Chapter III

SELINA and Kitty met with unabated affection on Monday morning, and greeted each other with kisses upon kisses. Selina did not look very well pleased, however, when they were walking together in recess and Kitty invited Sylvia to join them. She had in her hand a story-book of her own which Selina had just brought home, and Sylvia asked what it was.

"It is the 'Parent's Assistant,'" replied Kitty,—"one of my very pet books. Don't you want to take it? There are three other volumes besides this, and you may take them all as soon as Selina has done with them."

Sylvia's eyes sparkled, and she smiled in her sudden way, which made her usually grave, sad face really beautiful. "I am 'very' much obliged to you, Kitty," she said, earnestly. "You don't know how I love to get hold of a new book,—though I don't have a great deal of time to read. I know all our Sunday-school books almost by heart, and I have read all my own books again and again."

"You may take any of mine you like," said Kitty,—who, with all her faults, had a hearty generosity about her, which loved to make people happy. "I have got a good many here, and plenty more in the city."

Sylvia was evidently very much pleased, though she said but little; while Selina seemed to feel rather unpleasantly, though she gave no other signs of it than colouring and withdrawing her arm from Kitty's rather suddenly.

Presently Sylvia went into the house, and Selina said, pettishly, "What did you ask her to walk with us for? I had ever so many things I wanted to say to you."

"Well, you can say them now," replied Kitty.

"They are all gone out of my head now," said Selina.

"They could not be very important:—that is one comfort," said Kitty, laughing. "But come, don't be cross, Selina. Tell me what you are going to write for a composition. Oh, dear! How I wish we did not have to write! I do hate it! Don't you?"

"No," replied Selina, "I love it dearly; and if you will never tell, Kitty, I will tell you something."

Kitty gave the required promise, and Selina continued, mysteriously:—

"I was out in our garden one day, and Miss Watson was talking to mother in the parlour. I had a notion that they were talking about me, so I went softly and stood under the window, and I heard Miss Watson say, 'Selina excels in composition: she is by far the best writer in the school.' I wanted to hear more, but mother moved just then, and I was afraid she would come to the window and see me. But I actually heard her say that."

"Perhaps she did not mean you,—" an undefined feeling of displeasure prompted Kitty to say.

"Who could she mean? There has never been any other Selina in the school. And besides, she always keeps my composition to the last, as she does all the good ones. I used to like to write well enough before that, but I have cared a great deal more about it since,—only it is a bother having to write on just such a day. That is just one of Miss Watson's old-maidenish ways."

Kitty was spared the necessity of any reply by the ringing of the bell, and the two friends went into the house.

There was certainly no reason why Kitty should feel hurt because Selina had been declared the best writer in the school: nevertheless, she did feel almost as much injured as though, she herself had been pronounced the worst. And she inwardly determined that she should hold that place no longer. Kitty had never been fond of writing compositions. She had often contrived to get excused from the duty at the school she had attended heretofore, and she had come to school this morning dreading the task before her. But her feelings had undergone a sudden revolution, and she only thought of eclipsing Selina. She did not feel quite sure of being able to do so, as Miss Watson herself had pronounced Selina the best writer in the school. But she determined at least to try, and began at once to turn over different subjects in her mind, wishing to select something which would be at the same time effective and easy.

She was not very long in deciding. She had just been reading a story of the struggles and adventures of some Poles in England; and she determined that her subject should be "The Soliloquy of a Polish Exile." She made her hero describe, in what she thought thrilling language, the beauties and advantages of the land he had been obliged to leave,—among which she enumerated orange-trees and vineyards, (for her ideas of the geography and climate of Poland were extremely vague;) and then she proceeded to state the difficulties and misfortunes with which the Pole was surrounded on landing upon the shores of America, winding up with the magnanimous declaration that, as the path of glory was no longer open to him, he would devote himself to an humble but useful calling,—that of teaching the youth of his adopted country. The composition being finished, she copied it with much care upon a nice sheet of note-paper, and handed it to Miss Watson with a feeling of extraordinary satisfaction.

The compositions were always read on Friday afternoon, at which time the girls were accustomed to select pieces to read or recite. There was generally more or less company present upon these occasions; and all—even the little children—felt a desire to appear well, and gain some mark of approbation from Miss Watson and from the little audience of school-mates and friends.

Kitty dressed herself very nicely for the occasion, and she felt, as she walked beside her aunt, whom she had persuaded to accompany her, that she should at least have the satisfaction of looking pretty. She was to read a dialogue with Selina, and as to the result of that, there was no fear, for she knew herself to be the best reader in school. But she could not help, in spite of herself, having some misgivings in regard to the composition, and she began to wish that she had chosen a less ambitious subject. However, there was no help for it now, and she could only hope for the best.

