commenced with music lessons, arithmetic, and drawing. Sophie would gladly have got rid of the arithmetic, but her father was very decided on that point, and she did not like to oppose him. The first two weeks went on smoothly and pleasantly. Mrs. Kennedy was very clear in her explanations, and possessed great patience, and Sophie began to think she was going to have very nice times.

But by and by she began to grow rather tired, and relaxed her efforts. The arithmetic lessons were very carelessly studied; and if her mother were called away, Sophie would spend her practice hour in playing, for her own amusement, easy lessons that she had already learned. One morning she was particularly careless and inattentive. She had a new music lesson, and a very easy and pretty one, but she paid no attention to it, and played so many false notes, that her mother said, "Stop playing, Sophie!" Sophie stopped.

"I cannot help it," exclaimed Sophie petulantly. "I do as well as I can. I shall never learn music, I am sure."

"Whether you can learn music or not, remains to be seen," continued Mrs. Kennedy. "That is not the question now. Begin at the beginning, and be sure you know the name of every note before you strike it."

A little awed by her mother's tone and manner, Sophie managed to get through the lesson without any more blunders.

Then came the arithmetic. Her sum to-day was one in Compound Addition. She understood the rule perfectly, and the sum required only patience and care. But neither care nor patience was Sophie inclined to exercise this day. After two or three trials, she got entirely out of humor, and throwing the slate down on the floor, she exclaimed:

"I never can do it, and that is all about it." And she burst into a flood of tears.

Her mother waited a few minutes, until the storm had subsided, and then, taking up the slate, said:

"I understand it well enough," sobbed Sophie, disconsolately, "but I cannot do that old sum. I never shall get it right, I know."

"What is the trouble with it? It is a long sum, I know, but not at all difficult, and you have done several like it. But you can never do any thing as long as you are such a baby. Take the slate and try again. You must really do this sum before dinner, my child," she continued, seriously, but calmly. "It requires nothing but patience, and it must be done. I shall sit here till I see it finished."

Mrs. Kennedy said no more, but went on quietly with her work. Sophie sat crying for some time, but as her mother took no notice of her tears, she grew rather ashamed of them, and, finally, wiping her eyes, she took up her slate, and in ten minutes did the sum correctly.

"It is quite right this time," said her mother, looking it over. "You had better put away your books now, and get ready for dinner. You will have no time to draw to-day."

Sophie found she had much better have preserved her temper, as she gained nothing by losing it. Her mother did not seem to be even ruffled, and she went to her room feeling very much ashamed of herself. She had lowered herself in her own eyes and her mother's, and deprived herself of a real enjoyment in losing her drawing lesson. She appeared at dinner with flushed cheeks and swollen eyes, but her father did not seem to notice them; for he laughed and talked just as usual. Before he left the table, he said:

"I saw nurse Brown this morning, Sophie, and she said Betsey was wondering what had become of you. I told her you had been very much occupied, but would come and see her soon."

"Suppose We go this afternoon?" said Mrs. Kennedy to Sophie. "You know I have never seen your little friends yet."

"Then you may ask Nancy to put up some of her nice potted chicken, and we will take it round. A delicate appetite is often tempted by something which is made away from home."

A little while after dinner, Mrs. Kennedy and Sophie set out on their walk. It was a mild afternoon: the trees were now quite bare, and the grass had begun to look brown, but the air was filled with the peculiar sweetness of Indian summer. As they passed the school-house, several girls were standing at the gate, among whom were Laura Bartlett, Greta Carroll, and Harry Reed. And Mrs. Kennedy stopped for Sophie to speak to them.

When they went on—"Sophie has been crying," remarked Laura, who as usual had her eyes about her. "I wonder if she has had a fuss with her stepmother already?"

"It is nothing remarkable for her to cry," said Carry Woodford. "She often did that in school, especially over her arithmetic. I have seen her shed any quantity of tears over a sum in fractions, which after all she did in two or three minutes."

"I wonder if she studies at home?" continued Laura. "I think it is too bad for her mother to make her work out of school."

"You speak as if you thought that her mother made her study for her own pleasure and convenience, instead of for Sophie's own good," remarked Greta. "I don't think Mrs. Kennedy can find it very amusing, to sit down two or three hours in the morning with Sophie over scales and exercises and little easy tunes, when she plays so splendidly herself or to spend ever so long over arithmetic and grammar lessons."

"No doubt she thinks it will be better for Sophie, she has been to school so much. I am sure Sophie ought to be grateful to her for taking so much pains with her."

"Well, I don't see why we need be so wonderfully grateful to our teachers. They are paid for all they do, and they need not teach unless they choose."

"I suppose then if you had the smallpox, and a doctor should save your life, you would not feel any gratitude towards him," observed Harry Reed. "He would get his pay for all he did."

"I am sure no money would pay Miss Warner for the pains she takes with that poor little Anne Jenkins," said Greta; "she is both dull and mischievous, and yet Miss Warner and Miss Lee are never weary of trying to teach her."

"She has improved very much since she came here, though," remarked Carry Woodford. "She is really beginning to learn something; and she has got over that trick of rolling her eyes and twitching her mouth when she talks. I should not wonder if she becomes about as clever as other children, after all."

"I do not believe she will ever be very intelligent," replied Greta. "But even if she should not, think how glad her parents will be, if she only learns to read and write and to behave properly. Do you think, Laura, that money will ever pay Miss Warner for the pains she takes with her?"

"Oh no, indeed," acknowledged Laura. "I did not mean, you know, Greta, that one ought not to be grateful at all to teachers; only not so 'very' grateful."

"I rather think you did not consider much about it, Laura. But I know a great many girls feel just so about their teachers. They seem to take every thing done for them just as a matter of course, and never think of making any return; and it is something so even to their parents."

"Oh, well, Greta," said Laura, carelessly, "we cannot all be as good as you, even if we try."

"It is quite too much trouble for me," replied Laura. "But Harry," she added, mischievously, "why don't you try yourself? I am sure there is room for improvement. I don't set myself up for a pattern, as Greta does, but I never should have answered Miss Lee as you did this morning."

Harry colored very much, but made no answer in words, though a very angry one flashed from her eyes.

While Greta said smiling, "I assure you, Laura, I don't set up for a pattern at all. But I don't think you really do want Harry to improve."

"Because if you did, you would not try to provoke her. Besides you don't know how much she does try."

"I am sure she does not succeed very well," persisted Laura, who seemed to take a malicious pleasure in seeing Harry's indignation rise.

Harry turned and went into the house, without saying a word. She was beginning to try very hard to get the better of her temper, and in such cases as the present, she found it the best policy to get out of the way of provocation.

"There she goes, as grand as Juno," continued Laura laughing, "and I must go too, if I don't want to be marked. Come, Miss Pattern, it would never do to be late, you know."

When Mrs. Kennedy and Sophie arrived at their destination, they found Betsey sitting up in bed, supported by pillows. She had passed a week of comparative ease and comfort, and was very cheerful. Her mother was seated beside her, sewing on a fine linen shirt. A bright flush of pleasure passed over Betsey's face as they entered, and she held out her thin hand.

"I am so glad to see you again, miss," she said. "I was almost afraid you had forgotten me, but I suppose you have been very busy. Is this your mamma?"

"Yes," answered Mrs. Kennedy smiling. "I have been trying to come and see you before: but you may imagine, Mrs. Hand," she continued, turning to her, "that I have been pretty busy. It takes some time to settle one's self in a new home."

"It does indeed, ma'am," answered Mrs. Hand, "especially for one like you. No doubt you found every thing ready to your hands too, and that makes a great difference. When I was married, and went home with my husband, I had every thing to do. The woman who pretended to keep house had neglected every thing, and the child, poor thing, had not a whole garment to put on, nor a stocking to her foot. The first week I was there, I knitted her two pairs of stockings."

"Red ones," said Betsey; "how well I remember. And I remember too, mammy, how you cleaned up every thing and how different the house looked."

"Do you recollect how I would not let you play in the water, and how you cried over the first sewing I set you?"

"Yes, mammy, and how you made me sit still till I had finished it: I thought you were very hard upon me then. And how you let me make the biscuits one day: I got my hands covered with dough, and could not get it off, and ran out in the front yard, to ask you what I should do next."

Betsey grew quite animated over her reminiscences, and her mother smiled to see her so gay, but the smile was followed by a sigh.

"The most I cared about growing up, since I began to think about it, was that I might do something for you, mother. But never mind," she continued cheerfully; "I have tried to do something, and we shall not be long apart, and you will have little Mary. So don't cry, mother, please."

Mrs. Hand laid down her work and left the room, while Betsey looked after her and sighed in her turn. "Poor mammy," she said. "Miss Sophie, you must try and comfort her when I am gone."

"The only thing you think about is leaving your mother, Betsey," said Sophie, after a few moments' silence. "You do not seem at all afraid of dying. I suppose it is because you are so good."

"Oh no, indeed, Miss Sophie, it is not that. I do not believe any one is good enough, not to be afraid of dying: do you, ma'am?"

"No, Betsey," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "I told Sophie before I saw you that I thought you must have some better reason than that. Perhaps you will feel able to tell her what it is."

"It is because I have a Friend in heaven that loves me, and will take care of me, Miss Sophie. I know that God is my Father, and that he sent His dear Son, our blessed Saviour, to die and rise again for me, that I might be saved. And I know that for His sake, God will forgive my sins, and take me to live with Him; and by and by mammy will come too, and then we shall all be together, mammy and father and all."

"You are sure, dear child, that God has forgiven you for Jesus Christ's sake, and that He will hear your prayers!"

"Oh yes, ma'am," said Betsey, with animation; "he has heard me so many times already. I cannot say I ever thought much about such things till my father died, though he and mammy both used to teach me about God and heaven, but somehow, when he died, he seemed to carry my heart right up with him. We were a great deal poorer after daddy was taken away; and when I saw how mammy worked, I felt as if I must work too. So I asked God, night and morning, to give me strength and sense to work for mammy and Mary, and He did."

"No, ma'am, not at all to-day. I love to talk about those times. So, then, I began to try and take the best care I could of Mary and the house, while mother was away at work. Mary was a very good baby, and needed little nursing. And by and by, I thought I might get some sewing or knitting to do too. So I went to our minister's wife—she was a good, good lady—and told her about it, and showed her some sewing I had done. She said she would help me all she could, and gave me some work herself. I never told mother a word about it, till I had earned almost ten shillings."

Sophie glanced at her mother, who had seated herself by the bedside, and taken up Mrs. Hand's work.

"So much for knowing how, Sophie. But what did your mother say, Betsey, when you gave her the money?"

"She was very much surprised and pleased, ma'am, and asked me how I came to think of it. Then I told her how I had asked God to help me, and show me some way to work for her. After that, I did a great deal of work. I think, Mrs. Kennedy, it is a great deal easier to do hard and disagreeable things, when one thinks one is doing it for God."

"You have found the true philosophy of life, my child. And no doubt the same feeling helps you to bear your suffering as patiently and cheerfully as I am told you do. Do you ever think that you drink of the same cup that your Saviour drank of, and are baptized with the baptism that he was baptized withal?"

"That is true, but it is great for you, and you cannot tell how much good it will do."

"It has done me good already, I know, and some one else, too. Oh, Mrs. Kennedy, the poor drunken man that burned me—that dropped the candle on me, you know—he has never drank one drop since. His wife told him, when he was sober, what he had done. And he was so shocked, and felt so sorry, that he declared he would never taste another drop as long as he lived, and he went and took the pledge directly. He came all the way here to see me, yesterday, and to ask me to forgive him."

"Oh yes, ma'am," replied Betsey. "Indeed, I had nothing to forgive, for he did not mean to do it. I expect it was harder for mother than for me. Of course it would be, you know. But I think she has forgiven him, for she said the Lord's Prayer with me last night. So my being burned has done some good."

"Well, Betsey," said Mrs. Kennedy, rising and laying down the work, now nearly completed, "I think you are happier than a great many well people I know. I shall come and see you again, very soon, my dear."

Sophie was very quiet and thoughtful all the way home. When she arrived, she put away her bonnet and shawl without waiting to be told as usual, and then sat down with her arithmetic and slate to learn her lesson for to-morrow.

"What do you think it is that makes it so hard for me to learn arithmetic, mamma?" she asked, after working in silence a while.

"I think this is one reason, Sophie," replied her mother. "You acquire some things much more easily than people in general, for you have a naturally quick memory. But you think rather slowly, and you are not much accustomed to exercise your reflective powers. So when you bring them to bear upon your arithmetic, you are impatient of the slowness of the operation, and at your progress in it, compared with other studies. It is really no harder for you than for any one else, except that you are more unused to reflection."

"But, my dear, I sometimes see you sit an hour without speaking or moving: what do you do then?"

"I don't know, mamma; I dream, I believe," said Sophie; "I think what I would do if I had such and such things, or how I would live if I were very rich, like Miss Eustace. I think how I would have a fine place, and travel all over, and such things."

"A very bad way of employing your mind, or rather your time, for your mind has not much to do with it."

"I know all about it, my dear, for I had the same habit myself for a great many years, and had to make great efforts to rid myself of it. Tell me honestly, do you not sometimes build castles in the air that are not so very pleasant? When any one vexes you a little, for instance, do you not sometimes imagine a train of circumstances in which you are very much abused, and made to endure all sorts of hardships?"

Sophie assented silently. She was conscious that she had been doing something of the sort that very morning.

"And do you not come out of such a reverie, feeling still more uncomfortable, and unwilling to be pleased?"

"That is one bad effect of this habit of reverie," continued her mother. "Another is, that it tends to make you impatient of every sort of mental exertion; and that is the case, more or less, with almost every thing which occupies the mind without exercising it. I think if you will make an effort to break off this habit, you will find your lessons all the easier for it."

"But, mamma, it is so pleasant to imagine one's self able to have all that one wants, and to think of all the good one might do with so much money. I was thinking, yesterday afternoon, that if I were as rich as Mr. Astor, I could do so much for the poor people here. I would build them such nice houses, like Prince Albert's model cottages, you know, and—" Sophie paused, for she saw a smile on her mother's face.

"I heard Nancy asking you why you had not dusted the books in the parlor, as you promised her. Was that when you were imagining all these fine things?"

Sophie colored scarlet. In fact, she had started about her work, and actually taken the duster in hand, but finding a paper containing an account of the prince's model cottages, she had fallen into the reverie aforesaid, and had not only forgotten to dust the books, but finally went out, leaving duster and brush in the middle of the room.

"You have no reason to suppose that you would do any good with Mr. Astor's means, or even more, if you neglect the opportunities now in your power. 'He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in that which is much: and he that is unjust in the least is unjust also in much.' What do you think would have become of Betsey and her mother, if the latter had sat down to cry over her misfortunes, and to imagine what a fine education she would give them, if she were only, rich. Or suppose Betsey had spent the hours she devoted to sewing, in thinking, 'Now if I could only sing like Jenny Lind, how nicely I could support mother!'"

Sophie allowed that her mother was in the right as far as Betsey was concerned, but she thought her own case very different. She took too much pleasure in her reveries to be very willing to abandon them. But the conversation had so much effect upon her that for once, she applied her whole mind to her lesson in figures, and therefore found it much easier than the preceding one had been.

CHAPTER V.

