CHAPTER IV

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FOR several days Kitty was so absent-minded, and so captious and discontented, that her mother did not know exactly what to make of her. She seemed to have lost all interest in her usual pursuits—her readings, her lessons, and more especially her preparations for Christmas. She found fault with her meals, and was so saucy to Cousin Tilly that her mother seriously reproved her.

"Well, I can't help it!" said Kitty. "Cousin Tilly is so interfering. I don't see why she should always put in her word. She is only a servant, and I think she might keep her place, as Aunt Baldwin's housekeeper does."

"It is a good thing for every one to keep their places—little girls among the rest!" said Mrs. Tremain, much displeased. "Let me hear no such remarks. In the relation between ourselves and Cousin Tilly we are altogether the obliged party. She could get three times the wages I give her as matron in the Water Cure, a post she is perfectly competent to fill, while I could not find any one to fill her place for ten times the money."

Kitty stood too much in awe of her mother to say any more. She was in an unhappy frame of mind. Instead of enjoying what she had, and being thankful for it, she was all the time thinking what luxuries she might have "if she had her rights," till a hard feeling grew up in her heart towards her mother, for keeping, as she really supposed, her property away from her. Her lessons were neglected, and she got into disgrace with Miss Oliver in consequence. And even her Bible lay untouched from day to day, while her prayers were almost entirely omitted. Sunday came, and for the first time since she had taken the class, she had made no preparations to meet her scholars.

"I don't want to go out to-day, mother!" said she, after breakfast. "My head aches, and I have that pain in my shoulder again. I don't feel as if I could possibly sit up through church and Sunday-school."

Kitty had had threatenings of spinal disease, and she knew that any complaint of pain in her shoulders would make her mother uneasy. Contemptible enough she looked in her own eyes as she made this perfectly false excuse, and she almost wished she had said nothing when she saw how anxious her mother looked.

"You must not go, of course!" said Mrs. Tremain. "You had better lie flat down upon the sofa, and rest all the morning. I have not heard you complain of that pain in a good while. Have you hurt yourself in any way?"

"No, mamma, not that I know of, unless it was in stepping off two steps at once, two or three days ago. The pain is not so very bad, but it makes me feel sick."

"Do you want any one to stay at home with you?" asked Mrs. Tremain.

"Oh no, mother! I am not afraid."

"Very well, then; Cousin Tilly and myself will go to church. Try to improve your Sunday my dear! You need not lose it because you do not go to church."

But Kitty did not improve her Sunday. She seemed to have lost all her relish for sacred things, and in fact her conscience was too deeply burdened to allow of her finding any comfort in them. She took a story-book and read for a time, and then, putting away her book, she lay indulging in her favourite dreams of luxury and dress, till she fell asleep over them.

"Your secret has leaked out in some way, Kitty!" said Mrs. Tremain.

Kitty started like a guilty thing. "All the girls are talking about your Christmas tree, and the children have got their expectations raised to such a pitch that I fear they will be disappointed. Whom have you told of your plans besides Miss Oliver?"

"Nobody, mamma!"

"I can hardly think Miss Oliver would mention the matter, when you asked her not to do so," said Mrs. Tremain.

"Are you sure you did not tell any one else, Kitty—not even Fanny Daskin?" asked Cousin Tilly.

"Of course I did not!" replied Kitty, promptly. "What should I tell her for?"

"Well, it is certainly very curious, that is all!"

"I dare say Miss Oliver mentioned it to Mrs. Parmelee, and Emma or Julia overheard her!" said Kitty. "All the girls say that Emma is a real tell-tale. She carries all the news of the school to her mother and Miss Oliver. It is very mean, whoever told!"

"You are quite sure you said nothing about it to Fanny, or in her hearing?" asked her mother. "You might have done so incidentally."

"Indeed I did not, mamma," replied Kitty, positively. "I never said one word. I am sorry it has got out, but there is no use in worrying about it now."

"Very true," said her mother. "I did my best to correct the impression that you intended to give any splendid entertainment."

"It can hardly be any thing very splendid, since I have only three dollars. That is so very little, mamma!"

Mrs. Tremain held up her finger.

"Oh, I am not going to ask for any more!" said Kitty, with rather a poor attempt at a smile. "I know very well there is no use in that, but I do think it is a wretched thing to be poor and economical."

"Kitty has felt very poor for the last three or four days!" remarked Cousin Tilly. "One would think, to hear her talk, that we were just ready to go to the County House."

"Well, I do feel poor, and I can't help it!" said Kitty. "I keep thinking about the time when we lived in Paris. I wish we were there again."

