Transcriber's notes: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Claribel.—Frontispiece.
"Did it want to improve its mind?" said a voice,
which Claribel recognized as Percy's.

[The Round Spring Stories.]

CLARIBEL;

OR,

REST AT LAST.

BY

LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY

AUTHOR OF "IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBOURS," "COMFORT ALLISON,"
"THE TATTLER," "NELLY; OR, THE BEST INHERITANCE," "TWIN ROSES,"
"ETHEL'S TRIAL," "THE FAIRCHILDS," "THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL EXHIBITION,"
"THE RED PLANT," "PERCY'S HOLIDAYS,"
"ON THE MOUNTAIN," "RHODA'S EDUCATION," ETC.

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PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
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NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

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            WESTCOTT & THOMSON                                      HENRY B. ASHMEAD
Stereotypers and Electrotypers, Philada.                             Printer, Philada.

CONTENTS.

——————

CHAPTER I.

THE NEW SCHOLAR

CHAPTER II.

"BITTER HONEY FROM FAIR FLOWERS"

CHAPTER III.

BAB

CHAPTER IV.

OPENING THE DOORS

CHAPTER V.

FANNY

CHAPTER VI.

PRISCILLA

CHAPTER VII.

LITTLE MADGE

CHAPTER VIII.

YELLOW COVERS

CHAPTER IX.

EXPLANATIONS

CLARIBEL.

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CHAPTER I.

THE NEW SCHOLAR.

"WE have got a new boarder, girls," said Emma Hausen, joining a group of her companions, under a great tree on the lawn. "She has just come up from the boat with Uncle Hausen. I believe he went to the Bridge to meet her."

"What is she like?" asked Tilly Mansfield. "Does she look nice?"

"I didn't see her face—she had a thick crape veil over it; but she is in deep mourning which looks quite new, and she is lame. She walks with a crutch."

"Poor thing!" said Eva Church. "How old should thee think she was, Emma?"

"How can I tell, child, when I didn't see her face at all? She is about as tall as I am, but larger. She was very nicely dressed, and has two large trunks; and, as I told you, she walks with a crutch. So there 'you have the sum of the facts which have come under my immediate observation,' as Professor Ashhurst says."

"Poor thing!" said Percy Dunham.

"Why poor thing?" asked Tilly. "Do you know her, Percy?"

"No; I never saw or heard of her; but I know it cannot be very nice to be lame, and Emma says she is dressed in new deep mourning; so she must have lost some near friend—her mother, perhaps."

"Lame people are not always unhappy," remarked Tilly. "There is old Uncle Jacob; he is lame, and poor too, and I don't believe any person in Round Springs is happier than he is; and only just look at Bab!"

"I think Bab's tail rather preys on his mind, though, when he compares it with Molly's," observed Percy, seriously.

"What nonsense you do talk about those cats!" said Rebecca Stiney, who always took everything literally. "I should think you would be ashamed."

"What is there to be ashamed of?"

"Talking as if a cat could have a mind of his own."

"You just try to make Molly do something she doesn't like, and see if she hasn't a mind of her own," said Percy. "But here comes Florry Lester. Florry, have you seen the new girl?"

Flora nodded.

"What is she like?"

"Well, she is odd-looking, but I dare say she was tired out, poor thing. She has been travelling all night, I heard Mr. Hausen say, and it must have been hard, for she does not look as if she could be strong. She is very lame, for one thing, and it is a curious kind of lameness, which makes her rather awkward, and she is pale and dark, and looks as if she might be cross."

"I dare say she is only tired," said Percy. "Once, in New York, I went shopping all one horridly cold, wet morning with a cousin of Aunt Ackerman's and Cousin Margaret. Now aunt's cousin was absurdly particular and perfectly sure that everybody meant to cheat her, and I thought we never should be done with running about from store to store; and, after all, she went back and took the very first thing she looked at.

"Well, we went into a store where there were beautiful mirrors set flat in the walls. I saw, as I thought, a girl of my own age standing at the end of the counter, and I said to myself, 'How cross that girl looks!'

"And when I looked again, I saw it was myself I was criticising. But I did not feel cross at all, only tired with standing about so long. It has always been a lesson to me, and when I see such a kind of face, I always say to myself, 'I dare say she is tired or has the face-ache, or perhaps she has on new shoes and they hurt her, as mine did that day, I remember.'"

"Does any one know this poor girl's name?" asked Tilly.

"Yes; I heard Uncle Hausen tell Mrs. Richardson: it is Claribel Woodworth."

"She ought to be nice with such a pretty name," said Tilly. "I do think we are the greatest people for fine names in this school—Claribel, and Blandina, and Eva, and Matilda, and Amabel: it sounds like an old-fashioned novel."

"Don't forget my romantic name—Perseverance," said Percy, laughing. "I think it ought to outweigh any number of Claribels and Amabels. Anyhow, girls, we ought to take pains to make things pleasant for this new scholar. If she is sick and lonely, she will have a hard time enough."

"That's so," said Fanny Morey, emphatically. "Most of you don't know anything about that, because you have never been to any school but this, which isn't one bit like a school. But I remember how I felt when I was first turned loose in the primary department of Eaton College. There were two hundred girls of all ages, all strange, and I, a poor little mite of twelve, just as shy as a young fox, and knowing nothing of school life, was left to make my own way among them. Oh how homesick I was! I really used to think I should die. Then the lessons were so hard, and there were so many of them, and the teachers never had time to explain anything. If a girl was strong and bright, she got on well enough, but if she were lazy, as a great many were, or dull and not very strong, as I was, she might go to the wall. There was no help for her."