SOPHIE'S lessons went on more smoothly for a few days, and she made abundant resolutions to be more steady and industrious, but she relied on her own strength to keep them, and asked no help from above. As two or three weeks passed without any particular temptations, she began to flatter herself that she had no more reason to fear, and began to relax her guard. Of course it was not very long before she learned how much her self-reliance was worth.

Winter had now fairly set in, and the weather was very cold. Sophie's favorite pets—her chickens—were shut up in their house at the barn, and she always went out to feed them morning and evening. She was provided with a warm wadded sack and hood for these occasions, but though she was subject to ear-ache and pain in her face on the least cold, she had never been taught by what she suffered to take care of herself. Sometimes her hood and sack were up stairs, or elsewhere out of place, and she could not stop to find them; or her overshoes were cold, and it was not worth while to warm and put them on, "just to run out to the barn."

"Put a shawl over your sack, Sophie," said her mother to her one evening, as she came in with her basket of provisions; "and do not stay out long. It is very cold."

"Yes, mamma," answered Sophie, quitting the room rather hastily, and as usual leaving the door ajar.

But instead of wearing any thing additional, she did not put on her sack at all. The truth was, she could not find either that or her hood, which she had left out of place in the morning: so she hastily threw on an old shawl of Nancy's, which she found in the kitchen, and without stopping to warm and put on her overshoes, she ran out to the barn.

On entering the chicken-house, she found the water frozen, and another journey to the house for some hot water became necessary. Then a new arrangement of troughs and basins was entered into, and the end of the matter was, that she returned to the house thoroughly chilled. When she entered the kitchen, Mrs. Kennedy was there, and at once perceived the state she was in.

"Why, Sophie!" she exclaimed. "You have not been out all this time with nothing but that shawl! Where is your sack?"

"I could not find it, mamma. I am not very cold," answered Sophie, though her chattering teeth, and the way in which she hung over the stove contradicted her words.

"Run up stairs, Jane, and get a pair of warm shoes and stockings for Miss Sophie," said her mother. "Sit down here, Sophie, but do not put your feet very near the fire. How could you go out so, my dear? I should think you had suffered enough this winter to make you more careful."

"Why, mamma, I very often go out so without getting cold. I was out longer last Saturday without its doing me any harm."

"I thought you had the toothache all day Sunday, Sophie, so that you could not go to church."

"But there is no use in talking about it," continued Mrs. Kennedy. "If you cannot learn to be more prudent, you must take the consequences."

"At any rate," murmured Sophie, as she followed her mother into the parlor, "if I do have the toothache, I will not tell any one."

This was a resolution much easier to make than to keep, for Sophie was impatient of pain and very irritable under it. A good many sharp twinges in the course of the evening made her aware that she had incurred the usual penalty. True to her resolution, however, she said nothing about it, but taking a bottle of laudanum into her room, she bound some upon her face, and got into bed as soon as possible, to try and forget her pain in sleep.

She passed a restless and uncomfortable night, and was awakened early by the pain in her face and ear. When she came to rise, she found her limbs stiff and aching, and her throat very sore. She dressed herself, however, and taking care to wash the stain of the laudanum from her face, she descended to the breakfast-room, still firm in her resolution to say nothing about it.

"Yes, mamma, very well," answered Sophie, though she felt very much like crying as she spoke.

A feeling of depression and irritability made it very difficult for her to attend to her lessons: the pain in her face and throat increased every moment, and she felt as if she were choking.

Her mother took no notice of the numerous mistakes she made in her music lesson, though she said before the lesson was half finished—"That will do for this time; you may get your slate and arithmetic now."

Sophie brought them, and set herself, languidly enough, about an interest sum. She did not succeed the first time; and when she brought the sum to her mother, it was again wrong.

"Why, what is the matter, my child? You did this very sum yesterday, and several others like it. Do you not understand it?"

"I am sure I don't know," said Sophie, completely overcome by pain and vexation, and bursting into tears: "my face aches so, I cannot think of any thing, and my throat is so sore, I can hardly breathe."

"I thought you were not well," said Mrs. Kennedy. "How long has your throat been sore?"

"You will pay pretty dearly for your carelessness, if you have the quinsy and a gathering in your face at the same time. But don't cry, my dear, you will only make the matter worse. Come and let me put some cold camphor on it, and perhaps we may prevent its swelling. You must be very careful not to get more cold."

Sophie lay down on the sofa in her mother's room, for she did not feel able to sit up any longer. All that day she suffered very much, and when night came, her face was much swelled. She had severe pain in all her limbs, and such a high fever that Mrs. Kennedy thought it necessary to send for the doctor.

Dr. Werner came, felt her pulse, and made many inquiries as to how she had been exposed. Mrs. Kennedy told him the story of the chicken feeding expedition.

"So!" said the doctor. "Your chickens are wiser than you, my child; they do not go out barefooted in the snow."

"Oh well, it is all one; they do not go out at all in the snow, but stay in their house. But you have, indeed, caught one very bad cold, do you hear, and you will have to stay in the house two or three weeks, perhaps. I tell you, my child, you must be more obedient and careful, or you will be sick like Betsey, and then you can never be cured any more."

"She is getting no better very fast," answered the good doctor seriously. "I think she can now live but a few days longer. I was coming this very night to tell you she wanted to see Miss Sophie again. But you must not go out to-morrow, child, do you hear?"

"Not if I am a great deal better, doctor?" asked Sophie anxiously. "Not if I am quite well? I want to see her so much!"

"You must not go out to-morrow, or the next day either for you will not be well enough. You shall give her this powder, madam, and put her feet in some boiling water when she goes to bed, and she must have some boiling gruel, and be covered warm. To-morrow I shall come again."

"Nancy," said Sophie to the nurse, who entered as Mrs. Kennedy went out with the doctor, "Dr. Werner says I must put my feet in boiling water to-night, and have some boiling gruel!"

"I reckon he didn't mean just 'boiling,' dear," said Nancy, after some consideration. "The doctor talks kind of outlandish, you know. I reckon he meant pretty hot. Does your face get any better, dear?"

"No, it gets worse every minute, and my throat aches so I don't know what to do. I wish the chickens had been in the Red Sea, I am sure."

"I don't see how the chickens were to blame," said Nancy. "If you had only gone and found your cloak and hood—"

"Well, I don't want to hear all that old story over again," interrupted Sophie, pettishly. "I think it is bad enough to be sick, without being scolded by every one. You always say just so!"

"If people will not mind what is said to them when they are well, they must hear of it when they are sick," answered Nancy, calmly. "I think it is bad enough for little girls to make themselves sick, and give so much trouble, without being cross at the same time. I am very sorry your face aches, my dear, and I would do most any thing to help you, but I don't like to see you trying to lay all the blame on some one else."

In spite of the doctor's boiling water and powders, Sophie's face continued to swell, and she rested very little during the night.

For the next three days, she was unable to be up, and suffered a great deal. Mrs. Kennedy hardly left her during the time. She tried her best to relieve her and make her forget her pain, and Sophie felt as if she could never do enough to repay her mother for her kindness.

"After all," she thought, "it is a very good thing to have a stepmother to take care of one. But I suppose they are not all alike."

When Sophie began to get better, and to sit up a little, her mother found it very difficult to keep her from exposing herself. As long as she did not feel uncomfortable, she never noticed whether she were properly covered or not. She was very anxious to go down stairs, and her mother yielded to her entreaties, on condition that she should wear a large shawl through the passages, and not go out of the parlor. But Sophie was no sooner established in an arm-chair by the side of the fire, and left alone, than she remembered that she had left her book up stairs. There were plenty of other books in the room, and she had the bell at hand. But instead of ringing for Nancy, or employing herself about something else for a little while, she went back to her room without her shawl, and found what she wanted. The windows were all open, and she remained some time exposed to the cold air. She congratulated herself on getting back without discovery, but found she might better have kept quiet. For the pain in her face came back as bad as ever for several hours.

"You may consider yourself well off in escaping so," said her mother, when she had, by dint of questioning, extracted the truth from Sophie. "I am sorry that you cannot be trusted by yourself for five minutes. You promised me you would not leave the parlor fire."

"I should not have gone, only for my book," answered Sophie, very angry at being told she could not be trusted. "There was no one here to get it for me."

"What you went for is of no consequence, my child. You promised, and you should have kept your word. It is not the first time that I have noticed the same thing, Sophie. The other day you promised me that if I would let you go out with Laura Bartlett, you would learn your lesson next morning before breakfast, but you did not learn it at all."

"Precisely, but you ought to have been up after making such a promise. The habit of making promises carelessly is a very bad one to fall into: it leads directly to lying. You look very indignant, my dear, at the idea of being betrayed into any such thing, but it would be much better for you to guard carefully against it. You are no more secure than any one else, and you must look to the same means to keep you in safety."

When Sophie was again left alone, she thought very earnestly upon what her mother had said. "I am sure I never told a lie in my life." Here she stopped. For she remembered that two or three times lately she had so far departed from the truth as to give a false excuse for the omission of a lesson—even going so far as to say that she had practised an hour, when she had spent half the time in reading a magazine. "But that was not a lie," she continued—

"But it 'was' a lie," said Conscience. "I told you so at the time, and you were very much afraid of being found out."

"Well, at any rate, I am very sorry," said Sophie, "and I mean to ask forgiveness to-night in my prayers."

But when night came, Sophie had forgotten the matter altogether, and went to sleep without saying her prayers at all. She thought of it when she waked in the morning, but satisfied herself with the idea that the room was too cold, and she must go down to the fire as soon as possible.

She did not care about going out this day or the next, for she felt quite weak, and was willing to be quiet. But when Saturday came very bright and pleasant, and she saw the street full of sleighs and walkers, she felt very uneasy at staying in the house. She was sitting by the front window, looking at the passers-by, when she saw Laura Bartlett running up the steps. She was just going to meet her, when she remembered her promise not to expose herself, and kept quiet until Laura came in, breathless as usual.

"Come, Sophie," she exclaimed, "but put on your bonnet and cloak, and be ready. James is coming with the sleigh to take us to the green-house, and then down to the lake shore. The roads are beautiful, and it is so clear and cold—so pleasant, you can't think. Run and get ready."

"I don't believe mother will let me, Lolla," said Sophie. "You know I have been sick."

"Oh, well, but you have got over it. You are as well as ever now, are you not? Your face does not ache now. I will ask your mother for you. But here comes James. What on earth are you stopping for, James?" she called, opening the window to speak to her brother.

"I must go up town on an errand for mother," he answered. "I shall be gone about half an hour, and will call for you when I come back."

"Well, come, Sophie, where is your mother?" asked Laura, closing the window again. But she had hardly spoken, before Mrs. Kennedy entered, dressed for going out.

"Oh, Mrs. Kennedy," began Laura, without giving that lady time to speak, "I have come to take Sophie out to the green-house, and then mother wants her to come to our house to tea. It is a beautiful day to ride."

"I should like to go very much, mother," said Sophie anxiously. "I am sure it would not hurt me, it is so pleasant, and I have not been out of the house in a week."

"I know it," replied her mother, "but I am afraid, Sophie. You have narrowly escaped being very sick, and a little cold would make you worse than ever. I think you will have to content yourself with staying by the fire a few days longer. I am sorry for your disappointment, but I cannot have you sick again."

"Not to-day, my dear. If you keep on getting better, and it is pleasant on Monday, I will try to let you have a ride. But to-day you must try to amuse yourself at home. I am going out for a little while, and will find you something to read."

"It is always just so," sobbed Sophie. "I never can do any thing I want to. She has kept me shut up in this room this whole week. She found fault with me for going into the study to find a book."

"I don't believe Harry Reed would say it was such a nice thing to have a stepmother, if she knew about it," continued Laura. "If it had been your own mother, she would have let you go, I know."

"It would be just the same," answered Sophie. "He would only ask me what mother said. He always does just as she says."

"I think you were better off when you had no one but Nancy to ask," continued Laura. "Then you could go where you liked. I am sure I hope I shall never have a stepmother. It is just as mother says—they never have any feeling for their husband's children."

It may seem strange that Sophie could allow Laura to speak this of her kind mother, but she was too angry herself to think of the impropriety of it. As for Laura, she was ready for any thing, if there were only a chance of finding something to talk of.

"Not very," said Sophie, "but then I always must have them exactly, and at just such a time. The other day I did not have my arithmetic lesson in the morning, and she made me stay at home and study all the afternoon."

Sophie did not think fit to tell why she had stayed at home all the afternoon. She had neglected to commit to memory an important rule, and her mother had told her she must learn it after dinner. It did not take fifteen minutes when she fairly applied her mind to it, but she was offended at being treated like a baby, as she said, and it was her own choice to remain at home.

"There comes James with the sleigh," exclaimed Laura. "Good by, Sophie. I am right sorry you cannot go. I shall call for Anne Weston."

After Laura had gone, Sophie continued crying a long time, persuading herself that she was very ill-used and very unhappy. Then she began to reflect that it would be as well not to let her mother see that she had been crying. So she went up stairs and bathed her face with rose-water until the traces of tears had disappeared, and then set herself down to practise a new waltz. She soon became very much interested in it, and had nearly forgotten her ill-humor, when her mother appeared, with her arms full of books.

"I have brought you some books to comfort you for the loss of your ride," answered Mrs. Kennedy, piling the large volumes on the table. "There is 'The Tyrol,' and there is a volume of 'Wilson's Birds,'—you must be very careful of that,—and here is the very volume of costumes you were so desirous of seeing. I felt as if it was rather an extravagant purchase,—it is a second-hand copy, you see,—but the figures are very spirited, and good studies for you—so I stretched my purse-strings a little."

"Did you really buy it for me, mamma?" asked Sophie, delighted. "Where did you find it?"

"All the way up at Lawson's, my dear. They would have sent it at tea-time, but I thought you would like it now, as you were unable to go out. I will put my bonnet away, and then we will look over them together."

"I have another reason for not caring to have you go out with Laura," said her mother, as they sat down together at the table. "She is not a very safe person for you to be intimate with."

"She is such a news-carrier, my dear. I have observed her closely, and I perceive she never comes here without a story to tell of some one; and her stories are very apt to vary a little from the truth, as is almost always the case with such persons. Her mother is very much so. The first time she called upon me, she gave me a history of almost every family in the street; and when I returned the call, she was equally communicative in regard to her own neighbors. Such persons are not very safe."

Sophie now began, with some alarm, to think over what she had said to Laura: "Do you think, mamma, that Laura would really tell any thing that was said to her?"

"Why, my dear, you can judge for yourself. You know she was here the day before yesterday to see you: how many things did she tell you that the girls in school said about Mrs. Warner, and ended every one with—'But don't repeat it for the world, for I promised I would never tell.'"

"I am always glad to have your friends come and see you," continued Mrs. Kennedy, "but it will do you no harm to put you on your guard a little. A great many people have an idle way of repeating conversation, without meaning any harm, but it is a bad habit, and mischief is very likely to grow out of it. Even a harmless remark sounds as differently as possible when it is repeated."

Some visitors coming in, the conversation was interrupted, but Sophie did not forget it. She sat with her pretty new book at the window, and turned over leaf after leaf, but she did not pay much attention to the gay figures. She was trying to remember every word she had said to Laura, and the more she thought of it, the more uneasy she felt. She could not but see how improperly she had spoken, and how much she had misrepresented her mother. She would have given any thing to recall the words, but it was too late for that. And she could only hope that Laura would hold her peace—a faint hope, indeed, for any one acquainted with her habits.