The reading went off very creditably, and then came the compositions. Selina's was really very good indeed. It was a description of the adventures and misadventures of a party of pleasure-seekers upon a picnic excursion, and was written not only correctly, but with great liveliness and spirit. Selina had a good deal of talent, to begin with; and she had from a little child been in the habit of writing letters.

Kitty's heart sank within her as she heard; and she only wished she could get possession of her own and prevent it from being read at all. Her cheeks flushed as Miss Watson commenced it, and she did not at first look up from her work. But glancing around after a moment, she saw a smile upon the face of more than one of the listeners at what she intended for a most pathetic passage. Miss Watson herself seemed amused as she came to the "oranges" and "vineyards." And as she read the conclusion, Selina and one or two of the other girls laughed aloud.

Poor Kitty! Her cheeks burned, her head throbbed, and she wished herself a thousand miles off. She would have cried heartily if she had been alone, but pride forbade such a display of feeling: so she worked away at her flounce, attempting, with but indifferent success, to look entirely unconcerned, while her heart was filled almost to bursting with anger and mortification.

She walked quietly home with her aunt when school was out, never alluding to her composition, but talking busily of other matters. She retired soon after tea, on the plea that her head ached, (as indeed it did); and when she found herself alone in her little room up-stairs, she gave way to her pent-up feelings in a tempest of tears and sobs.

"I never will write another composition! I declare, I never will! And I will never speak to Selina again. The good-for-nothing, deceitful thing, to laugh at me! I should think she would be ashamed to be glad because I was mortified—" forgetting that she had all the week been looking forward with pleasure to eclipsing her friend.

She cried till she was tired out, and then went to bed,—her very last thought being one of anger against Selina, who, after all, had done nothing so very bad. True, it was not very kind to laugh, but Kitty might have remembered how often she had laughed with her at the peculiarities and mistakes of her school-fellows. Kitty might have learned a useful lesson from the events of the afternoon, if she had chosen to profit by them; but she preferred to regard herself as a much injured person, and went to sleep thinking only of how she might humble Selina and exalt herself in the eyes of her teacher and her school-fellows.

When Kitty awoke the next morning, she had so far forgotten the events of the day before as to feel very good-natured again. She was busy all the morning, first in writing to her mother, then in mending her clothes,—a task which she did not find so pleasant as she had anticipated,—and then in assisting her aunt by putting the china-closet in order.

In the course of the latter employment, her vanity received another severe shock. Mrs. Evelyn described to her exactly the order in which she wished the cups, &c. arranged, and then went about something else. But coming back at the end of half an hour, she found this order almost exactly reversed. Huldah, in such a case, would have thanked Kitty and taken an opportunity to alter the arrangement unobserved. But this was not Mrs. Evelyn's way.

"This will not do, Kitty," she said. "You have not set them at all as I told you."

"I know it," replied Kitty. "I think they look prettier so."

"However that may be, I prefer the old plan. So please to set them as I showed you."

"But it is so tiresome to be doing things always the same way!" persisted Kitty. "What is the use of having such a stereotyped way of doing every thing?" (For Kitty, as we have seen before, was fond of using a hard word now and then.)

"The use is that I may be able to find them at once when I want them,—which would not be the case if you were to leave them as they now are. It is not convenient to be obliged to hunt for things in the dark, or when one is in a hurry."

"You don't like variety, aunt?" said Kitty.

"Not in china-closets, at least," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "You need not do it unless you wish to, Kitty," she continued, seeing that Kitty looked dissatisfied. "It was your own offer, you know. But if you undertake to help me, you must do it in my way, not in yours."

"How set in her way aunt is!" thought Kitty to herself, as she proceeded—rather discontentedly—to alter the arrangement. "The cups do not look half so pretty so. I don't see what difference it makes. I should think when I do it for her, she might let me have my own way. I would not be so old-maidenish for any thing!"

"Aunt," she called, presently, "may I wash this blue sugar-bowl? It is all over sticky."

"I am afraid you will break it," her aunt replied, from the other room. "I would rather you did not."

"What nonsense!" said Kitty to herself. "As if I should break it! I won't break it, aunt," she continued, aloud. "It is dreadfully dirty,—not fit to be seen."

Mrs. Evelyn had gone into the kitchen, and did not hear her.

"I mean to wash it, anyway," she said to herself. And procuring some hot water, she set herself to work, rubbing and scrubbing with no gentle hand. She had not observed that the sugar-bowl was cracked. And as she gave a very energetic rub to remove some obstinate particles of sugar, to her great consternation it came apart in her hand, breaking into three or four pieces.