"But didn't the girls help each other?" asked Percy. "Didn't the older girls help the little ones? I am sure I don't know how I should have got on here when I first came if Blandina hadn't taken me up."

"They never had any time, child; it was all they could do to learn their own lessons. As I said, the lazy girls shirked and did nothing, but I really did want to improve very much, for I knew it was hard for father to keep me at school, any way, and I nearly killed myself the first term. I used to be doing lessons all night when I was not being buried alive, or chased by wild beasts, or something else as pleasant. I don't believe I should have lived through the year if I had stayed there."

"And how did you get away?" asked one of the girls.

"Oh, I went to spend my spring holidays with Doctor Gregory, my mother's brother, in Yonkers, because, of course, I wouldn't go all the way home to Texas for so short a time. Aunt Emily found out that I did not sleep, and told my uncle; and when he heard all the story, he would not let me go back, but wrote to father about me. I stayed with them all summer, and didn't do anything much, only take some music-lessons and lie on a sofa put out on the verandah or under a tree, for my back was weak and ached all the time. Then in the fall, uncle sent me here, and oh, wasn't I glad? I'll tell you what: you Hausen girls don't know half your privileges. When I hear some of the grumblers, I say to myself, 'I just wish you were at Eaton College a while.'"

"I'm sure I wish I was," said Rebecca, taking the remark to herself; "I think there would be a great deal more chance for fun where there was so many girls. Here one can't do a thing but everybody knows it."

"Yes, very nice fun, flirting out of the windows and running away down town and getting into all sorts of scrapes."

"What kind of fun does thee want that thee don't care to have people know about?" asked Eva. "For my part, I thought we had plenty of fun."

Rebecca looked rather abashed, and walked away without answering.

"Becky said rather more than she meant to that time," observed Fanny. "I think she would like just that kind of a school. She does love to make mysteries. I believe she would rather eat a brown cracker slyly than a piece of plum-cake at the table."

"She ought to be more careful, or she will be in trouble," said Emma; "Uncle Hausen does hate secrets and mysteries, and especially anything like deceit. But, girls, what can we do for this new-comer to make it pleasant for her when she comes down?"

"She won't be down this evening," answered Flora Lester. "I heard Mrs. Richardson tell her that she had better put on her wrapper and rest, and that she should have her supper up stairs, because she was so tired."

"Then I'll tell you what we will do," said Tilly; "you know papa said I might have all the fruit and flowers I wanted from our garden. I mean to get some of those early pears, and two or three nice peaches, and a bunch of grapes from the grape-house, if I can find James to unlock the door. And I will get some pretty flowers, and Flora shall arrange them all in a basket, because she has the best taste, and we will carry them up to her before tea. Won't that be nice?"

"Splendid!" exclaimed Fanny. "And while you and Flora are getting the garden things, Emma and I will go up among the rocks and gather some ferns to line the baskets. Mrs. Richardson will give us leave, and we shall have plenty of time."

CHAPTER II.

"BITTER HONEY FROM FAIR FLOWERS."

AND where, all the time, was the subject of their conversation, and of all these kind and hospitable thoughts? Not resting, as she had been advised, and as she needed to do, but sitting at the window of her own room, peeping out through the blinds at the group of girls under the tree, and straining her ears in vain to hear what they were saying.

"Of course they are talking about me," she said to herself; "that black-haired girl was the one we met at the door, and that one in the white apron stopped and spoke to Mr. Hausen just in time to hear my name. I saw her turn up her nose at it, and well she might. 'Claribel' for such a miserable-looking object as I am! Oh, it was cruel and wicked to send me among such a set of strong, healthy girls all ready to laugh at me, or to pity me, which is worse still. They might have let me stay at home with Aunt Hepsey. Suppose I hadn't any advantages; what do I want of them? What should I do with accomplishments? Music and painting indeed! I wonder Mr. Steele didn't want me to learn dancing as well," said Claribel, laughing bitterly. "Yes, there they are," she added, glancing out of the window again. "There comes another one to discuss the new-comer."

We who have heard the conversation under the great ash, and who have seen more of Flora, know how mistaken were Claribel's ideas. But Claribel's mind was one which could extract poison from the most wholesome food. She had seemed to be marked for misfortune from her birth. She was not, as a child, "quite like other children," people said. Though not absolutely deformed, she had the look of being so. Her shoulders were high and square, her head large and heavy, especially over her eyes. A severe fall from the hands of a careless nurse, and broken bones treated by an unskilful surgeon, had stiffened one knee and turned her whole figure slightly awry, besides leaving a scar on her forehead.

Then her mother died when Claribel was only six years old, and left her to the care of an aunt, who thought Claribel's lameness and delicate health a sufficient excuse for indulging her in everything she fancied and never contradicting her in anything. But Aunt Hepsey had daughters who were not always so indulgent to her nursling's whims, and who sometimes revenged themselves for their mother's partiality, as they considered it, by taunting Claribel with her personal and mental defects. She was no favourite with the children of the little village school or their teacher, who, already overworked and harassed, had little patience with the peevish, perverse child.

Altogether, it was no wonder that Claribel's disposition should be pretty well soured before she was twelve years old, and, as the Scotch say, "thrawn" it certainly was. She loved Aunt Hepsey, though she did not respect her. She hated her cousins and most of her schoolfellows. Toward her father she felt very differently at different times. He had always been indulgent to her in providing for her every luxury that money would buy. And during the few days which he had ever spent with her, he had petted and pitied her.