Her disagreeable feelings returned with double force, when she found herself alone in her own room at bedtime. She repeated over and over again, "What if mamma should hear of it!" Of the ingratitude and want of respect she had shown to her kind mother, she hardly thought at all. She read her chapter, and repeated her prayers, almost without knowing what she said, and lay down to sleep to be tormented with dreams of Mrs. Bartlett telling every one that her mother was very unkind to her, and of Dr. Shelly announcing the same from the pulpit.

CHAPTER VI.

Laura Bartlett had collected a knot of her especial intimates in one of the recitation rooms at noon-time, and prepared herself to be very mysterious and important.

A certain set of girls in Miss Warner's school were very much in the habit of assembling themselves, at noon and in recess, in order to retail such pieces of news and gossip as they could pick up out of school. From these groups an attentive listener might often hear such exclamations as the following:

"Oh, I think he's divine!" "Isn't he so handsome!" "He certainly is engaged, for Mrs. Carter told mother." "I know he isn't engaged, for Mr. King told Louisa." "She is not at home a day in the week, and her mother does not pretend to govern her." "Isn't it shameful for Emma Hart to dress so extravagantly? She has taken a class in Sunday school." "Oh, yes, a great many young ladies have taken classes in Sunday school since Mr. Collins came—" And so on, without end.

Laura was much the youngest of this set of girls, but she was such an excellent gatherer of news, and her stories were so interesting, that she was treated with great favor. Miss Warner looked with no friendly eye upon these meetings, and had made great efforts to put a stop to them, but without success. As she truly said, "As long as the girls were accustomed to the same sort of conversation at home, and were encouraged in repeating every thing they heard, there was little use in her interference."

"Let us go up on the stairs," said Carry Woodford; "Miss Warner will be coming in, and then we shall have to stop."

The garret stairs ascended from a little dark entry which opened out of this recitation room. And as the garret room was not used at all, it was a favorite canvassing room, and a deal of mischief was plotted there.

"Yes, indeed she is. I went there last Saturday to take Sophie to ride, you know what a beautiful day it was. Well, Mrs. Kennedy would not let her go, though Sophie wanted to very much. And after she went out, Sophie told me it was always just so whenever she wanted to do any thing. I think it is a real shame."

"But I am sure, Lolla, Sophie does go out. I see her out with her mother almost every day."

"Oh, yes, with her mother, to be sure, but not as she used to before her father was married. She used to run about every where then, and as long as she was at home at meal-times, her father did not know or care any thing about it. She used to visit somewhere every day in the week. I am sure she does not come to our house nearly as often as she used to."

"That is true, to be sure!" said Anne Weston. "But then she goes a great deal to Mrs. Gaylord's, and to see Greta Carroll. I wonder, for my part, that Greta can care so much about her, when Sophie is so much younger."

"Oh, Greta likes some one that she can 'play good' to, and patronize," replied Laura. "That is the reason she has the little girls so much about her. She knows it will not do with us. Harry Reed is growing just like her."

"She will never be just like her in one thing," remarked Carry Woodford; "she will never be so good tempered, if she tries ever so hard. I am sure I do not care, for my part, how good they are, if they will only let me alone. But what else did Sophie tell you, Lolla?"

"Oh, she said that her mother was so particular about her lessons, that if she did not have them in time, she would not let her go out for ever so long; and she must always do just so about every thing. Sophie says there is no use in going to her father about it, for he only says, 'Oh, ask your mother, Sophie,' and will not hear a word of complaint. I know her mother scolded her when she was sick, for Mrs. Mann, the woman that was there washing, heard her tell Sophie it was all her own imprudence, and that she was glad of it."

"But that does not sound at all like Mrs. Kennedy," said Anne Weston. "She is so refined in her expressions."

"Oh, yes, no doubt, when she wants to make people think she is very good. She has taken a class in Sunday school, you know; the one Fanny Bates is in."

"Well, she noticed that Fanny and two or three of the other girls talked at one of the Lent Lectures. And the next day she talked to them about it in the class, and made the girls cry."

"Why, she did not seem to be angry at all, somehow; she did not say much about it. If I were in her place, I would not go to another lecture."

"She does go all the time," said Anne Weston; "and I know she has been at Uncle Shelby's twice this week. I should not wonder if she should be confirmed at Easter; you know Harry and Greta are going to be."

"Harry Reid!" exclaimed Laura. "She is no more fit to be confirmed—why she cannot keep her temper one day. I don't pretend to be one of the saints, but I would never be confirmed unless I were sure I could live consistently, and keep my resolutions. I would not pretend to be a Christian unless I were a real good one."

"Uncle Shelby says that is not the right way to think about it," replied Anne. "He says no one can tell exactly how they will feel all their lives; and if we depend on our own resolutions, we shall never be good at all. I think it is true, too, but I don't see any other way."

"Oh, well, Anne, we don't want to hear your experience," interrupted Carry. "You can go and make your confession to young Mr. Collins, if you want to free your mind. You have grown very good since he came."

"I have not, either," said Anne, rather angrily, "but I think I have a right to speak."

"Well, Lolla, what else about Sophie? Do you think her stepmother is really unkind to her?"

"I should call that unkind," replied Laura, "scolding her when she was sick, and not letting her go anywhere unless she was with her. I am sure I should not like it much. We always have to be so particular when we are with grown persons. You know that night we were all there to tea, Mrs. Kennedy staid in the room all the time, and we did not have any fun at all."

"I thought she made it very pleasant, for my part," said Anne Weston. "She sung and played for us, and told us so many stories about the negroes and their queer ways on the plantations, and about things at the South. I liked it very much. Dr. Shelby says—"

"You are always quoting Dr. Shelby, Anne. Are you sure you don't mean Mr. Collins?"

"I do not see what particular difference it would make. They are both ministers, and preach in the same pulpit."

"Oh, yes, of course, it is just the same. But I would not be so very good just yet, Anne; perhaps he is engaged, after all. That's right, now—go away and cry—I would not set up for a saint just yet. How wonderfully grave Anne grows lately," continued Carry Woodford, when Anne had disappeared.

"That is nothing," said Martha Prime. "She does just so every Lent, and gets over it again at Easter. She will be just the same by and by, you will see."

"There is the bell," exclaimed Laura, jumping up. "Now be sure, girls, you don't tell. I am going to see Sophie again to-night, and I mean to find out all I can about it: but don't you say a word."

"What is the matter, Anne dear?" said Greta Carroll in recess, sitting down by Anne's side, and putting her arm around her.

Anne had been sitting in the same attitude ever since the school opened: her book was before her, and her eyes were fixed on its pages, but her thoughts were evidently far away. She looked very sad, and now and then a tear rolled down her cheek.

Anne tried to answer, but the words would not come, so she shook her head in reply.

"Come out into the garden with me," said Greta. "Miss Warner gave me permission, and the girls are all in the playground, so we shall have it to ourselves, and the fresh air will do you good. It is more like spring than winter."

Anne suffered Greta to lead her into the garden without any remark, but when she found herself alone with her friend, she could control herself no longer, and she burst into tears. Greta allowed her to weep without restraint for awhile, till her excitement passed away in some measure, and she was able to speak.

"I am very foolish to cry so, Greta, I know, but I cannot help it. Carry Woodford is so provoking. I do not see how she can take any pleasure in being so. She is always saying that people may be as good as they please, if they will only let her alone, but she does not think so, I am sure, or she would not act as she does."

"Why, she and Laura Bartlett, and that set of girls, were in the recitation room talking—just as they always do, you know—I don't mean to say any thing against them, for I have just been as bad as the rest—and I quoted something Dr. Shelby said, about talking among ourselves, and before grown people, you know."

"And then Carry said I was always quoting Dr. Shelby, and asked me if I did not mean Mr. Collins; and then she had some nonsense about his being engaged that provoked me—"

"That was foolish in Carry," said Greta, after waiting a moment for Anne to proceed, "but I would not mind it, if that was all. Carry rattles on without thinking what she says. I would not mind her."

"But that was not all, Greta, I was very angry, I confess, and I am such a goose I never can help showing it. And then she told me I had better not set up for a saint until I could keep my temper a little better, and that I was growing very grave all at once. And then Martha Prime said I was always just so in Lent, but that I got over it and was as bad as ever. That was what I cared most about," said Anne, crying afresh, "because I know it is true. Every Lent, when I am going to the lectures, I try to be good and to make myself a Christian, but I never can keep on. I make resolutions upon resolutions, but I never keep any of them, and I don't believe I shall ever be good enough to be confirmed."

"Why, I don't know," said Anne, surprised at the question; "I thought we must be very good indeed. Because as soon as one is confirmed, there is the Communion. One must be perfectly good for that, you know."

"I don't know," answered Greta. "The Prayer Book says in the invitation, 'Ye who do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and "intend" to lead a new life'—I do not believe it is right to wait till one is 'perfectly good,' as you say."

"But there is the trouble, Greta: I know very well I do not repent. I think over my sins, and try to make myself feel sorry, but I know I do not, after all,—not as I ought. I am sure I wish I could."

Greta was silent a few moments, and then said, blushingly and with hesitation, "I don't want to be impertinent, Anne, but I should like to ask you a question: you need not answer unless you choose."

"I am not afraid of your being impertinent, Greta. You may ask what you please."

"No," said Anne, frankly, "I acknowledge that I am not. I was taught to say my prayers when I was a child, of course, but I have left it off, almost ever since I was old enough to sleep by myself. At one time, I used to repeat the prayers in church, but that seemed only a mockery, and I left it off. Now I do not even put my head down."

"I do not see how you can expect to repent, or be an obedient Christian, unless you do pray."

"Certainly not," answered Greta. "But I thought you said you wished you could repent and be a Christian, did you not?"

"Yes," said Anne, "I am sure I do.—You will hardly believe me, I suppose," she continued, more earnestly than before, "but I would be willing to do any thing if I could only be saved by it; I would not care what."

"But you know we cannot save ourselves, Anne; you know that nothing we can do can merit heaven."

"What must we do, then? I do not see that we can be saved at all, if that is the case."

"'This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.' If we would be saved, we must give up all hope in our own doings, and trust in Him—we must ask God the Father to forgive and accept us for the sake of his dear Son." Forgetting her embarrassment in her earnestness, Greta spoke with great feeling, and Anne seemed both interested and affected.

"But I am such a sinner, Greta," she said. "You don't know how wicked I have been. It does not seem as if I could come and ask to be forgiven, just as I am."

"If you were sick with the smallpox, Anne, you would send for the doctor at once, would you not? You would not say, 'My skin is too much marked now, I will wait till I look a little better before I send for him.' You never can be cured of your sin in any other way. It is only the blood of Jesus Christ that cleanseth us from all sin. We cannot save ourselves."

"What ought I to do, Greta? I am sure I do wish with all my heart to repent and be forgiven."

"You must pray, Anne, and study your Bible. Read how Jesus Christ came into the world, and took upon Him the nature of man, and was poor and despised; how He was tempted and insulted, and finally crucified for us—for you, Anne. And He does not forget us now, either. He will receive us gladly the moment we come to Him. He is far more ready to give than we to ask. I wish I could make you feel about it as I do," said Greta, wiping the tears from her eyes.

"Well, won't you try? Don't give it up, nor let the girls laugh you out of it. I do not believe they will laugh if they see you in real earnest. And what if they do? It will not hurt you if you do not know it. Try to-night not to think of any thing else until you have made up your mind about this: I am sure you will be much happier. And you may never have another opportunity. As Mr. Collins says, if you are not ready to be confirmed, you are not ready to die, only think if you should go to the Judgment without being prepared!"

"Will you pray for me, Greta?" asked Anne softly, as they walked towards the house. "I will pray for myself. I never felt so much like it before. But will you pray for me?"

"Yes, indeed," said Greta, "I do very often. And, Anne—if you will excuse me for saying so—will you sit somewhere else, and not with Carry and Martha, if you go to church to-night? It does not seem right to whisper in church, and if you will only sit somewhere where you can listen—"

"I will, Greta," said Anne. "I will sit with aunt Shelby if mother does not go. I do not think it is right any more than you, but when I am with the other girls I forget."

True to her word, Laura set out to call upon Sophie after school, and see what else could be extracted from her: but just as she was turning into the street where Mr. Kennedy lived, she met Sophie. She had a basket on her arm, and was going to visit nurse Brown, and carry some delicacies to poor Betsey, who, after a week or two of great suffering and weakness, was again comparatively comfortable. Sophie had nearly forgotten her uneasiness, until she saw Laura running to meet her: she now resolved internally that she would say nothing out of which that young lady could make any capital.

"I was just coming round to see you, Sophie," exclaimed Laura. "Where are you going?"

"I am going up to nurse Brown's to carry Betsey Hand some things that mother has sent her," answered Sophie; "and I am going to call and see if Greta will go with me."

"I will walk round to Mrs. Carroll's with you," said Laura; "I want to tell you what a nice time we had last Saturday. I was so sorry you did not go. We went to the green-house, and then down to the lake shore, where we got out and ran about on the snow and ice. But be sure you don't tell, Sophie, for I promised mother I would not get out of the sleigh."

"I wonder you were not afraid to go on the ice," exclaimed Sophie. "Suppose you had fallen through and been drowned?"

"Why then I should, I suppose, but there was no danger. What did you do all the afternoon? I should think you would have cried your eyes out."

"Oh, no," answered Sophie, "I had a nice time. Mother borrowed some volumes of engravings, and bought that large book of costumes for me, so I enjoyed myself very much. And, Laura," she added, with a good deal of hesitation, "I wish you would not repeat what I said about mother. I ought not to have spoken so, I suppose, but I was very much vexed. I wish I was not so quick-tempered."

"I don't see how you can help it, if it is your natural disposition," answered Laura. "You never keep angry. For my part, I don't like these very particular people, that always cut their words by one pattern, like Greta Carroll."

"Why, Laura, I am sure Greta Carroll is as good as she can be. I wonder you can speak so, when she is so kind to you. How many times she has helped you about your lessons! I wonder you should speak so."

"I do not feel myself under any such overwhelming obligations," answered Laura, with a toss of her head. "I am not very fond of being patronized for my part. I like Greta well enough, but I don't see why she should set up to be so much better than other people. Martha Prime says that Greta has you and Emma Gaylord completely under her thumb."

"It is no such thing," retorted Sophie angrily. "I don't believe Greta ever said so."

"Nobody said she did say so," answered Laura "but actions speak louder than words. Why should she, the oldest girl in the school almost, want to have so much to do with you little ones, if it is not because she likes to govern."

"Because she likes to help us, and keep us out of mischief," answered Sophie. "She likes to help every one. Miss Warner says she is as useful to her as any of the teachers."

"To be sure; that is just what I say," persisted Laura. "She likes to be in authority. She likes to have Miss Warner send her to hear classes and to keep order among the little ones, and to have them coming with their books to her. She and Anne Weston have been wonderfully confidential this afternoon; I should not wonder if she should bring her round. However," she added, "I don't want to prejudice you against Greta, Sophie. If you like to be governed, I am sure I don't care."