At this moment, Mrs. Evelyn entered.

"Oh, Kitty!" she exclaimed. "What have you done? You have broken my dear mother's bowl!" And the tears stood in her eyes as she took the pieces in her hand to examine them. "How could you do so?" she continued. "Did I not tell you not to wash it?"

"It was very dirty, and I thought it needed cleaning," replied Kitty, always angry at a reproof, however much she might deserve it. "I am sure I did not break it on purpose."

"You should have let it alone, as I bade you, and then it would have been safe. You will do some great piece of mischief yet, Kitty, in your vanity and self-sufficiency, unless you correct yourself in time. I wonder you cannot see that you do not know so much more than all the rest of the world put together. You may leave the things just as they are, and I will finish them," she continued. "And I want you to understand this:—that henceforth you are to do as I say, whatever you in your wisdom may think of my directions."

Kitty went away, feeling very much dissatisfied,—not with herself, but with her aunt and all the rest of the world.

"I should like for once to live with some one who did not think me a fool," she said to herself when she got out of hearing; for Kitty had an inveterate habit of talking to herself when she was displeased. "I should think Aunt Sarah would be ashamed to scold so about an old sugar-bowl,—just as if I broke it on purpose! She says I am so conceited, and it is no such thing. I am not so much worse than every one else in the world, but they all think I am, and I wish I was dead, so I do,"—she continued, bursting into tears,—"and then I should be out of the way!"

When Kitty was called to dinner, she appeared with a very melancholy face and an expression of martyrdom all over her, of which Mrs. Evelyn took no sort of notice. She had recovered her own rarely-disturbed equanimity by this time, and it was not her way to return to offences that had been once settled and disposed of. She had been all the week planning an excursion for this Saturday afternoon, and she now told Harvey to have the carriage ready by two o'clock.

"We can call for Sylvia on our way," she said to Kitty, "and then drive down to the lake-shore and spend the afternoon on the beach. We can take our little copper teakettle and make our tea out of doors. And Sylvia, who has been there before, will show you where to find those beautiful polished pebbles that you admire so much."

"Aunt wants to make amends to me for being so unjust this morning," was Kitty's reflection, "but I am not going to be brought round so."

She returned a mournful "Very well, aunt," to the proposal, and continued to eat her dinner in silence.

She had fully determined not to taste of any thing, but this was a resolution that Kitty never could keep, though she had made it a great many times: somehow, her appetite always would get the better of her temper.

She could not help giving way a little when she saw the basket of provisions packed, and with the teakettle stowed away under the front seat of the carriage. And by the time they had taken in Sylvia and were on their way to the lake, she had quite forgotten that she had been a martyr, and was as merry as ever. She even bowed to Selina, whom they met on the way, with great magnanimity, thinking, at the same time, how provoked Selina would be when she saw Sylvia riding in her aunt's carriage.

The afternoon was very pleasantly spent upon the lake-shore. Mrs. Evelyn sat upon a rock in the shade and read or walked on the sand, while the girls ran races with each other and with the white caps which were coming in before a brisk breeze, wrote their names and drew pictures upon the wet sand and watched to see the waves wash them out, hunted for shells and pebbles, and amused themselves in a thousand ways.

When the sun began to decline, Harvey collected some dry wood to boil the teakettle, which was suspended upon a cross-stick, "exactly like a gypsy's kettle in a picture," Kitty declared. The cakes and biscuits were spread out upon a smooth stone, and the little girls thought that neither tea nor cakes had ever tasted so good. To crown all, Harvey borrowed a boat of a fisherman and rowed them out a couple of miles upon the lake,—a pleasure which Kitty had never enjoyed before.

Nothing could be pleasanter than the ride home in the cool dewy twilight. And by the time they arrived, Kitty had almost forgotten that any thing had ever gone wrong in the world. She was so tired and sleepy that she went directly to bed without looking at her Bible, though she had promised her mother to read a few verses at least every day. And though she said her prayers, she paid very little attention to their meaning.

If she had, she would hardly have dared to say, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," while she could not think of Selina and her insulting laugh without clenching her hands and biting her lips. As to confessing herself a sinner in any but very general terms, it was what she had never yet done,—for the simple reason that she had never felt herself to be one.

Sunday passed much as usual. But on Monday morning, Kitty awoke with a heavy weight on her heart. It was composition-day again: and what should she write? Should she consent tamely to give the palm to Selina, and confess herself only second best? That was not in Kitty's nature, but how to help herself she did not exactly see. How much she regretted her laziness in writing heretofore!—Laziness which, as she thought, alone prevented her from excelling her friend, for the idea was not admitted for a moment that she was naturally inferior to Selina in talent.