Sometimes Claribel thought she should be perfectly happy if she could only live with her father, and took refuge from present discomforts in picturing to herself the time when she should go to be his housekeeper and see all the wonders of California. Then again, she felt that he neglected her cruelly in leaving her to live with her aunt and cousins in an obscure country village, and this feeling was deepened and made permanent by a speech of her cousin Priscilla's in the course of one of their numerous quarrels. Claribel had said something of the time when she should go to live with her father, and Priscilla had answered her, scornfully,—

"Oh yes! Very much you will go to live with your father! I guess when you do, we shall all know it. Just as if everybody didn't know that your father leaves you here with us because he is ashamed of your crooked ankles, and your shoulders up to your ears, and your yellow face, all eyes and mouth! And no wonder! I should think he would be. You will, go and be a great lady in California about the time I am queen of England, I expect."

"It is no such thing, Priscilla Westcott!" exclaimed Claribel, passionately. "My father isn't ashamed of me."

"Oh no, of course not," answered Priscilla, with a mocking laugh. "Why does he leave you here, then? Why doesn't he take you home with him, or send you to school somewhere and give you an education? Only because he is ashamed of you and thinks you are a disgrace to him. I know he wishes you had never been born. I heard him say so myself."

This was a lie, but, like many lies, it was founded on fact. Mr. Woodworth had once said to his sister that it might have been better the poor little thing had never been born, she was so unfortunate. Priscilla was one of those people who, when they are angry, say whatever they think will hurt most, without caring or considering whether it is true or false. She little knew the mischief she had done. She had given her spite full swing, and having gratified it to the utmost, was quite ready to be good-natured again and forget that she had ever been otherwise.

But her words sunk deep into the heart of the unfortunate child, and rankled there like poisoned arrows. When Claribel came to think them over, a thousand circumstances seemed to confirm them. Yes, it was so. Her last hope, her last refuge, was gone. Her father was ashamed of her; he hated her, and wished she was dead. All her fancies about going to live with him were mere delusions. She was doomed to spend her life in this horrid place with people she hated, and who hated her, or only cared for her—so the tempter whispered—for the sake of her father's money. Well, she did not care. Everybody despised her, and she despised everybody. Nobody cared for anything but self, and why should she?

There was only one medicine for a mind diseased like Claribel's, and that was the religion of Christ. But no one proffered it to her. Aunt Hepsey had once been a church-member when she lived at the East, but she had married an irreligious man and moved West, and like too many other people in the same circumstances, she seemed to leave her religion behind her. Claribel's mother had taught her to say her prayers and something of the first truths of religion, but Aunt Hepsey had not continued the lessons.

True, the children went to Sunday-school, but their attendance was irregular and their lessons learned or not, as the fancy took them. Then Claribel took some offence and would not go any more, and her aunt, as usual, let her have her own way. She had a Bible which had been her mother's, and she kept it on her table, but she seldom looked into it, and never thought of the possibility of its affording her any comfort. She had never been taught to regard God as her Father; and if she ever thought of him at all, it was with a kind of resentment mingled with fear. Why had he made her so? Why had he taken away her mother and given her a father who was ashamed of her? He could kill her, she knew, and she did not care much for that, but then there was something to come after death—Claribel remembered enough of her mother's lessons to feel sure of that; and what would become of her then? She believed that her mother was happy in heaven, but she felt, poor child, that she was not fit for any such place, and she did not think she ever would become so. All she could do was to get as much comfort as she could out of this life, and very little it was. The rest must take care of itself.

When Claribel was fourteen, her father died, leaving his only child a large fortune and a guardian in an old college friend. Mr. Steele was a lawyer, and not a man to do anything rashly or to undertake any trust which he did not mean to fulfil to his utmost ability. He took a fortnight from his business and spent it in Smithopolis, making acquaintance with Claribel and observing her circumstances and the influences which surrounded her, and then he made up his mind. He could not leave her where she was, neither could he take her into his own house, for his wife was an invalid and already overburdened with a young family.

Mr. Hausen and Mr. Woodworth were old friends. Mr. Steele knew and respected him, and his sister had been educated at the Hausen school. And after some consideration and correspondence, it was decided that Claribel should be sent to Round Springs to remain till her education was considered finished.

Aunt Hepsey exclaimed against the cruelty of sending the poor thing away among strangers—among a set of strong, healthy, romping girls who would laugh at her, and of teachers who would kill her with lessons and then scold her because she did not learn them. And she pitied Claribel till Claribel, who had at first been pleased with the idea of a change, learned to shrink with terror from the prospect before her, and to look on her guardian as a tyrannical oppressor made after the pattern of the wicked guardians in the cheap novels who send their wards to starvation schools that they might be out of the way, and thus cheated them out of their property.

Having these ideas put into her head did not tend to make Claribel more amiable. And during the long journey, she proved so disagreeable a travelling companion that Mr. Steele found his pity and forbearance taxed to the uttermost, and was thankful to get her off his hands.

"I fear you will have a hard task with the poor thing," he had said to Mr. Hausen. "If my wife had been well, I should have taken her home and tried to civilize her a little. She does not seem capable of a thought outside of herself."

Such was Claribel Woodworth, who now sat in her pleasant little room at Hausen school looking out at her future schoolmates and drawing her own conclusions about them, and feeling sure that they were criticising her. Presently the group of girls under the ash tree broke up and went their several ways, and then Claribel laid her head down on the window-seat and cried bitterly and hopelessly.