"I cannot agree with you, my child!" said her mother. "The days I spent in Paris were very far from being the happiest of my life."

"When I think of Paris, it seems to me like a paradise," said Kitty.

"You were but a child, and you remember nothing but what is pleasant," replied her mother. "I am glad that is the case, but you must not expect me to feel as you do."

"I wonder if I shall ever go there again!"

"Perhaps you may!" said her mother. "I know that Aunt Natalie would be glad to have us come and spend a year with her, and it is just possible—mind I do not say probable," she added, as Kitty's eyes began to sparkle—"that in the course of a few years we may accept her kind invitation."

Here was new ground for Kitty's castle-building! All the afternoon, while her mother and Cousin Tilly were at church, she lay picturing to herself what she would do when her mother took her to Paris, and introduced her into society—as no doubt she meant to do—as a great heiress. Laces and brocades, pearls, flounces, and flowers, presentations at courts, and embassadors' balls chased each other through her giddy head, till she went to sleep again, and slept till her mother came home.

Mrs. Tremain never went out on Sunday evening, but generally devoted her time to reading and talking with Kitty. Kitty had always enjoyed these occasions, but now she looked forward with dread to being alone with her mother, and wished something would happen to prevent it. Something did happen.

"Here is one of your Sunday-scholars wanting to speak to you," said Cousin Tilly, putting her head into the room. "She is in a great hurry, but I can't understand a word she says, only that somebody is sick."

Mrs. Tremain rose and went out to the kitchen.

"I shall have no time for our own talk this evening, my dear!" said she, returning presently. "Lenore Beaubien is here, and says little Julie has been taken with croup, and they fear she will die. I must go over there directly!"

"Oh, mamma! Poor dear little Jou-jou!" exclaimed Kitty, starting up. "Do let me go with you!"

"No, my love!" said her mother decidedly. "It is a very damp, raw evening, and you know if you should take cold, you might be confined all winter. If you had not been complaining to-day, I should perhaps let you go. But as it is, you must not think of such a thing."

Kitty's reflections when her mother was gone were far from being pleasant. Julie, or Jou-jou, as she was called, was the oldest and the most promising of her pupils. She was very much attached to her young teacher, and took great pains to please her. She had already learned to read well in English, and was able to repeat the whole of the Commandments. Jou-jou was a thoughtful child, and asked many questions, some of which Kitty was puzzled to answer.

"I will find out and tell you next time!" had been Kitty's last words to the child the Sunday before.

But the next time had never come, and might never come again.

She had wilfully absented herself from her post—selfishly neglected her duty, and for what? Merely that she might indulge herself in silly reveries, and hard thoughts of the best friend she had in the world.

Nor was this the worst of it. Kitty had contrived to keep her conscience partly quiet through the week, but it was not to be silenced now. It brought up before her, in all their ugly colours, the disobedience of which she had been guilty, and the lie that she told to conceal that disobedience—the hard, uncharitable thoughts she had indulged of those about her, and especially of her mother. Kitty was astonished, when she came to think of it, to see of how many sins she had been guilty.

Kitty had lately thought herself a true disciple of Christ. Especially since she had taken charge of the Sunday-school class had she paid great attention to her religious duties, reading good books, praying, and studying the Scriptures. Fanny Daskin had often said she was the only girl in the school who acted up to what she professed; and this helped to feed her self-complacency, till she had come to think herself quite a pattern, and to criticise her companions—not a safe state of mind for anybody.

Now, all at once her eyes seemed to be opened, and she caught a glimpse of her real spiritual condition. What had she been about all this week? Where had she suffered herself to be led by the arts of the flatterer? Was this acting up to her Christian profession? Were falsehood, neglect of duty, disobedience to her mother, thoughts filled with the world and the things of the world—were these the marks of a true disciple? Kitty could not think so? She had been too well taught to deceive herself in that way.

Kitty got up and walked about the room in a very unhappy frame of mind. She thought she would pray for forgiveness, but then the reflection came across her that she could not do so without an honest intention to abandon her sins; and she could not at once make up her mind to give up all the day-dreams in which she had lately delighted, and confess to her mother the falsehoods of which she had been guilty. She felt that she was not prepared to do this. Must she then incur the added guilt of hypocrisy, or must she give up altogether the thought of being a Christian? There was another trouble upon Kitty's mind.

The more she thought about it, the more vexed she felt that she had been cajoled into lending Fanny the money she had to depend upon for her Christmas tree. She knew very well that she had often lent Fanny small sums of money which Fanny had never paid her. What security had she that she should ever see her three dollars again? And if she did not, what would become of her presents, and what should she say to her mother? These reflections were interrupted by the return of Mrs. Tremain.