"Miss Burlingame ought to have made me write, at any rate," she said to herself.

"She had no business to excuse me. But it did not make so much difference there, where there were so many grown-up young ladies that no one paid much attention to us little girls. It is very different here, where every one knows what every one does. I wish that composition had been burned up before it was read!" And tears of mortification again came to her eyes as she thought of the unfortunate Polish exile.

She went to school early, wishing for some time to study before nine o'clock, and having, in her agitation, forgotten to bring her books home on Friday. She was busily engaged over her mental arithmetic,—which she was beginning to like very much, for she had a natural talent for figures,—and in the intricacies of "twenty-four, three-ninths of how many times twelve?" and similar problems, had almost forgotten that it was composition-day, when she heard two or three laughing voices under the window.

"I wonder if we shall have any more of the Polish exile to-day?" said one, which she recognised at once as Selina's. "I hope so: he is very amusing,—especially when he is describing his desolated feelings, poor man!" And she repeated, in mock-heroic tones, some passages from the unlucky composition.

"For shame, Selina!" said Sylvia's soft tones, more than usually exalted. "I think you have said enough about that."

"Oh, no!" returned Selina, still laughing. "It will bear a good deal more yet."

"Wasn't it a queer mistake, though, to talk of oranges and vineyards in Poland?" said one of the other girls. "I knew better than that, though I never went to school in the city."

"Oh, that is out of the question, Jane," replied Selina. "We, who never went to Miss Burlingame, are not supposed to know any thing. It is impossible to learn in schools where the young ladies don't have black-walnut desks and cane-bottomed chairs, and a carpet on the floor."

"Well, Selina," said Sylvia, "I don't pretend to understand you, but I think I should be ashamed to profess such a warm friendship for anybody, and even receive presents from them, and then go on about them behind their back as you have been going on about Kitty."

"So should I!" said Jane. "I don't think it is half fair; and if I had thought a moment, I would not have said what I did."

"Pshaw!" returned Selina. "You are always so extra good, Silver Grey. What harm does it do her, so long as she don't know it?"

"She may find it out," said Sylvia.

"Yes, especially if you go and tell her," retorted Selina.

"I am no tell-tale, Selina Henshaw, as you know very well. But if 'she' does not know it, 'you' do; and I should not think you would feel very pleasantly to go on borrowing books of her and using her ink and her nice white slate-pencils, knowing how you have laughed at her."

"Besides, she is a stranger," observed Jane, "and she certainly is very good-natured. How good she is to the little ones! I think you are right, Sylvia; and I, for one, won't laugh at her again, whatever she writes. She is smart about other things, if not about that. How nicely she gets on in arithmetic!"

By this time the girls had reached the school-room door, which was shut, and were standing in the entry, taking off their bonnets.

Selina opened the door first; and her consternation may be imagined when she saw Kitty sitting at her desk by the open window. She knew at once that the whole conversation must have been overheard; and she determined to put a bold face upon the matter as the only way of getting out of the scrape.

"Why, good-morning, Kitty. Who ever thought of finding you here so early?"

Kitty vouchsafed no answer, but kept on diligently studying.

"Come, now," continued Selina, coaxingly; "don't be angry just for a joke. You are welcome to say as much about me, any time."

"You needn't try to turn it off in that way," said Kitty, in a voice which she meant should be perfectly calm, but which trembled with anger. "I heard every word you said. I understand now just how much your friendship is worth, Miss Henshaw, and I am very glad I do. You will not deceive me again in a hurry."

She turned again to her book and slate,—though her hand trembled so that she could hardly hold the pencil.

"Listeners never hear any good of themselves," said Selina. "I should be ashamed to hide in the school-room to hear what the girls said about me."

"I didn't hide," returned Kitty. "I came to study my lesson, as I had a perfect right to do. But I am not going to dispute with you," she continued, in a dignified manner: "I have found you out; and I am glad of it. I shall never try to have a friend again as long as I live. I forgive you, Selina, and I don't wish you any harm, but I don't want any more to do with you."

"Very good, Miss Maynard; it is a bargain," returned Selina. "I told you the other day I didn't believe you loved me, and now I know it. I can find friends, I hope, without being obliged to the condescension of a pert little city miss who don't know—"

"Girls, girls, pray don't!" interrupted Sylvia. "Pray, don't quarrel in this way! Miss Watson will be here presently; and what will she say? Come, kiss and be friends! Selina did not mean to wound your feelings, Kitty, I am sure. She only spoke from thoughtlessness. Selina, do speak pleasantly: you know you were the first one to blame. Pray, do be friends again: it is so dreadful to quarrel."