Just at this moment Greta passed them on the other side of the street. She was walking with Harry Reed, and the two were so much engaged in conversation as not to see Laura and Sophie. If she had been alone, Sophie would have called to her at once, but Laura's remarks had not been without their effect on her mind, and she determined to show that she could do as she pleased. So she let them go on without speaking, and then said, "Greta will not be at home, Laura. Suppose you go round with me and see Betsey?"

"I don't mind going round and waiting for you," said Laura, "but I would not see her for the world. I have such quick feelings that I cannot bear to see people suffer. When James hurt his face so last summer, I never went into the room till he was almost well, it made me feel so bad to see him."

Sophie thought within herself, that it was well every one's sensibility did not take the same form. She remembered Mrs. Gaylord's dressing Betsey's hand and face, and her mother binding up the gardener's arm when he cut it with the scythe; and it did not appear to her that their feelings would have been equally well displayed in sighs and tears. She would have said so, but that she stood rather in fear of Laura's sarcastic remarks.

"Does your stepmother make you go to see poor people very often, Sophie?" asked Laura.

"Oh, she makes it a privilege, then! I must say it is a privilege I do not want, going into such dirty places, among Irish and Dutch, and every thing. I think it is the business of the Charitable Society to do that. We give them our money, and they ought to take care of the people."

"Mother says," replied Sophie, "that we can never excuse ourselves by giving money, from getting acquainted with the people themselves. And I know both she and father think that only giving money does harm instead of good, sometimes."

"You go to Sunday school now, don't you?" asked Laura, after a moment's silence. "Whose class are you in?"

"I am going to be in Greta's class after this week," answered Sophie. "She is going to take half of mother's."

"Oh, nothing; only I should rather have a teacher that knew more than I did. Greta and your mother are great friends, are they not?"

Sophie did not answer. If she had followed her best impulse, she would have stopped Laura's insinuations at once, but she was really afraid of her, and did not like to offend her. Moreover, Laura's remarks had not been without effect. Sophie was beginning to be very jealous of being treated like a little girl, and she could not bear to think that any one near her own age should try to govern her. She was often displeased at her mother for insisting upon her doing things in exactly the right time and way, treating her like a baby, as she said.

That very morning she had been seriously disobliged, because her mother did not think proper to have her dresses made long, like a young lady's. Mrs. Kennedy did not think it worth while to dispute the point at length, but gave her own orders to the dressmaker; and when the dresses came home, they were short, as before. Unluckily Laura chanced to observe that she had on a new frock, and asked her why she did not put on long dresses.

"Mother would not let me," said Sophie. "I wanted them made long, very much, but she says it will be time enough two years from now, especially as I am so small. I wish I was as tall as Miss Lee," she continued, thinking aloud, "and then I should not be treated like a child by every one."

"I don't wonder you don't like it—I shouldn't. But why don't you set up and do as you please, as I do? Mother did not wish me to go to school this quarter, but I was determined I would, and I did."

"That would never do with my mother," answered Sophie. "You would never try it but once with her, I can tell you. For all she is so gentle usually, she can be severe enough when any one sets her at defiance. I should never dare to say I would do what she told me not to—I would as soon cut my head off."

"It must be a change for you; you used to do pretty much as you pleased, before she came."

"I do now, about a great many things, but then I have to mind. She is very kind when I am sick, and takes a great deal of pains to teach me. And I am sure I am very much attached to her, but I should like to be left more to myself sometimes. Here we are now, and here is nurse at the door."

Nurse had her finger on her lip. Betsey had had a very bad turn, but was better, and asleep. Sophie must leave her basket full of dainties, and come to see her another time.

Laura now found she must go in another direction; so Sophie walked home alone, pondering on all she had heard, and feeling more than ever discontented with Laura, herself, and every one around her. She felt very unhappy, she could hardly tell why. Nobody appreciated her; Greta only wanted to patronize her; her mother was very unkind; and even her father did not love her as he used to. She wished she had never seen Laura, and yet she continually thought over all she had said. "Truly, the words of the tale-bearer are as wounds."

CHAPTER VII.

FOR several weeks Sophie continued to see a good deal of Laura Bartlett, and she never saw her without being made uncomfortable by her remarks. Mrs. Kennedy saw with great uneasiness the influence that Laura was gaining over her daughter. She perceived that Sophie grew discontented, peevish, and critical that she was far more difficult to manage, and more disposed to rebel against necessary government, and that she was estranged from her best friends. She tried to warn Sophie of the injury which Laura would do her, but without success. Sophie at once concluded that her mother was prejudiced against Laura, and wanted to keep her from having any friends but herself. Mrs. Kennedy thought it would do more harm than good to forbid any intercourse between the two girls, as it would of course cause a quarrel between the families. Laura expected to go away to school in the spring, and to be gone two years. And this, Mrs. Kennedy thought, would answer the purpose, without having recourse to any extreme measures.

Easter came, and with it the Confirmation: a number of the older girls and boys out of the Sunday school, and several of Sophie's schoolmates, were confirmed; among them were Greta, and Harry, and Anne Weston.

Anne had, with much fear and trembling, made up her mind to this decisive step, and her courage almost failed her at the last moment. The service was held on the evening of Easter Tuesday, and in the afternoon she ran up to Dr. Shelby's and tapped at the study door. She was a distant relation of the good doctor, and he was very fond of her, so she had no hesitation in confiding her troubles to him. She now poured forth all her fears, her distrust of herself, and her anxiety for the future, and concluded by saying—

"And I am afraid, Uncle Shelby, that I am not fit to be confirmed, after all, Suppose I shall fail? I have so little steadiness—I have no strength at all."

"You are not expected to have any, my little girl," answered the doctor kindly. "If any one were to come forward to this ordinance, trusting in his own strength he would be sure to fail. The only safety for you, or any one, is in earnest prayer, and a full dependence on God for help. Remember that you have all the power of God on your side, so long as you persevere in asking for it. Trust all to your Saviour. Be not troubled overmuch about yourself. 'Take no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.' Every day has its duty, and every duty has also its day; and I think I may safely tell you, little Miss Much-afraid, that 'as your days, so shall your strength be.'"

Sophie witnessed the Confirmation, and she was much affected when she saw so many of her friends going forward to enroll themselves as the soldiers of Christ, and she heartily wished herself among them. She forgot her distrust of her mother and of Greta, and as the latter stood before the altar looking more beautiful than ever, but evidently entirely forgetful of every thing but the solemn vow she was about make, she turned her eyes to her mother for sympathy.

Mrs. Kennedy pressed Sophie's hand warmly in hers, and the tears stood in her eyes, as she prayed that her dear little charge, in proper time, might stand in the same place and make the same offering of herself. The solemn question was asked and the response given, and after prayers the good bishop laid his hands on the heads of the young people kneeling so humbly at the chancel rails, with those beautiful words which have welcomed so many souls to new life and usefulness—

"Defend, O Lord, this thy servant with thy heavenly grace; that she may continue thine for ever, and daily increase in thy Holy Spirit more and more, until she come unto thy everlasting kingdom."

As the Reverend Father in God came round to Anne Weston and her schoolmates, Carry Woodford who was sitting in the pew before Sophie and her mother, put down her head and sobbed aloud. Her natural and acquired levity was for the time subdued.

As Anne came out of the church, Carry took her hand and whispered, "Please forgive me, Anne, for teasing you so. I am real glad you have become confirmed, though I cannot myself."

Anne pressed her hand but did not reply, for she felt that she could not speak just then.

Sophie had allowed Laura to tempt her into repeating a great many little things which had occurred at home, such as always happen in any family, and are of very little consequence unless told of abroad. Every little jar in her own lessons or employments was also confided to Laura, who did not fail to make the most of them.

Yet Laura was not without good qualities; her great trouble was, that her mind and heart were entirely unoccupied. Her mother was a vain and vulgar woman, who being without cultivation herself, was jealous of it in every one else. Mrs. Bartlett professed great contempt for "literary people," and thought women had enough to do to attend to their domestic affairs, so she spent half her time in collecting news and the other half in relating it. Under such influences Laura had grown-up, and it was not wonderful that she should make gossip the employment of her life. She retailed the stories which she extracted from Sophie's folly and waywardness, with additions and embellishments of her own, for like most other newsmongers, she never could tell any thing exactly as it was told to her. Her mother did the same in her own circle of friends, and it was soon the impression with many people that poor Sophie was very unkindly treated by her stepmother, and that Mr. Kennedy had made a most unfortunate match.

Three or four weeks after Easter, as Sophie was sitting with her mother one afternoon, Mrs. Gaylord came in, and after a few moments' conversation asked to speak with Mrs. Kennedy in private. Sophie left the parlor and went up to her own room, feeling rather uncomfortably. She was never without a lurking uneasiness lest her confidences to Laura should bring her into trouble, and she felt almost sure that Mrs. Gaylord had heard of them and was come to tell her mother.

The two ladies were closeted together for a long time, and as soon as Mrs. Gaylord left, the tea-bell rung and Sophie was obliged to go down. She ventured to glance at her mother's countenance once or twice, and could not help thinking she looked very sadly, but she said nothing. And Sophie could not make up her mind as to what had been the subject of the conference. She had a feeling, however, that she had been concerned in it. Sophie was right—Mrs. Gaylord had related to her mother the reports in circulation, and concluded by saying—

"I should never have dreamed of bringing you this foolish tale, my dear friend, had not Sophie been so deeply concerned in it, but both Laura Bartlett and her mother declare that Sophie told them the stories in the first place. And my Emma, who I may say without boasting is very truthful, tells me that the girls at school all say that Sophie is in the habit of speaking, not only to Laura, but even to other girls, about things that happen at home. Laura is a very unsafe friend for any girl, least of all for one so easily influenced as Sophie."

Mrs. Kennedy was too much shocked to answer, at first, and could only express her obligations to her friend by pressing her hand. At last she said,—"If any one else had told me such a story about my child, I would not have believed it. But I fear it must be true. I have seen many things in Sophie lately which have made me very uneasy and I almost wish now that I had followed my first impulse, and forbidden her to have any thing to do with Laura. But I had such a dread of a neighborhood quarrel, that I concluded to let the matter rest, hoping that Laura would soon leave town, and so an end would be put to the affair."

Mrs. Gaylord rose to depart. "I think Mrs. Bartlett will hold her peace, for her own sake, after what I have said," she remarked; "and as for other people, it is of no consequence. In such a place as this, any story soon dies out, if left to itself."

The next morning Sophie got her books as usual, and was about to sit down to the piano, when Mrs. Kennedy said,—

"You may let your books be for the present, Sophie; I have something else to talk to you about."

She then informed Sophie of what Mrs. Gaylord had told her, and ended by saying—

"I should care very little about the matter, Sophie, if it had been an ordinary piece of gossip, but that you should have been guilty of such treachery, astonishes me beyond measure. I can hardly doubt that such is the fact, but if you have any thing to say for yourself, I shall be glad to hear it."

Sophie sat perfectly overwhelmed with confusion and shame, almost wishing that she could sink into the earth, or be at once annihilated. She dared not look up and meet her mother's eye, which she felt was fixed upon her. At last she stammered:—

"How could you think otherwise? You know that she always repeats every thing she hears. But even if she had never repeated a word, did that justify you in slandering your mother?"

Sophie had never heard such a tone from her mother before. She wiped her eyes, and sat trembling like a leaf.

"Now listen to me, and answer my questions, and be careful to tell me the exact truth: Did you tell Laura, the day I would not let you go out with her, that I would not permit you to do any thing you wished to, that I made you stay at home all day because you did not know a lesson, and that I kept you sewing from morning till night? Answer me!"

"Is it true that I never let you do any thing you wish to, or that I ever made you sew from morning till night?"

"Did I ever restrain you from doing any thing which you yourself knew, on reflection, to be right?"

"Have I ever neglected, from the first moment I came into this house, to provide every thing necessary for your comfort? Have I not taken care of you when you were sick, and taught you when you were well? Dare you say, this moment, that I have ever treated you unjustly once since I came here?"

Sophie dared not say yes. She felt as if she were standing at the judgment seat. For in her heart she knew that she had never received any thing from her mother but kindness.

"She is a good-for-nothing tattler!" exclaimed Sophie, trying to find relief from her shame and remorse in violent indignation. "I wish she was in the Red Sea."

"What she is, or is not, is not to the present purpose," answered Mrs. Kennedy. "And if she is a tattler, you by your own confession are a slanderer, and that of your own mother."

"I wish my own mother was alive," sobbed Sophie. "I wish I could die and go to her."

"You are not worthy to take her name on your lips in such a spirit, Sophie. She was a saint upon earth, as she is now a saint in heaven. I trust she does not see her little girl as she is now."

"Are you prepared to die? Suppose God should at this moment take you at your word, where would you be?"

Mrs. Kennedy was silent for some time, and then said in a tone of the deepest sadness—

"I am sorry for you, my child; I do not know what to do for you. If in a single outbreak of temper you had spoken so to Laura, I should think little of it in comparison, though that would be bad enough. But again and again you have told her and others, what was either entirely false, or you have repeated things with a false coloring. I came here from a very happy home, determined to devote my life to your advantage, and since I came, I have labored in every way by teaching you, and working for you, to make you good and happy. I have put aside my own tastes and employments for your sake, and day and night I strove to behave to you as your own blessed mother would have done. I thought I was succeeding, and that you loved me as I did you I could not but perceive how much you were improved inwardly, and I flattered myself that your heart and mind grew in proportion.

"But it seems that I was mistaken: you have allowed the idle words of a vulgar school-girl to have more weight with you than all my love and care, and have given to her the confidence you denied to me. I do not know what more I can do for you, since you think my care tyranny, and treat my affection with contempt. What is to become of you if you continue in this course, I do not know. You may go to your room and remain there for the present. If we can do no more for you, we must at least take care to save your reputation from irrevocable injury if possible."

Sophie went to her room, and throwing herself upon the floor, gave way to the wildest expressions of grief and anger, weeping and sobbing and wringing her hands almost like a mad creature. But this could not last long, the violence of the passion exhausted itself, and she began against her will to think. Oh, how contemptible and mean she appeared in her own eyes as she reviewed the course she had taken. She dared not whisper even to herself that she had ever been unjustly treated by her stepmother. Every kind word and act, every sacrifice for her sake, seemed to rise up in judgment against her.

In that very room, her mother had sat up with her night after night when she was sick, and had thought no pains too great to amuse and comfort her. Her book-shelf filled with pretty volumes, her nice dressing-case, the pretty prints on the walls, all witnessed against her. Above all, her first mother's picture, which her stepmother had copied and hung at the foot of the bed, and upon which her eyes first rested on Christmas morning, how it reproached her! She dared not look at it.

She felt indignant at Laura's treachery, but her conscience repeated to her that she had known Laura before, even if she had not been warned against her. Turn where she would, she saw no comfort. The girls at school all knew how she had behaved. Greta and Harry would despise her, and never want to have any thing more to do with her. Mrs. Gaylord would never let her come and see Emma again. How could she even go into the Sunday school? How could she go to church or into the street?

What would her father say? She had not thought of that before. Of course he knew all about it—and what would he think of her? Would he ever forgive her? She did not feel as if he could.