"It is all over, my dear!" she said, in answer to Kitty's half-uttered question. "Poor little Jou-jou died about half an hour ago! There was nothing to be done for her. The last words she spoke were something about Mademoiselle Kitty!"

"Oh, mamma! You ought to have let me go and see her!" sobbed Kitty.

"No, my love! It would not have been right to expose your health when you could do no good!"

"Oh, if I had only gone to Sunday-school! If I had only seen her once more!"

"My darling, do not reproach yourself unjustly!" said Mrs. Tremain, tenderly. "You have been very faithful to your class, and it was through no fault of yours that you stayed at home to-day! I do not wonder that you regret it, but you are not in any way to blame."

How these kind words went to Kitty's heart! She knew it "was" all her own fault—that she had stayed at home because she was ashamed to meet her class without preparation, and because she preferred to amuse herself. Her grief became hysterical, and her mother at last put her to bed, gave her some quieting medicine, and sat by her till she fell asleep.

"Was Fanny Daskin at school to-day, mamma?" said she, suddenly, when her mother thought her asleep.

"No, my dear! I heard Miss May inquiring for her. Do you know why she stayed away?"

"No, mamma! She said on Friday that she was going."

"Well, never mind now. Go to sleep."

The next morning Kitty was really too unwell to go to school, and she lay upon the sofa all day, too miserable to read or employ herself in any way. She tried to find some relief in throwing all the blame upon Fanny Daskin, but there was small comfort in that. She had been warned time after time against Fanny's influence and Fanny's flatteries—she knew in her own heart that Fanny had always made a tool and a fool of her. The net had been spread plainly in her sight, she had walked into it like a silly bird, and now she was caught hard and fast enough.

"Kitty," said her mother, the day after little Julie was buried, "do you think you will feel well enough to go down to the city to-morrow?"

"Oh yes, mamma! Why?"

"I shall be obliged to go to see about insurance and other matters, and it will be a good time to buy your Sunday-school presents. I presume you will be able to lay out your money to much greater advantage there then here."

"Yes, mamma!" said Kitty, but with so much hesitation in her voice, that Mrs. Tremain turned to look at her.

"Why, what is, the matter, Kitty? You have not lost your money, have you?"

"Oh no, mamma, it is quite safe—only—"

"Only what?"

"I locked it up in my desk, mamma, and I have mislaid the key."

Kitty had only that morning resolved that she would never tell another lie.

"That is unlucky," said her mother. "What made you lock it up? You do not usually lock your desk, do you?"

"No, mamma, but you know Miss May was talking about burglars the other evening when she was here. So when I went up-stairs I thought I would lock my desk, and I have put away the key so safely that I cannot find it at all."

How glibly these falsehoods ran off the end of Kitty's tongue! Fanny herself could not have invented them faster or told them with less confusion.

"There comes Mrs. Brown," said her mother, glancing out of the window. "You had better go and look for your key, my dear. Try to think where you have put it."

Kitty ran up-stairs, but not to hunt for her key. That was in the lock of her desk, as usual. She turned it, took it out, and threw it over behind her book-shelf. Then hastily putting on her hood and cloak, she went down the back stairs, slipped through the garden gate, and ran through the back street to Mr. Daskin's. She knew that Fanny would just now be coming from school. She was not disappointed. She met Fanny at the gate.

"Why, Kitty, what are you doing out in this rain, and with no rubbers on!" exclaimed Fanny. "You will get your death."

"I don't care if I do!" said Kitty. "Fanny, I want my money."

"Money! What money? What do you mean?" asked Fanny.

Kitty stamped her foot with impatience. "Now, Fanny, don't tire me, for I won't stand it. You know what I mean! I want the three dollars and a half I lent you last Thursday. I am going with mother to T— to-morrow, and I want my money to spend. You said you would pay me the middle of the week."

[Illustration: _Kitty's Christmas Tree._ "Father, was not that bill I showed you a counterfeit?"]

"Oh that!" said Fanny. "I can't give you the fifty cents now, Kitty: I have not got it; as for the three dollars, the note was good for nothing. I showed it to Mr. May at the store, and he said it was a counterfeit, so I just tore it up and threw it away."

"You did no such thing! I know better. You are telling me a lie, Fanny Daskin!" exclaimed Kitty. "I know that Uncle Baldwin would never send me a bad bill."

"I tell you it was good for nothing; you may ask father. Father, was not that bill I showed you a counterfeit?"

