CHAPTER IX

.

GAWKY ANNE.

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."

"But then, mother—" said Sophie, and she stopped.

"Well, my dear, what then?"

"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."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Sophie. "It would not be right to deceive her."

"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.

"What have you there, Miss Higbee?" asked the teacher, in her usual calm voice.

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

"'Taint—'taint nothing at all, Miss Warner."

"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.

"How many of these letters have you received, Miss Higbee?"

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

"When and where did you come by the first one?"

"I found it in my desk, a week ago, Friday afternoon."

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

"Yes, ma'am," sobbed Gawky Anne, "and Augustus has answered every one."

"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."

Miss Warner rung the bell, and desired the servant to call Miss Lee.

"Oh, please don't tell any one, Miss Warner," exclaimed Gawky Anne.

"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 should say that Sophie Kennedy wrote it."

"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, go with Miss Lee, and bring the rest of the letters here."

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.

The bell now rang for prayers.

"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."

"Because they are in your handwriting," said Miss Warner quietly.

"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."

"And Miss Woodford copied them, did she?"

"I would rather answer for myself only, if you please, Miss Warner."

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.

"How came you to write the first letter, Miss Kennedy?"

"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."

"Then what became of it?"

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

"Well, and what then?"

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

"I copied it, Miss Warner, and put it in her desk."

"What was your object in thus deceiving and tormenting the poor girl?"

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."

"May I not tell mother, Miss Warner?" asked Sophie, in a low tone.

"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."

"Don't speak so, Carry," said Sophie. "We really are sorry, Chicago Anne."

"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."

So saying, she left the room, but Sophie remained standing in the same place.

"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?"

"You must return to God, Sophie, and He will return to you."

"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."

Mrs. Kennedy looked where she pointed, and saw these words—

"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?"

"Yes, indeed, mother, I am sure I do."

"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.'"

"But I have denied Him, mother."

"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.

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