She did not dare to think of dying. What if she should die now, just as she was? The idea was insupportable. She took a book from the shelf, and thought she would read, but it was one her mother had given her, and she hastily replaced it and took another. It was a Testament, and her eyes fell upon the words, "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God:" she threw it from her as if it had stung her. And at last, worn out with weeping, she threw herself upon the bed and fell asleep.

She was awaked by Nancy, who brought up her dinner; and having arranged it comfortably for her, and made up her fire, left the room without speaking.

"Nancy is turned against me too," she thought. "I have not a friend in the world; what will become of me?"

The afternoon passed wearily enough, and it seemed to Sophie as if it would never be dark. She tried to sew, she tried to read, to draw,—but she could fix her mind on nothing. She wished her mother would come and see her. And yet when she heard her step in the hall, she trembled lest she should enter. At last Jane, the housemaid, brought her tea, with a lamp and a new magazine.

"Your mother, miss. She fixed the waiter for you, and got the quince jelly herself. She has been lying down all the afternoon with a headache, and looks dreadful pale. I heard your father ask her if he should send for the doctor, but she said it was nothing much."

"No, miss, but he looked as if he felt very bad. If I was you, miss, I should go and beg mamma's pardon, right off, whatever I had done, and not stay shut up here. Only think how much better it would be."

"Well, miss, now I call that real naughty of you, when your mamma has been so good to you. I'm sure you ought not to be proud."

"Oh, nonsense, don't you believe it; I know better. But I must go and wait on the table,—so good night, miss."

So, her mother was almost sick. Sophie felt that it was her fault, and thought what would become of her if her mother should die. She looked at the evidence of continued care on the neatly spread tea-board, and the book she had sent her, and felt in her heart of hearts, that no own mother could be more kind. The time passed slowly enough, and she went to bed before nine o'clock, to try and forget her troubles. But she had slept so long during the day, that she could not go to sleep at once, and she felt almost afraid to do so.

She lighted her lamp again, and taking her Bible to read herself sleepy, she opened to the parable of the prodigal son. She read it through again and again.

"That is what I ought to do," she thought, "if only I could. But then even if mother forgives me, it will never be again as it was before. She will never trust me again—how can she? Oh, how I wish I could undo it all! If I had only minded what she told me about Laura, it would have been well enough. I made so many resolutions when I was sick, and I have broken them all. Oh, dear me! I don't know what to do!"

Then another thought occurred to her which made her heart beat fast. She had offended God as well as man, and her heavenly Father was angry with her. How could she go to sleep without asking his forgiveness? She knew now, why she had never kept her resolutions. She had learned that in the Church Catechism, but she had never thought of it before as she did now. She had never asked God for his special grace by diligent prayer, though she had said her prayers a great many times.

Sophie had strong religious feelings, and had been well taught. And now in her time of trouble, the good seed began to spring up. Thoughtfully she turned over the leaves of her Bible, reading a few words here and there, till she came to a chapter in Isaiah where were a few verses marked by her mother's hand. She read:

"He was wounded for our sins and bruised for our transgressions; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with his stripes we are healed. All we, like sheep, have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way, and the Lord has laid on Him the iniquities of us all."

She knew very well to whom these words referred. "My sins too," she said. She put down the book, and sat meditating with her eyes covered with her hand for some minutes. Then she rose from her bed, and kneeling down beside it, she remained in that position a long time. When she arose, she was weeping, but not bitterly; and the hopeless expression was gone from her face. She no longer felt forsaken of God; and trusting that He had forgiven her, she felt sure her kind mother would do the same.

At first she thought she would go to her at once, but she remembered what Jane had said about her headache, and thought she would not disturb her to-night. So she lay down again, and putting out her light, was soon asleep. She did not sleep quietly, being tormented by uncomfortable dreams, all relating to the events of the day. Several times she awaked herself by talking, or started up in a great fright.

At last she thought that her mother was lying on the floor in the schoolroom; that she was dying, and calling on her for help, while Laura Bartlett held her fast and would not let her go. Oh, how she struggled to get free, till some one pressed her hands softly, and said, "Sophie! Sophie! What is the matter? Wake up, my child."

Then she opened her eyes, and knew it was all a dream. Her mother was standing over her, holding her hands and speaking to her.

"Oh, mother!" she sobbed. "I thought you were dying, and I could not go to you."

"You were dreaming, my child; lie down now, and I will sit by you till you go to sleep."

Sophie threw her arms round her mother's neck as she bent to arrange the pillow, and whispered, "Oh, mamma, I was so wicked!—But I am so sorry! Can you ever forgive me, and love me again?"

Her mother kissed her, and said gently, "I forgive you, my daughter, with all my heart. But, Sophie, there is another whom you have offended more than you have me, and whose forgiveness you ought to ask—your Father in heaven, my child."

"I have, mamma; I did before I went to sleep. But I don't see how you can ever trust me again, or any one else."

"We will talk about that in the morning, Sophie. You must not expect to escape from the consequences of your fault, even though you repent of it. But we will talk of that another time."

"It is better, though it aches a little. It has been very bad for a few hours this afternoon."

"And that is my fault too. Oh dear! How much harm I have done! If I had only minded you, mamma, it never would have happened. But you don't know half I used to do. I am ashamed to think how I used to let Laura talk to me."

"I am not, mamma, now. I was at first, but now I see it was all my own fault. But please, mamma, go back to bed. Your head will soon be worse than ever. I shall go to sleep now, I know; and I cannot bear to see you look so pale. Please do go to bed."

Mrs. Kennedy yielded to Sophie's earnest entreaties, and retired, thankful from her heart to find her so truly penitent. And Sophie, after again saying her prayers, was soon asleep.

The next morning Mrs. Kennedy had a long conversation with Sophie on the subject of her fault, in which the latter confessed without reserve all that she had done. And her mother was encouraged to find that she had no disposition to justify herself at Laura's expense.

Neither did she appear confident in her own resolutions, but said, humbly, "I am afraid to make any promises, mamma, but I will try and be a better girl than I have ever been, and I hope God will help me. I don't want you to trust me, mamma, but I want to stay with you, and not be sent away."

"I have no thought of sending you away, my daughter. On the contrary, I shall keep you with me more than ever, and try to do more for you. I hope you have learned by this time, Sophie, how foolish and dangerous a thing it is to have secrets away from your parents. Depend upon it, they are your best friends, and any thing which you are afraid to confide to them must be wrong. I am glad to have you have friends and playmates of your own age, but unless you are willing to have me acquainted with all you do and say with them, they will do you more harm than good. Many a girl has bitterly repented all her life that she did not make a confidant of her mother instead of some one as foolish as herself."

Mrs. Kennedy paused a few moments and then said, "I want you to go out with me this morning."

"Where to, mamma?" said Sophie, rather unwilling to run the risk of meeting any one, for she felt as if the whole world must know how wicked she had been.

"I have no doubt of it, my dear. She was in heaven in spirit before she died: I never saw a more perfectly Christian character. Dry your eyes now, Sophie, and let us go and see if we can do any thing. Your father and Mr. Carroll will pay the funeral expenses, and we must see that the mother has proper clothes."

When they arrived at Mrs. Brown's, they were taken up into the room where Betsey had suffered so long, and where her body now lay asleep to await for the resurrection day! A neat cap hid the scar on her face, and her hand held a sweet white rosebud. Sophie thought, as she looked at her, that she had never seen any thing more beautiful.

"Are you afraid to sit here alone a few minutes, my dear?" said Mrs. Kennedy. "Mrs. Hand has lain down, and I want to speak to nurse."

"No, mamma, I am not afraid; I do not think Betsey would hurt me, now that she is an angel."

Sophie kneeled down by the body of her friend, when she was left alone; and there, in the presence of death and of eternal life, she prayed that her heart might be moved as Betsey's had been; and that she might have grace henceforth to live, not to herself but to God; and that following her Saviour all her life, she might meet Him at last in heaven.

CHAPTER VIII.

FOR some time after the events recorded in the last chapter, Sophie felt rather unwilling to go out, or meet any of her friends. For she could not help feeling as if she had forfeited the respect and affection of all those she most valued. She did not find, however, that she was treated any less kindly by Harry and Greta, or that Mrs. Gaylord was not glad to see her.

Laura left town immediately after the affair came out, and Sophie was spared the embarrassment of meeting her. She wrote one letter to Sophie, who showed it at once to her mother. Mrs. Kennedy could not help smiling to see that Laura had already learned the history of every one in the school, and was deep in all the gossip of the establishment. She advised Sophie not to answer the letter.

"A correspondence with Laura will do you no good, and it will use up time which would be much better employed by that young lady in learning to spell, an accomplishment which she seems thus far to have neglected."

Sophie had learned a lesson which she never forgot. In the loneliness of her chamber, face to face with her wounded conscience and her God, she had found that all her own strength was the most miserable weakness, her own resolutions worse than useless, unless supported upon a higher Power. She had been deprived of all stay upon herself; had been forced to see her own folly and sinfulness, and she had been led to the Rock that was higher than herself—the Rock of Ages—that tried stone, the precious Corner Stone, the Sure Foundation.

She had many a conflict with herself, more than ever, for many things now appeared to her in the light of sins, which she had never thought so before, and she could not look back upon her past life without shame and self-reproach. But she fought bravely, and found her strength and courage increasing with every victory. Many of her careless and indolent habits she now saw were merely the indulgence of selfishness, and she addressed herself with steadiness to break them off.

"Sophie has left every door in the house open." "Sophie, here are your overshoes by the drawing-room fire." "Sophie, you have not mended your stockings," were sentences much less frequently heard than formerly.

It was very hard for Sophie to answer in a good-natured tone when she was reproved, and her mother advised her never to answer at all: she found this an excellent plan, and I would advise all my young readers to try it. You may possibly think that these are small things to make matters of conscience, but depend upon it, unless you find yourself applying the religious test to every-day duties, faults, and cares, you have good reason to distrust yourself and your attainments.

We must now ask our readers to take a long step, and pass over an interval of several months. It was now about a year since Sophie first saw her new mamma; how long the time seemed to look back upon! She had learned to think of her mother as her best friend, and turned to her for advice as naturally as if she had never known any other counsellor. The story which had originated in Sophie's indiscretion and Laura's gossip, had long ago died out, as Mrs. Gaylord had predicted. And the people who troubled themselves about the matter, had come to the conclusion that Sophie was wonderfully improved in manners and appearance, and much better dressed than formerly, so after all it might be as well for her to have some one to take care of her.

One pleasant morning in September, Sophie was awakened very early by some sudden noise which startled her very much, though she could not tell what it was. She listened, but all in the house seemed quiet, so she lay down and went to sleep again. This time she slept rather too long, and when she awaked the second time, the sun shone brightly into the room. Afraid of being too late for breakfast, she dressed hastily, and as soon as she had finished her reading and prayer, which she now never forgot, she went down into the parlor.

There was no one there! What could be the matter? Was any one sick? Sophie was going to knock at her mother's door, when Nancy partly opened it and looked out.

"Why, Nancy—" Sophie began hastily, but Nancy smiled and held up her finger, and at that moment she heard a sound such as she had never heard in the house before—it was the cry of a little baby.

Then she knew in a moment what had happened. Her heart beat faster than it had done since the night she had stood at the hall-door, waiting for her new mamma to get out of the carriage, and she trembled so that she could hardly stand.

Sophie nodded, for she could not very well speak, and Nancy allowed her to enter. A little fire was burning in the grate, and a strange woman sat before it with something in her lap, but Sophie did not look at her. She saw only her mother lying in bed, with her face almost as white as the pillows. Mrs. Kennedy held out her hand to Sophie, and kissed her very tenderly. I should not like to affirm that the little girl did not shed a few tears, and even sobbed once or twice, but Nancy said, that "'On the whole,' she behaved very well."

"Come here, Sophie," said her father, as soon as she was released from her mother's embrace; "come and make acquaintance with this young gentleman."

Sophie went towards the fireplace, and there, on the strange woman's lap, lay a little baby—certainly the smallest baby in the world, Sophie thought, though nurse declared it was a good big boy. Well, at any rate, there he lay, with his eyes wide open, poking his little hands about, and puckering his little red face into all sorts of odd shapes.

"What a darling little thing!" exclaimed Sophie. "But what funny faces it makes up!"

"They always do so at first, miss," said the nurse. "See what pretty little hands he has!"

Sophie slipped her little finger into one of them, and the tiny little pink claws closed upon it, to her great delight. "See, papa, he is holding my finger. What a dear little baby! When will he be old enough to play, nurse?"

"Not in some time yet," said Nancy. "I expect you will be wanting him to run about by next week."

"I am not quite so foolish as that," said Sophie, smiling. "I know babies cannot walk and talk directly, but I shall want very much to see him grow." She turned to her mother again, and a new fear entered her mind, as she saw how pale she was.

"No, my love, I am only weak. I do not think I am very sick. Now go and make coffee for papa. You must be mistress for a while, till I get about again."

Sophie was duly installed in her mother's place at the breakfast-table, and filled her office with great propriety and dignity: her father gratifying her by saying that he never drank a better cup of coffee. "I am taller than I was the last time I made coffee for you, papa. Don't you remember how I used to get the great Dictionary to sit upon, before mamma came?"

"You are very much improved, my daughter," said her father, "especially for the last few months. I hope you will continue to improve. Think how soon you will be a young lady, and how much you will have to learn before that time!"

"I am learning a great many things now, papa. I am going over the arithmetic the second time, and I can do any sum in the book. How stupid I used to be about it!"

"No, papa," answered Sophie, "I know it was not. I used to be vexed the moment I could not do a sum, and then I would not try again. Now I like it quite as well as French."

After breakfast, Sophie began to consider what she should set herself about. She thought she would not practise, as that would disturb her mother. So she took her slate and arithmetic, and worked an hour at her sums with great perseverance. Then she went about the parlor, and put all the tables and book-shelves in order, and arranged some late flowers in the vases.

"I mean to try and keep the house looking just as it would if mamma were about," she thought, "and have every thing pleasant for my father when he comes in."

Finally, she took her sewing, and spent the rest of the morning in her mother's room, sewing and watching the baby. What a surprising thing that baby was! Every contortion of its little pink countenance, its hands and feet, its cunning little ears, and the scanty locks of hair which appeared when its cap was taken off, all were marvels in Sophie's eyes. If she had not been a little anxious about her mother, she would have been perfectly happy.

Every thing went on well, and in the course of a week Mrs. Kennedy was able to sit up a little. Greta and Harry had seen the baby, and admired it to Sophie's full content, but Emma Gaylord had rather affronted her, by declaring that it had a funny lump of a nose, and that she could not tell what color its eyes were—they seemed to her to be of no color at all. As Mrs. Kennedy only laughed, and agreed with Emma perfectly, Sophie could only take refuge with Nancy, who joined with her in declaring that its eyes—bless 'em—were the perfect pattern of its father's, and so was its nose.

One evening as Sophie was coming in from feeding her chickens, and stopped a moment on the steps to take off her overshoes, she overheard the following conversation between the nurse and Jane:

"She's a mighty pleasant child, any way," answered Mrs. Briggs, "and takes to the mistress the same as if she were her own. But don't you think, Jane, dear, she'll find a difference now?"

"Oh, just this. I've seen a good many ladies that were very fond of other children just as long as they had none of their own, but the minute their own children came, they could not abide any others."