"Of course! Any fool might have seen it!" To do Mr. Daskin justice, he knew nothing about the money that Fanny had borrowed, but thought she referred to a twenty-five cent bill she had got at the store in change. "You must look out sharper, or some of these folks will cheat your eyes out."

"There, didn't I tell you so! I am sorry for you, Kitty, and I don't mean to be vexed with you, whatever you may say. It was very good in you to lend me the money, but you can't expect me to give you back good money for bad. Now, can you?"

"Fanny Daskin!" said Kitty, trembling with excitement. "You are a thief, a cheat, and a liar. I will never speak to you again the longest day I live."

"So you said before," replied Fanny, coolly.

"I mean it this time. I will tell every one how you cheated me."

"No you won't!"

"Why not?"

"Because you can't do it without letting every one know what a fool you have been; and you won't be in a hurry to do that! Good-bye, Kitty. I hope you will have a pleasant Christmas-party. I shan't go to Sunday-school any more just now, but if I ever become converted, I will write and let you know!" Then, with these mocking words, Fanny turned and went into the house, shutting the door after her.

Kitty stood still, as if stunned for a minute. As she turned to go, she ran against Lizzy Gates.

"Why, Kitty, what brings you out in this storm!" exclaimed Lizzy. "I heard you were sick, and I was coming up to see you this afternoon. But how pale you are! Has any thing happened to frighten you?"

Kitty now poured out the story of her wrongs.

"The mean thing!" exclaimed Lizzie. "She spent that very money for a new hat and veil at Miss Perkins's, for I saw her myself. It was a new three dollar bill and a new fifty cent note, was it not?"

"Yes!"

"I saw her pay it to Miss Perkins when I was there picking out my worsteds. Miss Perkins remarked that she did not often see such clean money."

"She says she will pay me the fifty cents some time," said Kitty. "But I want it now. I dare not say any thing about it to mamma, for she has often forbidden me to lend Fanny or any of the girls money."

Lizzy shook her head. "I don't want to be a 'Job's comforter,' as they say, Kitty, but I am afraid you will never see your money again. The Daskins are going away to California day after to-morrow. Mrs. Daskin told mother so this very morning. It is a real shame, and so good as you have been to her! But I won't say any thing about her, for I have been about as bad." She stopped, hesitated, and then broke out again. "It may as well come out, Kitty. I am sorry I have used you so, and led you into so many scrapes. I have been very wicked about that and other things, but I beg your pardon. There!"

"Why, Lizzy! What do you mean?"

"I don't wonder you ask," replied Lizzy, tapping her foot against the ground. "But, Kitty, I mean what I say. I have been very wicked always, but I hope I am different now. I have been thinking about these things a good while, and now I have made up my mind. I am going to try to be a Christian, Kitty, and I hope you will pray for me."

Kitty was too much astonished to answer a word. Lizzy was the very last girl in the school from whom she would have expected to hear such words.

"That was what I was coming to tell you this afternoon," continued Lizzy. "I knew you would be glad to hear it, because you have been 'good' so long. Why, Kitty, what is the matter. You 'are' glad, are you not?"

Kitty was weeping convulsively. "Indeed, indeed I am," she said, as soon as she could speak. "You don't know how glad I am. But oh, Lizzy, don't call me a Christian. I am not! I have been a wicked, wicked girl. I have told lies, and deceived mamma, and myself, and everybody. Oh, what shall I do?"

"I know what I would do if I were you, and what you ought to do," said Lizzy, with decision. "I would go and tell my mother all about it, and tell her you are sorry. You won't have a bit of comfort till you do."

"It is easy to say that," said Kitty.

"It is not easy to do it, I know that I well enough," returned Lizzy. "I know, because I have just done it. I stopped after school and told Miss Oliver all about my cheating in composition and lessons. I knew I shouldn't feel easy till I did. So I told her the whole. I have lost all my credit by it, but I don't care so much for that. You don't know how much better I feel, now it is off my mind. And I 'know,' Kitty—" here Lizzy became very emphatic, as her manner was when she was in earnest—"I 'know,' Kitty, that you will never have one minute's comfort till you tell your mother the whole story."

"I believe you are right," said Kitty, after a minute's pause. "I 'know' you are. I will go home this minute and tell her."

"And, Kitty," said Lizzie, detaining her a moment, "I wouldn't give up every thing because I had done wrong. Remember Peter."

"I know, Lizzy, but that was not like my case."

"Well, anyhow, I wouldn't give up trying. But do go home as fast as you can and change your shoes. I am sure they are wet through."

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