CHAPTER V

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KITTY did not go in at the back gate this time. She felt that she must have done with concealment in every shape. She walked in at the front door, and, seeing that her mother was not in the parlour, she went straight up-stairs to her own room. Her mother was there, looking at the books in the bookcase.

"Your desk is not locked, Kitty," said Mrs. Tremain. "You turned the key without shutting it close, and the bolt is outside, so you can get your money even if you do not succeed in finding your key."

"The money is not in the desk, mother," said Kitty.

There was something in her voice so strange and unnatural that Mrs. Tremain turned hastily round. Kitty's usually rosy cheeks were as pale as ashes, and her eyes looked large and wild.

"Why, my love, what is the matter? Have you lost your money, or what has happened?"

"No, mamma—yes, mamma, I have lost it, but not in that way. I lent it to Fanny Daskin, and she will not give it back to me. She says it was a bad bill, and she tore it up, but Lizzy Gates says she saw her pay just such a bill to Miss Perkins."

"A likely story, that your uncle would send you a bad bill!" exclaimed Cousin Tilly, who had just come in with some water.

"But, Kitty, how long is it since you told me that the money was safe in your desk?"

"I did tell you so, mamma. Cousin Tilly, please go down-stairs. I want to tell mother something."

"You must change your clothes first of all, Kitty!" said Mrs. Tremain, observing for the first time how wet Kitty was. "I think you had better go to bed. Tilly, will you make a fire?"

As soon as Kitty was safe in bed, her mother sat down by her bedside, saying—"Now, Kitty, tell me the whole story, and let me have nothing but the truth this time, whatever you may have told me before."

Kitty began at the day when she lent Fanny the money, and told her mother, without reservation, all that had occurred, not concealing the fact that she had made an altogether false excuse in order to stay at home on the Sunday that little Julie died.

"Why did you do so?" asked her mother.

"I did not feel as though I could meet my class, mamma! I felt so wicked; and besides—you will think me a fool outright, mamma—I wanted to think about what Fanny had told me—about the fortune grandfather had left me."

"So you have heard that foolish story! There is no truth in it whatever. Your grandfather was very rich, and after having provided amply for each of his children and giving me the sum of money upon which we are now living, he gave the rest of his property to various charitable institutions. And so you have allowed this wicked girl, whom you know to be a liar, to prejudice you against your mother, and make you believe that she was cheating you out of what was justly your due. Oh, Kitty!"

"Yes, mamma, I own it! She did make me think so. She told me a great deal about it, and what fine things I could buy if I only had my rights, as she said. She made me think that three dollars was nothing at all, and then she got it away from me!"

"When was this?" asked Mrs. Tremain.

"Last Wednesday, mamma."

"And how many lies have you told about it since that time?"

"I don't know, mamma: a great many!"

"You told me that you had never said a word to Fanny Daskin about your Christmas tree! Was that true?"

"No, mamma; I told her all about it. She would make me!"

"She would make you!" repeated Mrs. Tremain. "How did she make you?"

"Because I was such a fool, mamma. I don't know any other reason!" said Kitty. "She is going away: that is one comfort!"

"It is no particular comfort to me, Kitty," said Mrs. Tremain, sadly. "The same weakness, the same cowardice, the same love of low, coarse flattery which has made you the prey of one person may just as easily make you the prey of another. Flatterers are never wanting, especially to a girl who is so unfortunate as to get the reputation of being foolish and rich at the same time."

"Then there is no hope for me! Oh, mamma, don't say that!" said Kitty, weeping. "Don't give me up, mamma; please, don't."

"I shall not give you up, my poor child! You will find a faithful friend in your mother as long as she lives. But I may be taken from you any day, and then what is to become of you? Or, what good can I do you if you are ready to believe any one rather than me?"

"Mother, mother, don't! Please, don't!" sobbed Kitty. "Oh, what shall I do?"

"My child, there is one hope for you, only one!" said her mother. "If you can only be brought to see your fault! If you can be brought to see that this weakness of yours is wickedness, then you may be led to go for help to the only one who can help you! But as long as you think it rather creditable to you than otherwise—rather an amiable weakness, at the worst—"

"Indeed, mamma, I don't think so now!" said Kitty. "I see it all. It is just what you say—just vanity and the love of flattery—that made me run after Fanny Daskin. I was a coward, too! I could not bear to have the girls call me stingy or mean! I—" but here Kitty's voice was lost in sobs.

"If you really see this to be true, my daughter, I shall indeed begin to have hopes of you. It is only when people see how much they need help that they really seek it. No man feels his need of a Saviour till he perceives that he is a sinner, and unable to help himself. My child, think of all that your heavenly Father has done for you! Look around you, and see your comfortable home; think of all the blessings you enjoy, both temporal and spiritual! Think of the gift of his dear Son dying for you, and bearing your sins on the cross! And then think of your sins against him. If you do this, with prayer for the help of his Holy Spirit, you cannot help coming to some sense of your condition. I leave you to yourself for a time. By-and-by I will talk with you again."