"Come, Kitty, forgive and forget," said Selina, who really did feel ashamed of herself when she thought of what she had said, and offering her hand at the same time. "Let bygones be bygones, and fair play for the future. I am sorry I said so much, and I won't laugh at you again." She offered to kiss Kitty as she spoke, but Kitty turned away.

"Oh, for shame, Kitty!" exclaimed Sylvia and Jane together.

And Sylvia added, "When Selina says she is sorry, what more do you want? Come, kiss and be friends,—that's a dear girl."

"I forgive you, Selina," said Kitty, coldly, still turning away, "but I don't want to kiss you, and I won't. I can forgive, but I cannot forget; and I shall never feel the same towards you again."

"That is a great way of forgiving," said Jane. "I suppose you won't forgive me, either?"

"I don't care any thing about you," answered Kitty. "You never pretended to be my friend, as Selina did. I don't get angry with people that I don't care about."

"That's consoling, at any rate," said Jane, significantly.

But here the entrance of some of the little girls, and presently of Miss Watson, put an end to the conversation.

To do Selina justice, she really was very sorry for what had occurred. She had no very deep feelings, and no fixed principles of right whatever. But she was, after all, a good-natured girl, and really fond of Kitty, though her acute and ill-governed sense of the ludicrous had led her to laugh at the unfortunate composition. She would have been very glad to have Kitty forget the ill-natured words and go on as they had done before. But "that which is crooked cannot be made straight," said a very wise man. Her words unspoken had been in her own power, but once uttered, they passed beyond it, and she could neither recall them nor efface their effect.

When I was quite a little girl—so small as to wear the shortest of frocks and sleeves—I was once amusing myself with a small bow and arrow, in the use of which I had acquired such skill that I could hit a fly across the room. I had tried various marks with success, when I saw on the wall a very pretty picture of a dove, which I valued highly. And the thought flashed across me to try if I could hit the bird's eye. No sooner thought than done! The arrow flew from the bow, and the instant it sped, I would have given a great deal to recall it. But it was too late then. The arrow went straight through the dove's head, and the picture was spoiled. I have often thought of that unlucky shot when I have been tempted into making speeches which I wished unuttered the moment they left my lips.

Just so with Selina. The arrow, shot with no particularly mischievous intent, had reached its mark, and made a wound which all her pains could not heal. She tried again in recess to win Kitty over, but in vain: the proffered bunch of early cherries was coldly refused. And when she urged her to go and play, the only answer she received was, "I wish, Selina, that you would just let me alone."

Kitty flattered herself that her conduct was very dignified and prompted by a just resentment. She thought her feelings were deeply wounded; while her vanity was much the greater sufferer of the two.

In the arithmetic-class, she found a little comfort; for she went up, not only above Selina, (which was no great feat, as Selina was not quick at figures), but even above Sylvia and Myra, to the very top of the class, and maintained her position to the end of the lesson. This success might have put her in a better humour, but it did not have that effect.

And when Selina came as usual to walk home with her, she withdrew herself, saying, proudly, "I can walk by myself, thank you, Miss Henshaw. I am not dependent upon your society."

"Very well, Kitty," said Selina. "Have it your own way: I have done all that I am going to do to make up and be friends."

"I am glad to hear it," said Kitty. "I hope, then, you will let me alone."

Selina walked away, saying to herself that she had done all which could possibly be expected of her, and that Kitty might come round when she got ready, if at all: she was not going to coax her any more.

Kitty had turned into the lane which led up to Mrs. Evelyn's farm, when she heard some one calling her, and looked round. It was Sylvia, her face flushed with running.

"Oh, Kitty," she said, as she panted for breath, "I was afraid I should not catch you. I want you to ask your aunt if you may come home with me after school and stay to tea. Mother feels very comfortable to-day, and she will be glad to see you."

Kitty did not feel much like visiting, but she accepted the invitation,—partly, perhaps, because she thought it would annoy Selina to see her intimate with Sylvia.

Mrs. Evelyn gave a cordial permission when Kitty asked her, and added, "I shall be glad to have you see a great deal of both Sylvia and Anne. Is Selina going?"

"I don't know," said Kitty,—adding, partly aside, "if she is, I am not."

Mrs. Evelyn overheard her. "How is this, Kitty? I hope you and Selina have not quarrelled?"

"We have not quarrelled, aunt. But I shall never have any more to do with her."

"But why not? What has she done?"