"It won't be so with Mrs. Kennedy, I am sure," said Jane; "she is not one of that sort. She used to have a deal of trouble with Sophie at first, but I never saw her one particle out of patience; not half as much as many are with their own, and I don't believe it will be different now."

"Well, maybe not. The lady is a good lady, to be sure, and its like she will treat them all the same. I hope so, for Miss Sophie is that fond of her, it will break her heart to be turned off."

This was all Sophie heard, but it was enough to fill her heart with trouble. She was naturally inclined to be rather exacting of affection, and perhaps a little jealous; and the thought that possibly her mother would not love her as well, threw her into great distress. She did not really believe that such would be the case, but she could not help thinking about it. When she went to kiss her mother and the baby good night, she approached the cradle with different feelings from what she had done before: she felt almost angry with the little stranger, whom she had been so glad to see. After she had retired to her room, she sat for some time brooding over the uncomfortable idea which had taken possession of her.

"But how foolish I am!" she finally said, half aloud. "I should think I might have had enough of distrusting mother. I am sure she has not made any difference, lately, and it will be time enough to think of it when it comes."

So Sophie read her Bible and said her prayers, and with a resolute effort dismissing the matter from her mind, she was soon asleep.

The next morning she had almost forgotten her distress, but it was renewed in the course of the day by Mrs. Bartlett, who seemed destined to be Sophie's evil genius. Mrs. Bartlett had kept away from Mrs. Kennedy's, and had rather avoided meeting her, but the latter disliking the idea of any thing like a quarrel, had called upon her, and made a point of treating her politely. So Mrs. Bartlett came round to make the proper inquiries for the health of Mrs. Kennedy and the baby, and Sophie received her and answered her queries with due politeness.

"I suppose you will find yourself quite cast into the shade now, Miss Sophie," said Mrs. Bartlett with her accustomed delicacy.

"Why, I don't know," replied the little girl, rather at a loss what to say. "Why should I?"

"Oh, why—because the baby is almost always the most important personage, you know—the oldest always has to be put out of the way even when—" Mrs. Bartlett hesitated, and then went on in quite another direction. "I suppose your mamma will not care to superintend your education any more, now she has a baby of her own to occupy her. Probably she will be thinking of a school for you."

"I don't know," said. Sophie again, feeling her heart grow suddenly heavy. "She has never said any thing about any change."

"Of course she would not be likely to mention it to you, but Mrs. Stone remarked to me that she heard your mamma making a great many inquiries of Miss Crosset about the school she was at in H. And Mrs. Stone said your mamma said, she was very much interested in the subject just now: that's all."

Sophie, feeling herself very uncomfortable, was about to try and change the subject, but Mrs. Bartlett continued—

"If your mamma should really intend to send you away, I can recommend the school where Laura is. It is one of the most expensive in the city, and very fashionable. The young ladies all take their own silver forks and spoons and napkin-rings, and they are expected to dress for dinner every day."

"One need not go away to school for that," remarked Sophie. "Mamma always wants me to dress before dinner."

"Your mamma is right no doubt, Miss Sophie, but I think probably she will not be so particular now. People are always more strict with other people's children than their own. I suppose you are very fond of the baby, are you not?"

"That is quite right: you ought to love him the same as if he were your own brother. Many people say there need be no difference in the feeling. I cannot see how that is possible myself, but no doubt it is. So I hope you will not be jealous even if you find yourself cast quite into the shade. You know it is natural for people to like their own children best."

Sophie made no answer, and Mrs. Bartlett, having "freed her mind," finally departed, leaving the poor girl's heart full of trouble. In vain she told herself that it was foolish to mind what Mrs. Bartlett said, the words would constantly recur to her mind—"You know it is natural for people to like their own children best."

To do her justice, she strove manfully against the feelings of anger and jealousy which she was shocked to find arising in her heart, and never gave way without a struggle, but it made her wretched to find that she could feel so towards the darling little baby. Especially she dreaded being sent away to school, and when she heard her mother say that she would need several new dresses and other articles, she feared it was with a view to her leaving home. She did not like to say any thing about it to her mother for fear of distressing her, otherwise she would have told her the whole story.

But Mrs. Kennedy had eyes and ears of her own, and she had become well skilled in reading her daughter's looks and tones. She saw that Sophie was unhappy, and guessed that some such ideas might be at the bottom of the trouble, so she took the first opportunity of drawing her out.

"You may take this pleasant afternoon to go home and see your children, Mrs. Briggs," said she one day not long after Mrs. Bartlett's visit. "Sophie does not care about going out, and she will sit here and call Nancy if any thing is wanted."

Mrs. Briggs was much obliged and prepared to be gone accordingly, and as soon as they were alone, Mrs. Kennedy opened the subject.

"It seems to me, Sophie, that you have not been very happy for two or three days. Has any thing happened to make you uncomfortable?"

"You will think me very foolish, mamma, and wrong too," said Sophie, "but indeed I have tried all I can to help it."

"Feeling jealous, mamma. I don't mean to, indeed; and I do love the little fellow dearly," said Sophie almost crying. "I never should have thought of it, but from something I heard."

Sophie related what she had overheard from the servants, and the substance of Mrs. Bartlett's remarks.

"I wish Mrs. Bartlett—" began Mrs. Kennedy, in a tone of irritation very uncommon with her, but she stopped and did not finish the sentence.

"Do say you wish she was in the Red Sea, mamma," said Sophie laughing. "I should be delighted to hear you, just for once."

"You want me to be as bad as yourself, you saucy girl," said Mrs. Kennedy, laughing in her turn. "But, really, I wish she lived anywhere else. I do not wonder you were made uncomfortable by her remarks. Why did you not tell me at the time, instead of fretting yourself ill over it?"

"I was afraid of worrying you, mamma, as you were not very strong. And besides, I did not really believe it after all, though I could not help thinking of it. You do not mean to send me away, do you, mamma?" asked Sophie very anxiously.

"No, my dear child," answered her mother, "I never thought of such a thing. Of course I shall not have quite as much time to devote to your lessons as formerly, and I intend that you shall have a music-master at any rate, but I shall keep you at home as long as I can, I assure you. I shall expect you to be very useful to me for the next few years, in various ways. You will soon be able to take a great deal of care off my hands, and that will be very desirable for you, in order that you may learn housekeeping. Your father tells me that you have mended all his stockings, and sewed on the buttons since I have been sick, and Nancy says your room and clothes are in fine order. I am very much pleased with your improvement in these matters."

"But do you think it is true, mamma, as Mrs. Bartlett says, that—that baby and I, for instance, can never be the same as an own brother and sister?"

"No, Sophie," said her mother, "I do not believe it at all. I have seen large families situated in the same way, where no one would have thought of there being any difference. No doubt in such cases, jealousies do sometimes grow up, but it is almost always the result of some such impertinent meddling as this of Mrs. Bartlett. I advise you to set yourself entirely at rest about the matter, my dear, and as far as you can dismiss it from your mind. If you are kind and patient with baby, he will no doubt love you. As for myself, I make no promises. I only ask you to judge for yourself, whether I make any difference. We have said nothing about baby's name yet; what would you like to have him called?"

CHAPTER IX.

AUTUMN passed into winter, and winter into summer, and summer into autumn again, while baby—we beg his pardon—while Freddy grew in mind and body, and waxed prettier and more knowing every day. Never, Sophie thought, was there so wonderful a child. She could not believe that any other baby had ever made such pretty noises, or improved so fast. And in truth, Freddy was a very pretty child. His eyes, which Emma had declared to be no color in particular, were now, unquestionably, dark blue; and he had beautiful soft hair, curling in rings round his head. As to his intellectual attainments, truth compels us to state that he was about on an equality with other children of his age, but every one knows that our baby—especially the first baby—is always remarkable.

When Freddy was six weeks old, he was baptized by the name of Frederick Wood. Sophie stood at the altar with her mother and father, and joined with all her heart in the solemn service. She had seen children baptized before, and beheld the ceremony with interest, as every one must, but she had not realized the importance of it. Dr. Shelby marked the sacred sign upon Freddy's innocent forehead, "in token that hereafter he should not be ashamed of the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under his banner against sin, the world, and the devil, and to continue Christ's faithful soldier and servant unto his life's end."

Sophie felt that she now stood in a new relation to the darling boy, now made a member of the Holy Catholic Church, to which she herself belonged, and standing by the font where she herself had been dedicated to God by the office and ministry of the same good man, she resolved, that, God helping her, she would take care that no act or word of hers should ever offend or mislead that little one, but that she would do her best to lead him onward in the paths of righteousness. For a long time afterwards, Freddy's name had a sacred sound in her ears, and she never pronounced it at length without a certain feeling of awe.

Sophie did not altogether conquer herself so but that she had several attacks of her old feelings of jealousy towards the baby. She was especially subject to it when she was sick and though she struggled against it with all her might, it often cost her many tears. She tried to conceal her feelings from her father and mother, but in this she was not as successful as she herself supposed. Her mother almost always divined at once what was passing in her little girl's mind, and without noticing it in words, she generally contrived some diversion, which helped to drive away the evil spirit.

"It is very often better to run away from such ideas than to fight them," she remarked one day to her husband. "It is perfectly natural that Sophie should sometimes feel as she does, especially as I began by giving her my whole attention. She really makes great exertions to be disinterested, and the best way to help her is to give her something else to think about."

The year after Freddy was a year old, Mrs. Kennedy thought it best for Sophie to begin school again. So she made an arrangement with Miss Warner, by which Sophie was to attend only in the morning, the afternoon being spent at home in drawing and practising. Sophie was at first rather unwilling to make the trial. She had been so much in the society of grown persons since her father's marriage, that she felt herself rather lost among girls of her own age, and this was one reason why her mother made the arrangement.

"It is undesirable, my dear," she said, "that you should grow up altogether unlike other girls. You have had a great deal of attention lately, moreover, and have fallen into a very dependent way of studying, from having some one always ready to answer your questions. In school, you will be obliged to take care of yourself."

"I am afraid I shall not find it so easy to do right in school as at home. A great many of the girls are very careless, and idle; and I am afraid I shall be led into temptation."

"But, Sophie, you cannot remain shut up in a glass case all your life. You will soon be old enough to go into society, where you will meet many more temptations. You must learn to be firm and resist."

"Miss Lee says we must be self-reliant, mamma, and then we shall do very well. But I never can be self-reliant."

"I am not anxious you should be," replied her mother. "I have no great faith in self-reliance. Self is a miserable support—a broken reed to lean upon. Woe to that one who in the hour of trial has only self on which to depend. No, my dear, your only safe resting-place at home or abroad, in solitude or in society, is upon God. 'Watch and pray,' is both sword and shield to the Christian, and as long as you obey this rule, you are safe anywhere; forget it, and you are safe nowhere."

Sophie was somewhat comforted by this view of the case, and began school on Monday morning with the determination that in all cases she would faithfully "watch unto prayer."

For a few days all went well with her. Having been so long out of school, she was almost a stranger to many of the girls, and was, therefore, under no temptation to join in any mischief that might be going on. She sat with Emma Gaylord, who was very steady and industrious, and her other neighbor was a young lady who was preparing to be a teacher, so she was very well placed for study.

And in fact it was from study that her first temptation arose. Sophie was ambitious in a certain way. She loved study for its own sake, and she was also fond of being praised by those to whom she was attached, though she never cared, as some girls do, to mortify others by going before them. She had read so much with her mother, since she had been out of school, that she was far beyond most girls of her age in general information, and this stock of knowledge "told" in various ways, especially upon her compositions. She wrote better than many of the oldest girls in school, and her rhymes and sketches were in great request for the "Lily," and the "Rose," two literary papers kept up with great spirit among the older pupils.

Miss Warner mingled with her praises, admonitions against haste and "scribbling," but the younger teachers were not so cautious, and, on the whole, it is no wonder that Sophie's head became a little turned. Then she was soon very much interested in her studies, and worked very hard at them, not only in school but at home. Two or three times she was tempted to curtail her hours of reading and prayer for the sake of her lessons, and often when she was reading her Bible, her thoughts were far from its sacred pages. Sophie felt that this was not right, and made some efforts to regain her former watchfulness, but without much success, for she did not strive with her whole heart.

"But then," she reasoned with herself, "papa and mamma expect me to be diligent about my studies, and improve as much as I can. Mamma always says, 'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.'"

Thus, she lulled her conscience into an uneasy slumber. Her prayers grew more and more formal, and her thoughts were less upon things above. Presently her lessons invaded even her Sundays: she was always thinking of them in church, and once or twice she spent Sunday afternoon, which she had been accustomed to make a time of prayer and religious reading, in writing compositions. She felt a sense of guilt in so doing, but satisfied herself with the thought, that it was certainly her duty to write, because Miss Warner would be displeased if she came to school without a composition, and she should lose her place in her classes.

Poor Sophie was indeed in a bad way. True, she had not yet fallen into any open and grievous sin, but having strayed from the straight path, she was ready to fall at the first temptation.

The occasion was not far off. There was a girl in the school who rejoiced in the singular name of Chicago Anne Higbee. What could have induced any one to bestow such a name upon a girl, it is impossible to imagine, but that was her name, and many were the changes rung upon it by her schoolmates, the favorite ones being Chicky Anne and Gawky Anne, especially the latter, which had a suitableness about it quite irresistible to the mischievous girls.

Poor Gawky Anne was continually exciting the mirth of her schoolmates and the rebukes of the teachers by her awkwardness and slatternly habits. She had an immense quantity of light-colored hair, and daily displayed some new and startling fashion of dressing it. She wore the very largest figured muslin de laines and calicoes, and usually an apron made of some other kind of muslin de laine trimmed with a showy cord and tassel. She commonly eschewed collars and cuffs, but wore a red ribbon pinned closely around her throat, while about a dozen pins, large and small, were stuck on the waist of her dress. Gawky Anne always dropped every thing that could be dropped, and spilled every thing that could be spilled. She chewed slate-pencils and little pieces of india-rubber, and bit her nails, and turned her toes in and her elbows out and in short, as Miss Lee observed, if there were ever an awkward thing to be done, Miss Higbee was the one to do it.

She might have learned better if she could have been convinced that she was not well enough, but she saw no difference, in any important respect, between her own manners and those of Miss Bradford, the most elegant girl in the school; for withal Gawky Anne had a fund of self-complacency which nothing could disturb. Poor Gawky Anne was very romantic, and nourished her budding fancies upon such books as "Thaddeus of Warsaw," "The Children of the Abbey," "The Romance of the Forest," and the like, until she fancied herself an Amanda or Adeline at the very least, and rather wondered that no Thaddeus or Theodore appeared to claim her hand, or cruel Montini to imprison her in a dungeon.

Some of the more thoughtless of the girls used to "put her up," as they said, to talk of her castles in the air, and I regret to say, they did not hesitate to encourage her in her folly, by telling her stories of the admiration she excited, and by praising her verses written by moonlight, and comprising examples of false syntax under every rule in the grammar.

At first Sophie refused to join in this sport, and expressed herself decidedly against it, but as she left off to watch and be sober, her sense of the ridiculous got the better of her sense of duty, and she was tempted to join with the rest. One day at noon, while the girls were amusing themselves with some of Gawky Anne's effusions, Sophie snatched up a pen, and scribbled a letter to Miss Higbee, purporting to come from a romantic young officer, smitten with the charms of that young lady, and breathing an admiration and devotion worthy of Thaddeus himself.