Left alone, Kitty did think more seriously, more deeply, than she had ever thought before. She saw how she had been deceived in her estimation of herself: how much of her religion had been like that of the Pharisee—done to be seen of men! How pleased she had been when Fanny said that she was the only girl in school who lived up to her profession, though she knew perfectly well that there were half a dozen who were far more consistent than herself. She remembered how much more pains she had taken with her class when Mr. Burgess, the superintendent, or Mr. Parmelee, happened to be near—how anxious she had been to display her fluency in speaking French—how, in talking with Mr. Parmelee, when her mother was not within hearing, she had exaggerated what she had done for the children, and how delighted she had been to hear him say he wished all the teachers were as zealous as Kitty.

The human heart is deceitful above all things! We have the warrants not only of God's word, but of our own experience, for saying so. But there are times when, by his Spirit or by his providence, sometimes by means even of our own falls and sins, God gives us a clear sight of our own corruption and wickedness. Such an insight did Kitty now obtain, and it was not lost upon her. The same infinite mercy and love which showed her her sins showed her also her Saviour, and the experience of that day altered the whole life of Kitty Tremain.

When Mrs. Tremain came up again, she found Kitty sad and humble indeed, but more hopeful. She had no longer any desire to justify herself at the expense of Fanny, or any one else, and she acquiesced, sorrowfully enough, but without remonstrance, in her mother's decision that she must do without pocket-money for the next six months.

"I am very sorry to deprive you of it, Kitty, but I cannot trust you with any more money until I see that you have sufficient firmness to use it properly. For the present you must come to me for every thing you want."

"I suppose I must give up my Christmas tree, mamma?"

"I shall not require you to give up your little party for the children, because it would be a great disappointment to them, and because I have promised you. But you must give up the presents, unless you can contrive to get them in some way out of your own resources."

"Very well, mamma," said Kitty, sadly. "I know it is right that I should be punished. Mamma, do you think I ought to give up my class?"

"No, my dear."

"But when I have been so wicked, mamma." Kitty looked anxiously at her mother.

"My daughter, the fact that you have done wrong is no reason why you should leave off doing right. Peter, you remember, denied his Lord, and that more than once; yet it was to him in particular that the command was given, 'Feed my lambs!' These lambs are committed to your charge by Providence in a special manner, and it is for you to feed them in the best way you can."

"Indeed I will try, then, mamma," said Kitty, with a quivering lip. "I do love them dearly, and I don't want to give them up. Oh, if I had only gone that last Sunday." And Kitty burst into tears, as she thought of little Julie.

"I do not wonder you feel sadly about it, but, Kitty, do not let it end in 'feeling.' Right feelings do us no good unless they lead to right conduct. Remember that if through sloth, or carelessness, or self-indulgence, you omit a duty, you have no reason to think that you will ever have the opportunity to perform it afterwards."

"May I get up to tea, mamma?" asked Kitty.

"I think you had better not, Kitty. You are hoarse, and I fear you have taken a bad cold. Cousin Tilly shall bring up your tea, and I will come and sit with you afterwards, but I think you are better in bed for the present."

The next day and the next Kitty made no objections to staying in bed, but the third day she was able to get up and dress herself, though she was not allowed to leave her room. Mrs. Tremain was obliged to go to T— on business which could no longer be deferred, and as Cousin Tilly was busy down-stairs, Kitty was left alone to occupy herself as she could. With some trouble, she recovered her key from the place where she had thrown it, and opened her desk. The first thing she saw was a piece of paper, on which she had set down the presents she intended to buy. Little Julie's name was first on the list. Kitty's tears fell fast on the leaf.

"Poor Julie! She will not be here to be disappointed, anyhow! Oh, if I could only think of something for them."

Kitty sat for a few minutes in deep thought. Then she unlocked an inner cupboard in the desk where she kept her principal treasures, and drew forth a box. It was a beautiful little box, covered with velvet, lined with white satin, and perfumed with attar of roses. Kitty opened it and took out the contents. There were twelve little French books, elegantly bound, printed in colours, and each having two beautifully-coloured pictures.

"They would be just the thing," said she.

She took them up and examined them one by one. Then she laid them down and took the box in her hand, shutting her eyes as she inhaled the perfume. A whole panorama came before her mind in a moment. The broad Boulevard—the gaily-dressed people walking and sitting about, all so good-natured and polite—the neat white-capped "bonnes," or nurses, running and playing with their nurslings! She seemed again to be holding her papa's hand, as he took her into the beautiful little shop which was like a toy in itself, with its paint and gilding and green velvet. She seemed to see the books and toys lying about, the pleasant, smiling French woman behind the counter, the fat, white cat with his neck and ears adorned with pink ribbons which sat purring and winking in the window. There was a struggle going on in Kitty's mind, as her face plainly showed.

"I do not think papa would care!" said Kitty to herself. "I am sure I never shall forget him even if I had nothing at all to remind me of him. Papa would wish me to do right, I know."

Kitty put the books back into their case, but her mind was made up.

"Mamma!" said she that night before she went to bed. "Would you object to my giving the children those little French picture-books in the box?"

"No, my dear!" said her mother, kissing her, and looking very much pleased. "Not if you can make up your mind to part with them."

"I do hate to part with them, that is the truth, mamma," replied Kitty, candidly. "But I know the children will be so disappointed, now that they have heard of the matter. I feel as if I owed them amends, mamma."

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