CHAPTER III.

THE LIE FOUND OUT.

"THE moment I can leave work, I'll go to the shop, and have a talk with John," said Mr. Monroe, after they had for some time been seated at the table.

"No, I wouldn't," mildly said his wife. "I'm going to have a talk with Henry. It would be a great deal better to get him to confess."

"Henry is growing to be a bad boy. I wish they didn't live so near. Sometimes I think we shall have to sell our place. I don't want Ernest to associate with such a boy. Then everything that's lost or out of place is laid to our child, whether he ever saw it or not. I'm sick of living so."

"We cannot move away from trials, let us go where we will," was the pleasant reply. "Generally John is a good neighbor, and his wife I love dearly. Besides, Henry is unfortunate in being so afraid of his father, and would be worse than he is, if it wasn't for Ernest."

By this time, Mr. Monroe had finished his second piece of custard pie, and rose from the table with a smile, saying,—

"Well, Jane, have it your own way. You're generally right. 'Blessed are the peace-makers,' the Saviour says; and I'm sure you've made peace between John and me a score of times."

In the afternoon, when the mother was ready to sit by Ernest, he had fallen asleep again. His face was very pale, and, as she bent over him, her heart went up to God in prayer, that, if it was God's will that he should be weak in body, his head might be strong to resist evil; that he might be gathered into the fold of the good Shepherd.

Then she sat down close to the window, and presently she saw her brother's wife, stepping over the wall, on her way to the house. She went out to the sitting-room, softly closing the door behind her.

"I'm really sorry about Ernest," Mary Anne exclaimed, falling into the rocking chair, with a sigh. "Does Doctor Frost think he can save the hand?"

"Oh, yes, he hopes to! The only danger is that the muscles, which were cut quite off, will contract. I am hopeful, for I cut my finger once when a child, and for months had no use of it. But constant trying brought it round at last. See, it's as useful a finger as I have now." And she held up her forefinger for notice.

"What does he say about it?"

"He says he did not unlock the chest."

"That's true, Jane; I know he didn't."

The mother looked pleased.

"Oh, dear!" sighed Mary Anne. "If John wasn't so hot, I could set it all right, but,—well it's no use to cry-about what never will be different. I was making the beds when I heard Henry creep upstairs to the closet where his father hangs his clothes. I was going to ask him what he wanted when he said,—

"'Goody, here 'tis now!'

"He went down, and I heard the jingle of keys."

Mrs. Monroe then repeated the conversation, she had overheard between the boys, and added, "I do wish Henry would tell his father."

"Yes, he ought, but I don't believe he'll dare to. He has told ever so many lies already; for, when his father asked him, he said he was going along by the chest and he saw it open.

"'How came Ernest by my new adze?' John asked.

"I don't know, sir. I saw him with it, and told him to put it down; he wouldn't, and so I tried to make him. That's how he got cut.'

"It's dreadful for Henry to tell such falsehoods," said his aunt, shaking her head. "I'd much rather have Ernest cut his fingers, than to act so wickedly."

"I don't mean it as an excuse, of course," urged his mother; "but if John were like your husband, 'twould be easier for Henry to tell the truth."

"Mother, mother!" called out the sick boy.

Mrs. Monroe led the way to the bedroom, where she was followed by her sister-in-law.

"Where's Henry, Aunt Mary Anne? I want to see him," eagerly exclaimed Ernest.

"He's at work clearing the shop floor of shavings. His father has set him to do it."

"When he's done, please ask him to come here."

"Yes, I will."

"There is nothing that hardens the heart so much as lying," said Mrs. Monroe, "one lie leads on to another, until there is no knowing where it will end. I remember my mother used to say, 'There is no safety except in perfect truthfulness.'"

"Don't you believe I have told the truth, mother?" said Ernest, looking up at her inquiringly, as he spoke.

"Yes, Ernest, I do; and so does your aunt."

"I have never caught Ernest in a lie," said Mrs. Drake, sighing again. "If I had, I never should trust you again."

"It's hard sometimes to tell the truth right off," began the boy; "but it is a great deal harder to wait."