Kitty went over the events of the morning, exaggerating (perhaps unconsciously) Selina's offences. Mrs. Evelyn listened with great attention.

"That was very unkind in Selina, certainly," she said, after Kitty had concluded, "and I do not wonder that you were hurt. But did she make no apology?"

"Oh, yes; she wanted to make up directly, as soon as she found out that I had heard her, but I was not to be brought round so. So I just told her that I forgave her, but I did not want any more to do with her. She came again after school and wanted to walk home with me, but I wouldn't."

Mrs. Evelyn looked grave. "Then you did very wrong, Kitty, and showed a much worse spirit than Selina did,—though I do not mean to defend her."

"Why, aunt, you would not have me go on being as intimate as ever with any one who had treated me so?"

"I am not very fond of these violent intimacies at any time," said Mrs. Evelyn. "They are rather apt to lead girls into mischief, and almost always end in a quarrel, sooner or later. But this has nothing to do with the present matter. I do not see how you can imagine that you have forgiven Selina when you would not even walk with her. Take care, Kitty! You know not what manner of spirit you are of, nor where it may lead you. I advise you to show Selina that you really have forgiven her, by speaking pleasantly when you meet this afternoon, and, if possible, by doing her some little favour, or, better still, by accepting some kindness from her. Quarrels are sad things; and it is much better to end them in time."

"A likely story," said Kitty to herself, as she went up-stairs, "that I should ask favours of Selina Henshaw! I believe aunt would not do it herself if she were in my place. I would not ask her for any thing, to save my life. I think it was enough to say that I forgave her, without humbling myself to let her walk over me."

But it was composition-day again, and poor Kitty's mind was in no condition for the exercise. In vain did she ponder her task, and bite the end of her pen, the ideas would not flow, and at recess she had not written one line. She went to Miss Watson and begged to be excused, but Miss Watson was inexorable when she found that Kitty had no better reason than that she could think of nothing to say.

"You can surely write something, Kitty. Take some subject that you know all about. For instance, give a description of the church you attend in town, or your school-house, or of some place where you have been, or write a little story. You must write something," she added, seeing that Kitty still lingered. "I cannot excuse one more than another."

Kitty went back to her desk and succeeded in writing "a little story," which she finished just as the bell rung for the close of school. She was not at all satisfied with it, but there was no help for that now.

She stayed through the drawing-class to wait for Sylvia, and Miss Watson lent her paper and pencil and gave her a little drawing to copy, in which she succeeded quite well. True, the lines of the gate were not exactly perpendicular, and the pail in the foreground was of rather an unusual shape for a pail,—being oval instead of round. But Miss Watson said it was very well for the first attempt, and Kitty herself saw no fault in it. She remembered her first conversation with Selina, and determined to ask her aunt to let her commence drawing-lessons without delay. She communicated her resolution to Sylvia as they were walking homeward.

"That will be very nice," said Sylvia; "and I am sure you will like it. I wondered you did not begin when you first came to school. Three or four of the girls have commenced, but they all get discouraged as soon as they come to where it is a little hard, and stop before they learn enough to be of any use to them."

"I should have begun when I first came," said Kitty, "but Selina persuaded me out of it. I believe she did not want me to do any thing which she could not."

"She began once," said Sylvia, "but she soon got tired of it, because she did not get on quite so fast as she expected. I believe she thought she could begin to sketch from nature directly. And when she found she had to take a great deal of pains even to make a straight line, she thought it was not worth while. Selina likes things that she can do quickly."

Here was a capital opportunity of eclipsing her rival; and Kitty determined to begin drawing to-morrow. She only wished that she had done so at first.

"Is it really true, Sylvia," she asked, "that Myra Clarke worked out as a servant last winter? Selina said she did."

"Yes. Miss Watson was away last winter, and Myra went to the academy in the village, and worked for her board at Mrs. Stewart's. She is going to be a teacher, and means to take a school this fall: so she had no time to lose."

"Selina did not say any thing about that," said Kitty. "She only said Myra worked for Mrs. Stewart, without telling why. But is not Mr. Stewart very rich? I should think he might have given Myra her board without her working for it."

"Myra would not have liked that," observed Sylvia. "She has very independent feelings; and she has always been used to work, so that it was no hardship for her. She will make an excellent teacher, Miss Watson thinks; and she has a school engaged already. I hope I shall do as well."

"Do you like the idea of teaching, Sylvia?" asked Kitty.

"Yes, very well: only I am afraid I shall have to leave mother. If I can get a school so near that I can board at home, I shall not mind."

"But you could earn so much more if you had a situation in the city," said Kitty. "Augusta Barnes had a salary of four hundred dollars the first year."