"Oh, I wish I had never been born! I wish I had never been born!" she said, passionately, over and over again. "Oh, it was wicked and cruel to send me here. It was cruel to take my mother away from me. She would have loved me, I know. It is all cruel and hard together. Oh, mother, mother!" Claribel had dried her tears—she seldom cried—and sat looking out with an expression of sullen and hopeless despondency, when there came a tap at the door.

"Come in!" said she, sharply.

Then, as the tap was repeated, she went to the door and opened it. There stood a group which would have pleased any eyes but hers. Emma Hausen was holding a tray on which was neatly arranged a tempting supper, and behind her were Percy and Tilly, the one carrying a bouquet, the other a little basket of peaches, early pears, and hothouse grapes.

"How do you do, Claribel Woodworth?" said Emma, whom the girls had deputed to "do the honours," as they said. "This is Percy Dunham, and this is Tilly Mansfield, and I am Emma Hausen, and we have come to bring you your tea, and to see if we can do anything for you."

For a moment Claribel was pleased and touched. Then the old evil spirit of suspicion and jealousy came back, and she answered, "I don't want any tea or anything else, only to be let alone."

The girls looked at each other in amazement, not knowing what to make of such an address.

Then Percy said gently, "Don't you think you had better have some tea? I am afraid Mrs. Richardson won't like it if we carry the things down again."

"Why didn't she send a servant with it, then?" asked Claribel. Then, as Percy hesitated, "I suppose you wanted to stare at the wild animal. Well, look at me then; what do you think of me?"

"I don't think you are very polite," said Emma Hausen.

"Hush, Emma," whispered Percy, who was always the peacemaker. "We didn't come to stare at you at all, Claribel. When a new scholar comes, Mrs. Richardson always sends some of the girls to take her to the table or to carry her up something if she can't come down. You are about our age, and we thought we would try to make it pleasant for you, that's all."

"I don't want it made pleasant for me," returned Claribel; "I hate the place and everybody in it."

"Oh, but that is because you are homesick," said Percy, soothingly. "When I first came here, I felt just so—that is, I couldn't bear the thoughts of it—and I was afraid of everything. But I like it now, and so will you, I hope. We will set the things down and go away if you like, but please don't think we came to stare at you, because we never thought of such a thing; did we, girls?"

"Of course not," said Tilly, bluntly; "what is there to stare at?"

If Tilly had thought for a week, she could not have said anything more to the purpose. Claribel began to feel a little, a very little, ashamed of herself.

"Well, perhaps you didn't," said she, in a somewhat more gracious tone, "but I am such an object I always think people want to look at me."

"I don't see that you are an object at all," said Tilly; "and if you were, why should we stare at you? It isn't your fault that you are lame, I suppose. If you are only good-natured and nice, nobody will care whether you are lame or not."

"Oh yes, it is easy to say that. It is easy to be good-natured when you are well and everything goes just to suit you; wait till your turn comes. As for people liking me, I don't expect them to."

"It would be rather unreasonable if you did, I think," thought Emma Hausen, but for a wonder she did not say so.

The girls arranged the table neatly, and then, bidding Claribel good evening, went away.

When Claribel was left alone with the provisions the girls had brought, she discovered that she was hungry, and made a hearty meal. She could not help feeling a little vexed and ashamed at her conduct.

"I wish I hadn't spoken so," she said to herself; "but, after all, I dare say it was true. They just wanted to show themselves off and to make believe they were good, and they contrived to get the first look at me, so as to tell the others."

"Well," said Emma Hausen, when the door was shut, "I don't think I shall ever take much pains to be polite to her. Did you ever see anything like her in all your life?"

"I don't envy Miss Reynolds and Mrs. Richardson," said Tilly. "Percy, I do think you are just as sweet as an angel to answer her so, when she was rude to you."

"I remembered how I felt when I first came here," answered Percy; "I was as frightened as if I had been going into a cage of wild animals."

"You didn't behave like that," said Tilly; "you acted as if you were scared half to death if any one spoke to you, but you were always polite. I never saw such a specimen as this in all my days."

"Nor I, but I can't help feeling sorry for her," remarked Percy. "Just think if any of us were like her! I dare say we should be as cross as she is."

"I am sure dear Miss Baldwin never was so cross," said Emma, alluding to a favourite teacher who had died a short time before. "Just think how unfortunate she was! And nobody could ever be sweeter."

"Miss Baldwin never seemed to think about herself at all," observed Percy; "she was always too busy caring for other people. But there come the girls from boating, and there is the first tea-bell. Girls, don't let us say anything about this poor Claribel to the others. Perhaps she will feel differently tomorrow, and we won't give her a bad character beforehand."

CHAPTER III.

BAB.

THE next day being Saturday, there were no lessons to do, and Mrs. Richardson advised Claribel to spend the morning in unpacking and arranging her clothes.

"I shall not unpack my clothes," said Claribel, sullenly; "I am not going to stay here."

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Richardson, soothingly, but apparently not in the least alarmed; "this will be your home for the present. I hope you will find it a pleasant one, but of course that must depend very much on yourself. I shall expect you to put your clothes in order; or if you do not feel able, I will send some one to do it for you. Dress yourself neatly, and be ready for dinner at one. Saturday being a holiday, we dine earlier than on other days."

Claribel was a little awed. She had never met any one exactly like Mrs. Richardson. The principal was a small, delicate-looking lady, with fine features and beautiful soft hair, which was quite gray, though she did not look old. She spoke very gently and softly, but there was something in her voice which commanded attention and obedience. Claribel felt that, but she did not like to give up quite yet, so she answered shortly again:

"I shall not go down to dinner. I don't want to be stared at by all the girls as if I were a gorilla. If I have got to stay here, I will stay in my own room, whether I have anything to eat or not."