This precious production was read aloud amidst shouts of laughter; Carry Woodford declaring that it was too good to be lost, and that Gawky Anne should have it that very day.

Sophie remonstrated, but Carry would not surrender the paper, and she finally dropped the matter, thinking that Gawky Anne would not be foolish enough to be so imposed upon.

But Miss Higbee was foolish enough for any thing which promised to gratify her love of romance. Carry copied the letter, and contrived to have it fall into her hands before night. Gawky Anne was delighted beyond measure at the contents of the epistle, and before next morning she had concocted an answer, which she deposited, as desired by her imaginary admirer, in the spout of the rain-water conductor. From thence Carry, watching her opportunity, extracted it, and collecting two or three of her especial friends, she read it aloud with great emphasis.

"You must write an answer to it, Sophie," said Carry, after the laugh had subsided a little; "Gawky Anne will break her heart if you do not."

"Deceive her, indeed!" answered Carry. "No one has tried to deceive her. If she is such a goose as to believe such stuff, it is not our fault."

"Come, do, Sophie!" urged Martha Prime. "No one can do it but you. We can tell her any time, if we think it worth while."

Sophie resisted for some time, but the entreaties and flatteries of the girls prevailed over her sense of right she wrote the answer, and gave it to Carry to copy. She wished she had never begun, but had not resolution enough to stop short after taking the first false step.

That night Sophie did not feel much of the spirit of prayer. Her head was full of very different things and then she feared to awaken her conscience, for she knew that she had done wrong. How could she ask God's forgiveness for the sin she had committed, when she was intending to repeat the same sin again to-morrow? She hurried over a form of prayer, however, and thus partially satisfying her conscience, she fell asleep.

In the morning it was the same, and the next night she omitted the form. We can never stand still in the path of holiness; unless we are going forward, we are surely receding. Sophie had ceased to go forward: she had allowed the cares of her little world to choke the Word, and it was fast becoming unfruitful.

The days went on, and still the deception continued. The girls did not find it so easy to stop, when they had once begun no opportunity occurred for undeceiving Gawky Anne, and the correspondence grew more and more animated. Poor Miss Higbee considered matters all settled, and began to hint to some of her intimates, that "they need not be surprised if something should happen some of these days." Meantime she curled her hair in longer and longer ringlets, and grew more and more sentimental every day. Miss Lee complained that she never had a lesson: Miss Warner herself began to suspect something wrong, and aware of her romantic propensities, determined to watch her closely.

One morning early, as Miss Warner was standing at her window, she saw Gawky Anne appear in the courtyard, and glancing above and around, proceed with a letter in her hand to the corner of the building. She threw on a shawl, and quietly crossing the yard, stood behind Miss Higbee, just in time to see her extract a letter from the spout, and put another in its place.

Miss Higbee started, and gave a slight scream. Miss Warner repeated the question.

"It is certainly something," said Miss Warner, "for I see a letter in your hand, and here is another," extracting the epistle from its romantic place of concealment.

"Please don't read it," sobbed Miss Higbee, bursting into a flood of tears, "it ain't nothing but nonsense."

"Very likely," said Miss Warner, breaking the seal, "but I must see what it is. I cannot have girls under my roof carrying on private correspondences."

She glanced at two or three sentences, while Gawky Anne stood looking at the vacant spout as if she contemplated creeping into it herself.

"Come to my room, Miss Higbee," said Miss Warner. "I must understand this matter."

Gawky Anne followed, like a prisoner to execution, thinking, no doubt, that the course of true love never did run smooth. When they were within, Miss Warner locked the door, and requesting Miss Higbee to take a seat, she perused both documents to the end, vainly endeavoring to keep the corners of her mouth in order. When she had finished and recovered her gravity a little, she prepared to interrogate Gawky Anne.

Miss Higbee would not answer, at first, but upon Miss Warner's threatening to send for her father, she replied, "Ten or twelve."

"And since then you have been answering them, and putting your answers in the spout," said Miss Warner, laughing in spite of herself.

"Augustus, indeed!" exclaimed Miss Warner. "You poor child, is it possible you are silly enough to suppose that these letters are really written by Augustus Frederick de Root?—I see that is the name at the bottom."

"Why, yes, ma'am, of course," answered Chicago Anne, opening her eyes wide; "they are just exactly such letters as Theodore wrote to Adeline in the 'Romance of the Forest,' and I don't see why I should not have such letters as well as any one else."

"Do not be alarmed, child; I have not the least desire to expose your folly, but I must understand the matter."

Miss Lee made her appearance, and Miss Warner, after explaining as much of the story as was necessary, gave her the letter to read.

"Who should you say, Miss Lee, was the author?" asked Miss Warner, after she had finished them.

"The writing is Caroline Woodford's without doubt," said Miss Lee. "She has attempted to disguise it, but without much success. I do not think it originated with her, however: she never wrote any thing that displayed so much talent. If the thing were possible—"

"Well," said Miss Warner, seeing that she paused; "and what if it were possible?"

"I can hardly believe that Sophie would be guilty of such a thing," remarked Miss Warner.

"She would not have done it at one time, but Sophie has grown very careless lately, and she is a great deal with Carry Woodford and Martha Prime. I could tell with more certainty if I were to see the whole parcel."

Chicago Anne entreated and wept in vain: Miss Warner was resolute, and she was obliged to produce her treasures. She waited in breathless suspense till the two ladies had finished the last one. Then Miss Lee said emphatically—

"There can be no doubt at all, that Sophie Kennedy is the author of these letters. I have lately found most extraordinary sonnets and scraps of verses written on her books and exercises, and here are the very same things. She has written them, and Caroline has copied them."

Poor Gawky Anne! She wept and cried more vehemently than ever. To be found out corresponding with an officer—a real live Augustus Frederick—was bad enough. Still there was consolation in the thought that Adeline and Malvina Fitzallan had been treated in the same way by cruel guardians. But to have the cup thus rudely dashed from her lips—to be assured beyond any possibility of doubt, that Augustus Frederick was a creature of air, with no existence except in the minds of her mischievous schoolmates, was too cruel. Miss Warner pitied the poor girl's distress, and forbore making any comments upon her folly for the present.

"You may remain here, Chicago Anne," said she; "I will send you some breakfast presently."

"I don't want any," sobbed the fair disconsolate. "I couldn't eat a mite, I know. I'll go right home this very day."

"We will see about that, my dear child. You must do just as I say, you know. Come, come, dry your eyes; we will say no more about it just now."

The boarders all wondered why Miss Warner was so late, and why Gawky Anne did not make her appearance, but when one of the other teachers made some inquiries about her, Miss Warner only said, "I have excused Miss Higbee this morning," without giving any reason. Nothing was said about her absence from the table, and Miss Warner herself prepared her breakfast.

Soon after school commenced, Miss Warner was missing from the room, and after a little time, the monitress came round to Carry Woodford and Sophie Kennedy: Miss Warner wished to see them in her room.

Sophie's heart sunk within her at this announcement, for she felt sure her sin had found her out. She had been for two or three days very uneasy in mind, seeing the effect produced upon Chicago Anne, and she had written the last letter very reluctantly, and not without a great deal of urging from Carry. Sophie had wandered very far from the path of duty, but she had not strayed out of the reach of conscience. Having once been dead unto sin, she could not quietly live any longer therein, and the deceit and cruelty in which she had been engaged began to appear in their true light.

Another circumstance had helped to arouse her from the state of insensibility into which she had fallen. Dr. Shelby and Mr. Collins had spent the evening before at her father's, and the former, after announcing that the bishop's visit would take place in about eight weeks, had intimated to Sophie, that he should hope to see her come forward upon that occasion. Sophie had fully intended to do so at one time, but she had felt very differently then.

Now she dared not think of going up, with such a burden of sin upon her heart and hands. She looked back to the time when she had made that resolution, and saw how far she had fallen. She was now living almost without prayer: God was not in all her thoughts, and she had more than once been guilty of gross sins.

Should she then give up being confirmed at this time? She did not like the idea, and yet what could she do? She remembered what she had heard Mr. Collins say, that whoever was unfit for Confirmation was unfit for death, and she believed it, but then what was to become of her? If she continued as she was, she knew she must grow worse and worse, and fail of heaven at last. Sophie had taken great pleasure in thinking of heaven—of seeing her Saviour face to face, and seeing her own mother again; and was she to be disappointed after all? These thoughts made her very miserable: she wept and prayed, but her prayers seemed to have no wings, and she found no peace or consolation. She came to school in the morning very sad, and resolved on the first opportunity to beg Carry Woodford to undeceive Miss Higbee and give up the whole affair, but as it happened, Miss Warner's early discovery put it out of her power.

Miss Warner received them with a countenance of grave displeasure, and taking the package of letters, she spread them on the table, saying, "Young ladies, have you ever seen these papers before?"

The confusion which overspread the faces of the girls was not to be mistaken: Miss Warner continued, "Please to tell me what you have had to do with them."

"I do not see why you should lay all the mischief in the school at my door, Miss Warner," said Carry, trying to speak with her usual confidence. "I don't see why they are to be charged to me more than any one else."

"I did not 'write' them," said Carry, putting unconsciously an emphasis on the word "write."

"But you copied them," rejoined Miss Warner; "and you, Miss Kennedy, wrote them, did you not?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Sophie frankly. She had already resolved to speak the whole truth, cost what it might. She thought she should probably be punished, and perhaps expelled, but any thing was better than continuing in the state of sin and misery in which she then was. So she answered at once, "Yes, ma'am, I wrote them in the first place."

Gawky Anne was sitting by the window, still crying, for she had the gift of inexhaustible tears. "Do you hear, Miss Higbee?" said Miss Warner, turning to her. "You see I was right."

"Ye—yes, ma'am," said Chicago Anne, with a fresh burst of tears, as the deathblow was thus given to Augustus Frederick.

"You may go to your room now," continued Miss Warner. "I shall excuse you from any lessons to-day. However foolish you have been, you are certainly more sinned against than sinning. I shall talk with you further another time."

When Gawky Anne had disappeared, Miss Warner turned again to the two delinquents.

"I hardly know, Miss Warner. We were laughing about Miss Higbee being so romantic and talking so foolishly, and I wrote the letter. I did not think then that any thing would be done with it."

Sophie was silent a moment, and then said, "I read it to two or three of the girls."

Carry now answered for herself, shamed out of her silence by Sophie's frankness:

Neither answered, and Miss Warner continued—"And all this time you, Sophie Kennedy, have been lending yourself to this falsehood, which could bring forth nothing but mischief—which could end in no other way than in the distress and mortification of a schoolmate, who, whatever were her faults, never intentionally harmed any living being; and this you have done again and again. I am very greatly disappointed in you, Sophie. I have always thought you above any meanness or deceit; and since your return to school especially, I have believed you to be actuated by religious principles. I thought if there was one in the school I might trust, you were that one. It seems I have mistaken you entirely.

"For you, Caroline Woodford," she continued, taking that young lady by the arm with some force, "I have but few words. You have more than once been the occasion of great disturbance in the school; and though you are one of the oldest girls, you give more trouble than all the rest. I do not exactly know whether or not it is sheer folly and want of sense that makes you behave as you do, but this I must tell you—and beware how you forget it—if you do not at once change your whole course of conduct, you leave the school. You may both thank Miss Higbee that I do not send you home at once, but I do not wish to make her folly more public than is necessary; and I am willing to give you a chance to retrieve your characters. You must not complain, however, of being strictly watched, since you have forfeited all claims to confidence and respect."

Sophie did not look up at all. She had nothing to say in excuse for herself, and she was too unhappy for tears.

"One thing, however, I must insist upon," added Miss Warner, "that you shall both beg Miss Higbee's pardon for the malicious trick you have played upon her, and that you shall be utterly silent in regard to the whole affair. You will not indeed be tempted to enlarge upon it, since it places you in such a contemptible aspect."

"Your mother, certainly, Sophie. I am glad if you intend to do so. It is a sign of repentance, I hope. Now go to Miss Higbee, and apologize to her, and be sure you do it respectfully, too."

Carry would gladly have refused, but she was afraid Miss Warner would tell her father, of whom she stood greatly in awe; so she went with Sophie. They knocked at Miss Higbee's door, but receiving no answer, went in. She was standing with her back to the door, but turned as they entered, and her face flushed with anger as she saw who it was.

"Well, what do you want?" she exclaimed. "I should think you had been mean enough already, without coming spying in here. I'll never speak to you, the longest day I live, so please to walk out."

"Don't be in such a hurry, Chicky Anne," said Carry. "Miss Warner sent us to beg your pardon, so I will be as sorry as you please if you will only tell me how sorry that is."

"You are not any such thing," answered Chicky Anne, more and more enraged by Carry's address. "You have told stories enough, Caroline Woodford, without coming here and telling more. As for you, Sophie Kennedy, you are a real little hypocrite—pretending to be so pious—" Chicky Anne stopped from sheer want of breath.

"Come, Sophie, let us go," said Carry. "She cannot deny that we have begged her pardon, if Miss Warner asks her. She wants to be left to weep over the memory of Augustus Frederick."

"Pray don't, Carry," said Sophie, distressed at her companion's levity. "I am sure we have been bad enough, without making matters worse. Do please try and say something to show that you are really sorry."

"I shall do no such thing, Miss Sophie," said Carry, angrily; "you had better not begin preaching again. We shall all know the worth of your wonderful piety henceforth. As for staying here to be abused, I shall not, for you or any one: I have begged her pardon, and if she doesn't choose to grant it, she may let it alone."

"Well, why don't you go too?" said Chicky Anne, turning round. "You helped her all along: go with her, and see what else you can find to do."

"I do not feel as she does," answered Sophie; "I really am sorry, Chicky Anne, and I would give the world if I had never had any thing to do with it. I don't expect you or any one else to believe me after this, but I will do any thing for you if you will only forgive me."

"I did not so much wonder at Carry," said Chicky Anne, weeping afresh; "she always makes game of me, but you, Sophie, that I thought was really so good and religious—I wouldn't have thought it. But it's just as pa says—folks that pretend to be pious ain't any better than other folks."

"Oh, don't think, so, Chicky Anne," said Sophie, with a new and more poignant feeling of distress.

"When I first came here," said Chicky Anne, without heeding the interruption, "I used to think so too. Pa isn't one of the pious sort at all. I expect ma was, from all I can hear, but she died when I was a baby. Well, then, there is Miss Warner, who is real good, for all she scolds sometimes; and there was Miss Carroll, who was a real saint—no one ever saw her do any thing wrong—and Miss Reed and Miss Weston were almost the same. I was so sorry when they went away. And when you came, you were so good at first, I thought you would be like them. I was beginning to think of being religious myself, and cared more for going to church and reading the Bible than ever I did in my life before. And now you have turned out so different, and I don't see that your religion does you a mite of good. I don't never mean to try any more."

"Oh, don't, Chicky Anne, that is worse than all," sobbed Sophie, feeling as if her heart would break. "Oh, what will become of me, what can I do?"

"I believe you really are sorry, after all," said Chicky Anne; "I am sure I forgive you, Sophie. But I don't know what 'I'm' to do, I am sure," she continued; "I shan't dare to show my face in school; I suppose all the girls know about it."