"I suppose she was very accomplished," said Sylvia. "But I know that teachers do get more in the city, and perhaps I may have to go away, at any rate. But I don't mean to fret about it beforehand," she continued, lightly. "It will be three whole years first, and I don't mean to borrow trouble at such long interest. Let us run a race to that stump, Kitty. One—two —three!" and off she ran.

Kitty's ill-humour began to give way under Sylvia's exuberant spirits, and she found herself forgetting her grievances for as much as two minutes at a time. She passed a very pleasant afternoon, playing and working with Sylvia in the garden, and listening to Mrs. Grey's tales of her own and her mother's school-days.

At tea-time, Anne set the table in the room where they were sitting, and made some nice light biscuits, to which the girls did ample justice, as well as to the honey, the currants and the soft gingerbread. Kitty thought she had never spent a more agreeable afternoon. And she said, as she parted with Sylvia at the little bridge, "I like you a great deal better than I did Selina."

"I wish you would not feel so towards Selina," said Sylvia, looking rather annoyed than pleased by the compliment.

"It is easy to talk, Sylvia," replied Kitty, very gravely, "but if she had treated you as she has me, you would feel just as I do. Now, honestly, wouldn't you?"

"No," said Sylvia, "not if she had told me she was sorry and tried to make up, as she did with you this morning. And, besides, Kitty, I am sure it is not right. 'Let not the sun go down upon your wrath,' you know the Bible says."

"But I am not angry, Sylvia," rejoined Kitty. "I told her this morning that I forgave her, but I didn't want to have any thing more to do with her. I 'have' forgiven, but I don't forget, and shall not in a hurry. That is not being angry."

Sylvia shook her head. She did not see the difference, but she was rather averse to an argument, and besides, it was late: so the two girls parted with a kiss, and each of them went upon her own way.

Kitty chose to take a short cut through the barn and barnyard, having conquered her fear of cows so far as her aunt's herd was concerned, though she was still disposed to regard all others as dangerous wild beasts. She found Harvey milking.

"Why, Harvey, how late you are!" she said, as she came near.

"Yes: I have been down in the village, and have only just got home. And then I had to go after the cows."

"How did that black cow happen to have only one horn?" asked Kitty.

"All owing to her vanity, Kitty," replied Harvey, gravely.

"I did not know cows had any vanity," said Kitty, with a laugh.

"Oh, yes! They are very much like human beings in most of their ways. Vanity is Bonny's great fault; for in other respects she is a very good cow."

"But how did her vanity make her break her horn?"

"Why, just in this way. She had always been mistress in her own pasture, and would be; for every cow that came, she would try titles with, and she almost always beat. But one day we got a new cow—that old red one by the fence—that was more than a match for Bonny both in size and strength. She was peaceably disposed enough, but Bonny couldn't let her alone, but kept following her round and plaguing her to make her fight. Finally, Old Red got her spunk up, and one day she pitched at Bonny and broke off her horn. So you see it was all because of her vanity. If she had only been willing to allow that Old Red was the biggest, she might have saved herself a bad headache, and been a two-horned cow to this day."

Kitty looked rather grave at the conclusion to the story.

"After all, Harvey," said she, "do you think vanity is such a great sin?"

"I never can see as much difference as some folks do between big sins and little ones," was Harvey's reply. "But as to vanity, it is about as apt to lead to great sins as any thing I know,—not to mention that it very often makes people ridiculous."

Kitty coloured. Perhaps she remembered the hen's nest.

"But, Harvey," she continued, "it is not vanity that leads people to wish to excel other people, is it?"

"What is it?" asked Harvey.

"Pride, I suppose."

"And do you think there is nothing wrong in that?"

"Why, I don't know. A great many good people are proud. But, tell me, do you really think it is wrong to wish to do things better than other people?"

"Such as what, for instance?" asked Harvey.

"Why, such as wanting to write a better composition, or do a better exercise, than any other girl in the school."

"I do not think it is wrong, to wish to do the very best you possibly can in any thing," said Harvey. "We ought to do that, whatever we are about, if we mean to make much progress. But as to doing better than any one, that is another thing. I think it is, perhaps, better to leave that out of the question, seeing that it is apt to lead to a great deal of unhappiness and bad feeling."

"How?" asked Kitty.

"Why, if you write the best composition you can because it is right to do so and you want to please your teacher,—not to mention some other motives that might come in,—you will not be at all troubled or disturbed because another girl has a better one. But if you write only that you may have the pleasure of beating your school-fellows and making them envious of your great talents, then the fact that some one has, after all, done better than yourself will cause you a great deal of trouble; and you will be just as likely as not to have very unkind and bitter feelings,—to say nothing of any thing worse."