"Listen to me, Claribel," said Mrs. Richardson, laying her hand with a light but firm pressure on Claribel's arm; "you have come here to live because it has been thought best by those who have the care of you, and that you may acquire such an education as will make you a useful and happy woman. If you are good and obedient, and take pains to make yourself agreeable, you may be very happy here, as the other girls are; if you are disobedient and sullen, you will make yourself and us a great deal of trouble, and yet you will have to stay all the same. There is no help for that. You need not be afraid that the girls will stare at you or do anything else to annoy you. I don't wonder that you feel sadly about leaving home and coming among strangers, but you will soon feel at home here. Come, now, make up your mind to be pleasant and good, and all will be well. Do you like to read?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Claribel, a little more graciously, for she was won in spite of herself. "I like it very much, but we had hardly any books at home. Priscilla used to buy all sorts of rubbishing novels when she went to Lumber City, but I couldn't bear them."

"I am glad to hear you say so," remarked Mrs. Richardson; "we will see if we can't find something you will like. We have a very fine library, and the girls read as much as they please."

"Priscilla said you wouldn't have anything but great, heavy, stupid books like Josephus and Rollin," said Claribel; "we had those books at home, but they were in such large volumes and such fine print that I couldn't read them. Once I found part of a beautiful story about a knight and some ladies who were taken prisoner by robbers and carried to a castle, and the castle was set on fire. Oh, it was lovely," said Claribel, warming up—"not a bit like the rubbish Priscilla is always reading; but I never could find any more of it."

Mrs. Richardson smiled: "I know the book you mean, and will find it for you in the library; it will come in nicely, for your history class are just at that point in their English history, and they have all been reading this book. Do you think, my dear, that you can unpack your clothes?"

"Oh yes, ma'am."

"Then I will leave you to yourself till dinner-time, and then send or come for you. Good-bye for the present."

Mrs. Richardson kissed Claribel and departed, leaving her in a curious state of mind. She felt herself entirely conquered, and yet she was not sorry to be conquered. Claribel was not at all deficient in strength of mind. She was capable of respect, and she felt that she had found some one worthy to be respected. She was delighted at the prospect of having plenty of books to read, and not displeased at the thought of acquiring a good education.

"I wonder if I could take drawing and painting lessons?" she said to herself. "I am sure I could learn to draw. I don't care so very much about music,—only singing,—but I should like to be a great artist and have my pictures admired all over the world. People would respect me then. I don't think I should dislike living here so much, only for the girls. I know they will laugh at me. But then, if I get on with my studies—and I can, I know—I will make them think I am somebody."

I once heard it remarked of a very vain man that he dreamed in the first person singular. Claribel certainly thought in the first person singular. She had got into the "contracting chamber" of Mrs. Charles's pretty allegory, and of course it contracted round her more and more. She considered everything and saw everything only as it affected herself. She was in prison—a very small, dark, and narrow prison, indeed—and it remained to be seen whether she was ever to get out of it.

Claribel unpacked her clothes and other possessions, feeling a certain pleasure in their freshness and prettiness, for Mr. Steel had thought it best that she should have an entirely new outfit of everything. She even felt a slight twinge of mortification as she took out her pretty writing-desk and dressing-case, and wished she had been a little more gracious to her guardian.

Mrs. Richardson herself came up for Claribel at dinner-time, and gave her a seat next herself. Percy and Tilly sat near her and welcomed her with smiles, for they were not disposed to bear any malice against the poor lame, sickly stranger. After dinner, she went to the library, and Miss Foster, the librarian, found her the volume she wanted.

"You can sit down and read here, or anywhere else you like," said Mrs. Richardson, "only you must be sure not to leave your book out of place. Carry it to your own room, and next Saturday bring it back here."

"But suppose I haven't finished it?" said Claribel.

"Oh, then you can take it again; but we wish to keep a register of all the books, so as to learn where they are."

"Don't you want to come out on the upper verandah?" asked Percy, who had also come for a book. "It is nice and shady, and there is such a beautiful view."

Claribel consented, and got through the afternoon without giving or taking any new offence.

"Isn't she queer?" said Percy to Flora after they had separated. "Do you think you shall be friends with her?"

"I never saw anybody like her," answered Flora. "She doesn't seem to think anybody but herself is of any consequence at all. Did you see how she went and took Eva's seat the minute she left it? And though Eva came back directly, Claribel never seemed to think of giving it up to her. If I had been Eva, I would have asked for it."

"No, you wouldn't," said Percy; "you would have done just as Eva did. But I suppose Claribel has been sick a good deal, and that does make people selfish sometimes—not always, though. Mamma was sick a great deal, and papa used to say she hadn't any self."

"Well, we won't judge in too much of a hurry," said Flora, sagely; "I dare say she will improve. I heard Mr. Hausen say she had had very few advantages."

For some days, matters went on with tolerable smoothness. Claribel was examined as to her studies, and to her own surprise was put into the same classes as Percy and Flora. This was rather a stretch on the part of the authorities, and Miss Reynolds warned Claribel that she would have to study hard to keep up. But Mr. Hausen thought it better she should do so than that she should be mortified by being classed with girls much younger than herself. Claribel would have resented the consideration if she had known of it, but she never thought of such a thing. She was allowed to begin drawing lessons directly, and showed a talent which surprised and delighted Mrs. Claxton, the teacher.