"No, they do not," answered Sophie, as soon as she could speak. "We never told any one, and I am sure we shall not now. But pray, Chicky Anne, don't judge all religious people by me. If I had only kept on being religious, I should never have done so. It was only when I left off watching and praying that I began to go wrong. I do not know what I shall be now, for it does not seem as if God could ever forgive me: I shall keep on growing worse and worse to the end, I suppose."

"Don't cry any more," said Chicago Anne, seriously alarmed by Sophie's violent emotion. "It ain't worth while; don't think no more about it; I don't care much, after all. Come, I wouldn't cry any more; you will make yourself sick, and your ma won't like it."

"You are a good girl, Chicky Anne!" exclaimed Sophie, kissing her. "A great deal better than I am; and I will never laugh at you again."

Sophie spent the rest of the morning in Miss Warner's room, and went home at the usual time.

There was no one at home, for her father was in New York, and her mother was spending the day at Mrs. Gaylord's, where Sophie was to have gone with Emma, as soon as school was out. When Emma appeared, she could give no reason for Sophie's absence; and Mrs. Kennedy fearing she might be unwell, excused herself as soon as she could, and hastened home.

She found Sophie in her own room, with a severe headache, but suffering still more from distress of mind. As soon as she could command herself sufficiently, she related the whole story to her mother, not seeking to excuse herself in the least. Mrs. Kennedy, though greatly grieved at her daughter's misconduct, was glad to see that she was fully sensible of her sin. She thought it right, however, to set the full consequences of her conduct before her.

"You have not only lost Miss Warner's confidence," she concluded, "and lowered yourself in her estimation, but you have brought disgrace on the name of religion. You have wounded your Saviour in the house of His friends; and your conduct may perhaps hinder this poor girl from seeking Him at all."

"That is the worst, mother. And Carry too thinks me a hypocrite, as well she may. Oh, mother! What shall I do?"

"I have tried, but it does not seem to do any good; I cannot feel as if He heard me. And see what it says in this chapter," she continued, pointing to the Bible which lay open before her. "I have been trying to find some comfort, but there seems to be nothing but threatenings."

"For it is impossible for those who were once enlightened, and have tasted of the heavenly gift, and were made partakers of the Holy Ghost, if they shall fall away, to renew them again unto repentance; seeing they crucify to themselves the Son of God afresh, and put Him to an open shame."

"These are indeed fearful words, my daughter, and I do not wonder that they alarm you, but be not dismayed. Do you not repent already of your sin?"

"And have you tried to make all the amends in your power, by asking Miss Higbee's forgiveness?"

"Yes, mother; and I persevered till she said she forgave me, for she would not believe me at first."

"Then, Sophie, you have every reason to believe that your sin will be blotted out. 'If any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous.' 'Whosoever cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.' 'If the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, he shall save his soul alive.'"

"So did Peter, yet his Lord forgave him, and sent him a token of love on his first rising again. Be not faithless, but believing, my dear."

Sophie wept, but not so bitterly, for she began to feel that there was yet hope for her. Her mother talked with her, and prayed with her, and though she knew that it would be long before she could be happy again, she did not feel that God had given her up.

She had at first thought she would ask her mother to take her out of school, but on reflection she saw that she might perhaps retrieve what she had lost, by a true penitence and an anxious desire to do right. She had now no self-confidence left but with a heart truly humbled, she prayed earnestly against temptation.

Her first care was to seek Miss Warner, and again express her sorrow for her offence. Miss Warner received her kindly, but pointed out to her that her future conduct would be the test of her repentance. Chicky Anne had entirely gotten over her angry feelings towards Sophie, though she still felt resentment against Carry.

Miss Warner had a long talk with Chicago Anne, and had the satisfaction to perceive that she was fully sensible of her folly. She declared her resolution henceforth to avoid romances, actually put her whole collection into Miss Warner's hands, and announced her intention henceforth to "try and be somebody." The teacher commended her resolution highly, and took the opportunity of commending to her attention various matters regarding her manners and appearance. We may as well say in this place, that Chicago Anne continued to improve from this time. She remained with Miss Warner some two years longer. That judicious lady marked out a course of reading for her, which so far enlarged her mind, that she lost all taste for Thaddeus and the Romance of the Forest. Gawky Anne indeed never became remarkable for grace or intelligence, but she was not at all deficient; and better than all, she became a consistent and faithful Christian, and in the end a very useful woman.

The other task Sophie had set herself was rather harder—to seek out Carry Woodford, and acknowledge to her how much she had been in the wrong. Carry received her very coldly, and hardly listened to her; she felt that Sophie's humility and earnest desire to make amends, condemned herself, and was angry accordingly. The next time they met, Carry refused to speak to her and though Sophie made several efforts to establish peace between them, Carry refused to be conciliated.

CHAPTER X.

IT was long before Sophie began to recover her cheerfulness at all. She felt that she had forfeited the respect of her best friends, and that was enough to make her unhappy, but what most burdened her heart was, that the cause of religion had suffered in the school through her. All the girls had seen her become giddy and careless; and though the particulars of the affair were not known, all were aware that she had been involved with Carry Woodford in something very disgraceful. She had of course lost all influence with Carry and her friends; and whatever and however carefully she might govern herself by Christian rules henceforth, they could never forget how she had once disregarded them.

The next Sunday after the detection of the plot, Dr. Shelby gave notice in church that the bishop's visit would take place in about six weeks, and that lectures preparatory to Confirmation would begin upon the next Wednesday evening. He hoped to see all the young people of the congregation at these lectures, and would be at home upon certain mornings and evenings of each week to all persons wishing to converse with him upon the same subject. Sophie felt her heart sink within her; she put down her head, and wept bitterly. Her mother noticed and pitied her distress; she divined what was passing in her mind, and determined to introduce the subject as soon as possible, in order that Sophie might be relieved.

A convenient opportunity occurred that very afternoon, as the mother and daughter were sitting together in the nursery. Mrs. Kennedy alluded to Dr. Shelby's notice, and asked Sophie if she still held her resolution to be confirmed at this time.

"I am afraid not, mother," said Sophie, sorrowfully. "Not that I do not desire it as much as ever, but I am afraid I ought not. What would the girls in school think to see me come forward so soon after—" She could not finish the sentence.

"They would think, perhaps, that your profession and practice have not agreed very well together, and they will be right. But as that does not hinder you from making every effort to regain what you have lost and to walk henceforth in the path of duty, so it should not hinder you from making a public profession of your faith. You are no more likely to fall because you acknowledge your dependence on a Higher Power. Moreover, you have learned something, have you not, from what you have gone through?"

"Yes, mother," answered Sophie; "a great deal, I hope. I have been humbled in my own eyes, by seeing how weak I am when left to myself, and I have learned too how dangerous it is to go one step out of the way. As long as I preserved the spirit of watchfulness and prayer, I had no trouble. The very beginning of my fall was studying my lessons for school when I knew I ought to have been reading my Bible."

Sophie hesitated, and her mother continued: "I know it is rather a difficult question, but I wish you to try and answer it, for your own satisfaction."

"I think, mother," said Sophie, after some minutes' silence, "the chief reason I have to hope so, is, that I hardly think of myself at all. I mean, when I think over the matter, I do not care most about losing my place in school, or even for having the girls consider me a hypocrite, as some of them do, I know, but I am most sorry that Miss Higbee should be so mortified, and that she should be made to believe that religious people are no better than others. I am sorry to have made Carry Woodford worse, too, as I know I have. And when I think on my God and Saviour," she continued, "I am ready to sink into the earth. If I could only hope that the harm I have done could ever be repaired, I should not care much what became of me."

Mrs. Kennedy could not doubt that Sophie spoke the exact truth. She had observed from the first that she had no disposition to escape from even more than her just share of blame.

"Since, then," said she, "you do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love and charity with all men, and intend henceforth to lead a new life, why should you not draw near with faith?"

"But how is it with you?" asked her mother. "Do you cherish feelings of anger or resentment towards them?"

"No, mother," answered Sophie, "I am certain I do not. I have no reason to do so, for I was much the most to blame."

Mrs. Kennedy thought within herself, that the fact of having been the most to blame, would with many people be reason enough for resentment, but she said nothing.

And Sophie continued—"I have tried my best to make friends with them, two or three times, without success and the last time, Carry told me in so many words, that she wished I would not speak to her again: she said she did not want any thing to do with me."

"Not at all, my dear; if you have tried your best for a reconciliation, as I doubt not you have, and they remain obstinate, you have no more to do. I would advise you to drop the matter for the present, and renew your attempt some other time. Is there any thing else in your way since this obstacle is disposed of?"

"Only what people will think, mamma. I do not know what will be said about my coming forward so soon after having behaved so badly."

"You know, my dear, how the Saviour received the woman that anointed his feet; and Matthew, a publican, was numbered with the apostles. You cannot suppose that the faults of these people were not very generally known."

"I believe, Sophie," said Mrs. Kennedy, "that there is something there applicable to every case which can possibly occur to man. But to return to our great subject: I do not think your late backsliding any reason for postponing your Confirmation. You have done your best to repair your fault, and have since been careful to walk circumspectly; you fully intend to obey God's holy will and commandments and to walk in the same all the days of your life. You have carefully considered the subject before, and made up your mind, and I should certainly advise you to adhere to your resolution."

"I am sure I wish to do so, mother," said Sophie. "It was only the fear of doing wrong that made me hesitate. It seems as if it must be a great assistance in doing right."

"Suppose you talk with Dr. Shelby about the matter, Sophie?" suggested her mother. "He may be able to set your mind at rest."

"I know just what he will say, mamma, but I shall be glad to hear him talk about any thing. I believe you are right, but I should like to have a little time to think it over."

Sophie considered, and talked with Dr. Shelby, as her mother recommended. And she came to the conclusion to go forward, and gave in her name accordingly.

There were various opinions on the matter when it came to be talked of in school; some of the girls applauded, while others thought she might have waited a little before taking such a decisive step. Among the latter was Martha Prime, who said she thought Sophie might be sick of making such great pretensions. "She had better wait till we have forgotten her late performances."

"I don't see why," said Carry Woodford. "Sophie has done the best she could to make amends, and more a great deal than any one else would have done."

"Why don't you speak to her, then?" inquired Martha. "She has tried several times to make friends with you, and you told her in so many words that you would have nothing to do with her."

"I know it, and I wish I had not done so. The truth is, girls," said Carry, coloring a good deal, and speaking with effort, "I feel as if I had behaved very badly to Sophie. It was more that than any thing else, made me speak to her as I did—because she made me look so mean in my own eyes. I am a wicked girl, I know, and I wish I was not, but I cannot help doing justice to people—at least when I am not angry."

"That is a very good excuse, no doubt," returned Martha, sneeringly. "But if you feel as you pretend, you ought to be willing to apologize to her, whether she is civil to you or not. Miss Emma, is not that Scripture doctrine?" she asked, turning to Emma Gaylord, who had joined the group in time to hear Carry's confession.

"I believe it is, Martha, but I do not think, Carry, you need be afraid of Sophie's meeting you unkindly. She would be very glad to be friends with you and Martha both, I know."

"I shall not trouble her," answered Martha. "I have friends enough already, without going out of my way for them. Carry may do as she pleases. Here comes Saint Sophie now. Miss Kennedy!" she continued, elevating her voice as Sophie entered. "Will you please to come here?"

Carry colored and hesitated. Martha exchanged a contemptuous glance with one of the other girls, which roused her spirit, and she said, though with an unsteady voice, and holding out her hand—

"Sophie, I am sorry I have behaved so badly to you, and been so unkind. I am ashamed to ask you to forgive me, but I shall be glad if you will."

"I have nothing to forgive," said Sophie, cordially taking Carry's outstretched hand, and kissing her. "I was more to blame than you but I am glad you are not angry with me any more. I cannot bear to have a quarrel with any one."

Carry would have answered, but her voice failed, and tears stood in her eyes. At last she said, "I wish I were like you. I will never call you a hypocrite again."

"What an affecting scene!" sneered Martha. "It is a pity there are no more to witness it." She glanced around the circle, but met with no response: the feelings of the girls present were clearly against her, and she walked away with a contemptuous toss of her head, feeling very much vexed with both Carry and Sophie.

Carry sought Sophie in recess, and had a long private interview with her, the result of which was, that she went to Miss Warner's room after school and made an ample apology for all her misconduct. Miss Warner received it graciously, and had a long conversation with her idle and careless pupil. She set before her in plain terms the consequences of the course she was running, and endeavored to arouse her to a sense of duty and responsibility. She urged it upon her to begin a new course of life from that moment, and Carry promised to try her best. Miss Warner did not fail to show her that she could not depend upon her own strength to help herself, but that she must seek a higher power to assist her.

From this time Carry was a changed girl. She became quiet and orderly in school, learned a reasonable quantity of lessons, and absented herself entirely from the recitation room group, of which she had been the centre. That society, having lost its principal pillars, gradually declined and fell into disrepute, to the great improvement of manners and morals in the school.

As the time approached for the Confirmation, Sophie's mind grew more and more quiet, and she saw her way fair and clear before her; she seemed to herself to be putting away childish things, and standing upon the threshold of a new and important life. She fully appreciated the privilege of being admitted with God's people to the Blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ, and endeavored to prepare herself for receiving the full benefits of that holy ordinance. On the day of the Confirmation she was calm and happy; and with a full sense of her own weakness, and a humble trust in God, she renewed her baptismal vows, in the presence of God and the congregation. The next Sunday she accompanied her mother to the Communion, and there again consecrated herself to the service of her Maker, Redeemer, and Sanctifier.

Thus, we have accompanied our little friend through several important years of her life. We have seen her in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health. I hope we may have learned something from her.

A few words will conclude this little history. Sophie held fast through life the good profession she had professed before so many witnesses. She met with trials and temptations, and sometimes gave way to them, but when she fell, she immediately arose. As a daughter and elder sister, she was beloved at home; and as a teacher and friend, she was useful abroad. And among her many causes for thankfulness for mercies bestowed, she accounted it the greatest that she had been provided with such a mother, to fill the place of the one she had lost.

Laura Bartlett came home after a three years' absence, somewhat reformed in outward things, and considerably less ignorant than when she left home. She had acquired a little of a good many things, because she could not help it, and she had grown very pretty. She had learned to sit, stand, and walk well, and to dress beautifully; and she made the most of these acquirements, especially the latter. She never made any attempt to renew her intimacy with Sophie, though she did with Carry, but the latter rather declining the honor, Miss Bartlett contented herself with remarking to her admirers, that "Miss Woodford had really turned out quite a blue, after all."

Caroline Woodford left school about a year after the Confirmation, and devoted herself almost exclusively to the care of her grandmother, who was in very infirm health. This lady was an example of all that is beautiful in the Christian character; and under her gentle guidance, Caroline was at last brought to an obedient and humble walking in the true faith of Christ.

Betsey's mother obtained an excellent situation as nurse in a large boarding-school, where she is very useful, and very much liked: her little daughter is being educated in the institution.

Nancy lived to a great age, respected by all who knew her. Her declining years were made happy by the affectionate attentions of her master and mistress and their children. And when she died, she was buried by the side of Sophie's first mother.

Thus having accounted for our principal personages, we take our leave of our readers (if we should happen to have any) with the best wishes for their prosperity.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOPHIE KENNEDY'S EXPERIENCE ***

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sophie Kennedy's experience