Kitty's cheek flushed again, for the answer touched her very nearly. But she laughed it off, and turned to go into the house, saying, in a light tone,—

"You and Aunt Sarah are just fit to live together: you are always making a fuss about such little things."

"Take care, Kitty!" said Harvey, gravely. "'He that despiseth little things shall fall by little and little.'"

When Kitty went in, she found her aunt looking out for her.

"You came the wrong way, Kitty," she said, pleasantly. "I have been down to the gate to see if I could see you."

"I came through the barnyard," replied Kitty, "and I have been talking to Harvey."

"You and Harvey have struck up a great friendship," said Mrs. Evelyn. "You seem to like him better than you did at first."

"Yes," replied Kitty: "I think he is very pleasant, only he is so queer about some things."

"What do you mean by queer?" asked her aunt.

Kitty was not prepared with an answer, so she tried to change the subject.

"May I take drawing-lessons, aunt? Mother always said I might if I had a good opportunity. And Miss Watson is teaching Sylvia and Myra Clarke."

"But you did not answer my question," persisted Mrs. Evelyn, smiling. "What do you mean by Harvey's being queer?"

"Why, I don't know; only—so particular and all—"

Kitty paused, in some confusion.

"I would not use words of which I did not understand the meaning," said Mrs. Evelyn. "But we will talk of that another time. As to the drawing-lessons, I am quite willing to have you begin, if Miss Watson likes to teach you, and if you think you can have steadiness enough to persevere; for learning to draw is not play, I can tell you."

"Did you ever try, aunt?"

"Yes: I took lessons of a very good master,—a foreigner,—and learned to sketch quite passably, besides painting sundry pictures in water-colours. If you have any curiosity to see how I succeeded, you may go up into the front room and look behind the wardrobe, where you will find a portfolio containing most of my efforts in that line."

Kitty quickly availed herself of the desired permission, and brought down the old-fashioned portfolio, which she spread out upon the table, and then settled herself with great satisfaction to examine the contents. They were mostly landscapes and figures, some in colours, others in India ink. Kitty thought them beautiful.

"What makes you keep them shut up in this dingy old thing?" she asked. "Why don't you have some of them framed and hung up in the parlour, and put the rest into a pretty portfolio, so that people can look at them?"

"I think they are hardly worth it, Kitty," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "I thought them great achievements when I did them. But since I have seen really good pictures, they look very differently to me. But, if you admire them, you may keep the portfolio in your own room, if you will be careful not to lose or injure any of them."

"If you do not think them worth any thing, what makes you so careful of them, aunt?" asked Kitty, mischievously.

Mrs. Evelyn smiled rather sadly.

"Because they are memorials of a very happy time in my life, my dear. I did them the year before I was married, which was one of the pleasantest I ever spent."

"Were you engaged then?" asked Kitty, who loved any thing that promised a story.

"Oh, yes. I was engaged for four years before I was married; and for three years of the time, I never saw your uncle at all. He was away at the West, trading in furs and doing business for the Government among the Indians. And sometimes I did not hear from him for two or three months at a time."

"That was very romantic," said Kitty.

"Not very romantic in the experience," replied Mrs. Evelyn. "You would not think it very agreeable if you were not to hear from your mother in that length of time, especially if she were away, you did not know where, among savage Indians and all sorts of lawless people,—not to mention wild animals, fevers and all other perils of the wilderness."

"Oh, no! But that is different," said Kitty.

"Very different," said Mrs. Evelyn, smiling.

"And when he came home, then you were married?" continued the inquisitive little girl.

"Not immediately. He was building this house and putting the farm in order,—for it was a wild place when he bought it, and that took a good while. But we were married at last; and very happy we were to find ourselves settled in our own house."

"And you have lived right here ever since.'"

"Yes: I have never been away more than a few weeks at a time; and I was always glad to come back."

"Well, aunt," said Kitty, gravely, "I am glad you like it, I am sure, but I should not. I do not mean that it is not very pleasant to come and stay with you. But I should not like to live here year in and year out, doing the same things over and over, with no variety and no amusements,—nothing but working and reading and gardening and going to church. I could not be happy in such a life, I know."

"You would have to learn several things, I admit," said Mrs. Evelyn.

Kitty was immediately anxious to find out what those things were, but Mrs. Evelyn would not tell her.

"If I should, you would not believe me; and they are things which no one can teach you. You must study them out for yourself. And now you had better go to bed, my love, or you will not feel much like getting up in the morning."