"You will make an artist if you only have perseverance enough," said she, "but you must make up your mind to work hard."

"I don't care how hard I work when the work is what I like," answered Claribel.

"I dare say. That is the case with most people," said Mrs. Claxton, smiling. "But if you mean to be an artist, you must learn to work hard at what you don't like."

One pleasant morning, Claribel was sitting busily studying her history lesson on the landing-place outside her room door. This same landing was rather a special place of attraction for the younger girls. It was broad and roomy. The stairs turned two different ways from it, and there was a low, shady window with a broad seat which was just over the outside door, which opened into the library. It chanced this morning that the wind blew into Claribel's window; and remembering that the one outside had a different exposure, she betook herself thither, and sitting down on the window-seat just mentioned, began studying once more. She was just trying to fix in her head the date of King John's death, when she heard voices below.

"Was it a three-legged precious, then, and did it want to improve its mind?" said a voice which Claribel recognized as Percy's.

"So it should, then, and I guess nobody will look down on it when it knows all about Anglo-Saxon and things!" added Flora, in a voice of exaggerated sympathy. "I guess Molly won't despise it any more, now that it improves its mind, if it is a three-legged old dear."

"I think it is just a shame that Mr. Hausen don't get the poor thing a cork leg," said Tilly's voice. "Let's subscribe our own money, girls, and buy one."

"What's a cork leg when one's tenderest affections are wounded and trampled on, and all that kind of thing?" said Percy. "Can cork legs bring balm to a heart lacerated by a fuzzy-tailed tyrant?"

Now, there was one little word in this sentence which might have done something toward explaining the mystery if Claribel had only attended to it. But she did not. She jumped at once to the conclusion that the girls meant her. When Mrs. Richardson came to her room to see why she did not come to dinner, she found Claribel in a frenzy of rage, sobbing, and actually screaming.

While her next-door neighbour, who had heard her cries, was trying to quiet her, or at least to find out what was the matter.

"I can't make anything of it," said she, in answer to Mrs. Richardson's question. "She won't do anything but scream and say she will go home."

Mrs. Richardson had no better success. And while she was trying to get something out of Claribel beside inarticulate shrieks, Mr. Hausen himself came up stairs, passing through the little crowd of girls which the noise had assembled on the landing-place. His first move was to send every one away but Mrs. Richardson and himself. His next was to lock the door.

"Stop crying, Claribel!" were his first words. "Be still this instant! Do you think we shall allow such a noise as that in the house? Be silent!"

Never had Claribel been so addressed before. Aunt Hepsey had had a great dread of these screaming fits, or "tantrums," as she called them, and would give way in everything to avoid them. But it was clear that Mr. Hausen was not the least frightened. On the contrary, after waiting a moment, he renewed his command, with still more authority, not to say sternness. Claribel was rather alarmed, and made such an effort to quiet herself as she had never done before in all her life.

"Now, if you will try to speak reasonably, we will learn the cause of all this disturbance," said Mr. Hausen, when she had in a measure succeeded; "but speak quietly, and let us have no screaming."

Claribel told her story—that the girls had been insulting her and making fun of her and calling her names under the window; that she always knew they would, and that it was twice as mean to do it as they had done as if they had spoken to her face.

"What girls, and how did they do it?" asked Mr. Hausen.

"It was Percy, and Tilly, and Flora, and Fanny Morey. I knew their voices, and they meant I should."

"Impossible!" said Mrs. Richardson. "There are no better girls in the school."

"Call them," said Mr. Hausen; "let us hear what they have to say."

The girls were called, and great was their astonishment at the passionate accusation brought against them. Tilly bluntly denied it.

"I never thought of such a thing," said she; "Claribel must be crazy, I think."

"What names did we call you, Claribel?" asked Percy.

"You—you said I was a three-legged precious," sobbed Claribel, "and you said I ought to have a cork log, and that I was trying to improve my mind, so that Molly Richardson shouldn't laugh at me."

The girls exchanged glances. Percy smiled, and the others laughed outright.

"Oh, Mr. Hausen, it was Bab," exclaimed Tilly. "Miss Foster had down that great book of English history prints and left it open on the desk, and we found Bab sitting on the table before it looking just as wise as if he were studying the pictures. Then somebody said he was trying to improve his mind, so that Molly wouldn't despise him—you know she does despise him—and that was all. We never thought of Claribel or knew she was there. A likely story," added Tilly, rather indignantly, "that we should make fun of any one for being lame."

Mr. Hausen smiled in his turn.

"I begin to see through the mystery," said he. "Tilly, you may go and bring Bab here if you can find him."

All waited in silence, the other girls glancing at each other and trying to suppress their smiles, and Claribel feeling an uncomfortable misgiving that she had been making herself ridiculous.

Presently, Tilly came back, carrying in her arms a big white and brindled cat, which she set down on the floor.

Bab had once been a handsome animal of his kind, and was still plump and in good condition, but by some unlucky accident he had lost one forepaw and a large part of his tail, so that he presented a very comical figure. Bab seemed no way displeased at finding himself the object of so much attention. He limped about from one to another, purring loudly; and at last coming to Claribel, and seeming to think her in need of special sympathy, he jumped into her lap, and rubbed his big head against her chin with a kind of cooing noise.

"Well, I declare! What a compliment!" said Tilly. "I never saw him go to a stranger before. I guess he knows that Claribel likes cats; don't you, Claribel?"

Claribel murmured some inarticulate response as she bent her head down and fondled the old cat. She saw through the whole mystery. Never in all her life had she felt so ashamed of herself.

"You see how it was," said Percy; "we always talk to Bab as though he had sense, though I do think he has 'less' sense than any cat I ever saw."

"You always will say that, and I don't think it is fair," remarked Fanny Morey; "anyhow, Claribel, we were talking to him, as Percy says, and laughing at the notion of his reading to improve his mind. You would have laughed too if you had seen him, he looked so wise. But it was funny you should think we meant you."

"Well, never mind," said Mr. Hausen; "Claribel won't think so again, I am sure. There! Run away, all of you; and if Miss Van Ness can go with you, you may take out the small boat and see how you can handle her."

"Shall I leave Pussy?" asked Tilly.

"Yes, please," answered Claribel. And then, making a heroic effort, she added, "I am sorry I was so silly and made such a fuss; I won't do it again."

CHAPTER IV.

OPENING THE DOORS.

CLARIBEL hoped that Mr. Hausen would go away and leave her, but after the girls had gone, he returned, and sat down by her side.

"My poor little girl," said he as he took her hand in his, "why will you make yourself so miserable, when everybody wishes to make you happy? Why should you take such jealous fancies into your head, and make yourself so wretched over them? Why should you think that people want to insult you?"

"Because—because I am different from other people," answered Claribel. "You know I am, Mr. Hausen. You know I am a frightful little scarecrow, and never can be anything else."

"I know no such thing, Claribel. You are lame, to be sure, and unfortunate in other respects, but, you have a very fine head and beautiful eyes, and a face that might be very attractive if only—"

"Well, if only what?" asked Claribel, with animation.

"If only you would banish that ugly scowl and try to look good-natured and kind."

"Oh yes, it is easy to say that," returned Claribel, bitterly. "It is easy for people to look good-natured and kind when everything goes to please them and everybody likes them. I would be good-natured and kind myself, if I had a home and friends, and a fine figure like Tilly, or a beautiful fair skin like Fanny. Nobody could help being cross who was afflicted as I am, I know."

Mr. Hausen took from his pocket-book two card photographs, one of which he handed to Claribel. It was only a head and face, or vignette, as it is called.

"Oh how sweet, how lovely!" exclaimed Claribel. "I never saw a nicer face."

"You don't think she looks cross and unamiable?"

"No, indeed! She looks like an angel. Ah, if I were only like that lady!"

"Then you would be worse off in some respects than you are now, as you will see by this other picture," said Mr. Hausen, handing Claribel the other photograph.

It represented the same face, but on a body terribly deformed, and what is called hump-backed. Claribel uttered an exclamation of surprise and pity.

"Both of these pictures are portraits of the same person, as you see," said Mr. Hausen. "You perceive that she was more deformed than you are. Perhaps you have heard some of the girls speak of Miss Baldwin, a teacher who died here last term. You say she looks like an angel, and she certainly was as nearly ripe for heaven as any person I ever saw. Her father was supposed to be very wealthy. He gave his daughter an expensive education and every possible advantage, for he was fond and proud of her, unfortunate as she was. But he was a careless, self-indulgent man, and given to speculation. He was supposed to be rich, till one day he died very suddenly, and then it was discovered that he had absolutely nothing—that he did not own so much as the house he lived in; and poor Miss Baldwin, who had been brought up in every luxury, found herself fatherless and penniless at the same time."

"Poor thing!" said Claribel, much interested. "What did she do?"

"She sold her jewels and other valuables, of which she had a great many, and paid off the servants and such bills as were for necessaries, and then she looked about for means of making herself useful and independent at the same time. A friend recommended her to me as a teacher. She came here and lived with us till she went to her home in heaven, and I am sure that if ever the words, 'Well done, good and faithful servant,' were spoken to any one, they were to her. Now, my dear child, you have, I think, talents quite equal to Miss Baldwin's, and your advantages are likely to be as good as hers. Why should not you be as useful and as happy as she was?"

"I don't know," said Claribel, slowly; "I never thought I could be anybody. I wouldn't so much mind if I could only learn, so as to do something for myself and make myself famous."

"I don't quite like that way of putting it," said Mr. Hausen. "I would rather hear you say, 'If I could do something for others and make myself useful.'"

"But people liked Miss Baldwin," said Claribel, after a little consideration, "and nobody likes me—nobody. The girls don't like me, and even my own father was ashamed of me; Priscilla said so."

"Then Priscilla was very wrong. Your father was not ashamed of you; he may have erred in judging what was best for you, but I will show you some letters from him which will convince you that your welfare was his one object in life. But, Claribel, let me ask you a question. Why should you expect any one to like you? What have you ever done for any one—for the girls here, for example—that should make them like you?"

Claribel looked as if struck with a new idea. "I never thought of that," said she. "I never thought I could do anything."

"My dear, shall I tell you what I think is, and has been, your greatest trouble in life—worse than your lameness, a great deal?"

"Yes, please."

"It is that you have grown up to think only of yourself. You have never been taught to work or care for others; and instead of thinking what you can do for those around you, you think all the time of what they ought to do for you. You expect everybody to be kind to you, but you are not kind to anybody. You would not fret so about your personal appearance if it were not for that. If you would only interest yourself for those around you, you would learn to like them, and you would not be all the time worrying over fancied insults."

Claribel blushed and held down her head over the old cat, which was still purring in her lap.

"Above all, my dear," said Mr. Hausen, gravely, "if you would only think that you have a Father and a home in heaven,—a Father who loves you and desires your happiness, who has given you friends, fortune, and opportunities of mental and spiritual improvement,—a home where, if you will, you may be as beautiful as any angel, and that for ever,—if you will learn to live for that Father and that home, believe me, you will find this world a very different place from what it seems now. I see you have a very pretty Bible. Do you read it?"

"Not much," answered Claribel, frankly. "Sometimes I do, because it was mother's, and she loved it."

"Claribel, will you promise me to do two things for the next term?"

"If I can," said Claribel.

"You can, easily. The first is, to read two chapters in the Gospels every day, taking them in course. You may read as much more as you like, but read at least two. The second is, that you will try not to let pass a chance of helping somebody, no matter how small the chance may be, if it be no more than picking up a book. Will you promise me these two things, my child?"

"Yes, I will," said Claribel, after a little consideration. "I like you, Mr. Hausen. I think you are a good man. But I thought you would ask me to pray every day, and I didn't like to promise that, for fear I shouldn't do it."

Mr. Hausen smiled. "I think that will come of itself presently," said he. "Good-bye, my child; and may the Father of the fatherless bless and lead you!"

Claribel thought more and to better purpose during the next two or three days than she had done in all her life.

The girls all noticed how quiet she was and that she no longer seemed to resent their little attentions and offers of assistance. And being themselves a kindly, good-natured set, they forgot all her past ungraciousness, and did their best to make her feel that they bore no malice toward her.

One afternoon, when almost all the girls had gone out in the boats, Claribel took her book and went down to a certain shady verandah, a great resort of the girls on summer afternoons. She had taken the "Tales of the Crusaders" from the library, and was quite absorbed in the most interesting parts of "The Talisman," when Fanny Morey came out with her work and seated herself at the other end of the broad steps.

The girls sat in silence for some minutes, and then Fanny uttered an exclamation of surprise and regret:

"Oh dear! How sorry I am! Now, that is too bad!"

"What is the matter?" asked Claribel, looking up. "I thought you had gone out boating with the others?"

"Well, I didn't," said Fanny. "I stayed at home on purpose to get on with my work. I am making some little shirts to send home to mother's new baby, and now I have made a mistake ever so far back, and I shall have to pull it all out. Oh dear! What a shame!"

"What mistake have you made?"

"I have dropped two stitches and knit over them."

Claribel hesitated a minute; and then laying aside her book, she said,—

"Come here and let me see. Perhaps I can take them up for you, or take back the stitches. Don't pull it out till I try."

"Oh, will you? How nice!" exclaimed Fanny. "But I am afraid you can't do anything with it. Just see what a state it is in!"

"It does look rather badly," said Claribel, inspecting the work, and rather repenting of her offer as she remembered that she had left Sir Kenneth in the midst of the combat. "I will see what can be done. But, Fanny, there is a great deal prettier way than this of knitting shirts—with a scalloped border."

"Yes, I know; I saw some in a shop in Milby. But I don't know the stitch, and I can't find any one to show me."

"I will show you," said Claribel. "I have made many of them. I will tell you what I would do: I would pull all this out and begin again the other way. I will show you the stitch and all about it."

"But then I shall lose so much time," said Fanny, dolefully.

Once more Claribel thought of Sir Kenneth, but only for a minute.

"I will tell you what I will do," said she: "I will pull it out and begin it for you, and then knit it up to where it is now. I can do it very soon, and then I can show you the stitch, and you can knit the rest yourself."

"Oh, will you? How good you are! But you want to read?"

"Oh, never mind. The book will keep."

"I can read to you while you are at work," said Fanny, struck with a bright thought; "or will that put you out?"

"Oh no, not after I have set the pattern. But perhaps you won't care about this book?"

"Oh yes, I shall, if it has a story in it," said Fanny, possibly making a little stretch, for the truth was that her reading heretofore had been confined to the general run of little story-books which require neither thought nor imagination, and any book which needed effort of mind or any previous knowledge was like a lesson to her. But she read well, and it was impossible not to catch a little of Claribel's enthusiasm.

"Why, here are the girls coming home. It can't surely be half-past five!" said Fanny, interrupting herself. "Oh, Claribel, what a great piece you have done, and how pretty it is! But do you suppose I can do it?"

"Of course you can. Why not? It is only to pay attention at first, till you are used to the stitch."

"Paying attention is just what is the hardest thing for me to do," said Fanny, frankly. "Miss Reynolds is always scolding about it. But I am sure I will try, Claribel, if you are kind enough to show me."

That night, when Mrs. Richardson made her rounds, she found Claribel's light burning, and Claribel herself reading in her Bible.

"Time for lights to be out, my dear," said she, kindly.

"Oh, Mrs. Richardson, can't I just finish this chapter about the ruler's daughter?" asked Claribel. "It is not very long, and I want to see what became of her."

Mrs. Richardson smiled: "Yes, dear, you may finish the chapter, and then you must, go to bed directly."

Claribel finished the story, and then looked up with eyes swimming with tears:

"Wasn't it lovely? And then to think of His remembering to tell them to give her something to eat! I suppose he thought they would forget, they were so glad and so surprised. But it seems such a little thing to think of—for him."

"Nothing is little to him that concerns the welfare of his children," said Mrs. Richardson.

"Oh, Mrs. Richardson, do you think I could ever be like that? Do you think if I should ask—"

Claribel did not finish the sentence, but looked eagerly into her friend's face.

"I know, Claribel, that he has said, 'If ye shall ask any thing in my name, I will do it,' and also, 'If we ask any thing according to his will, he heareth us.'"

"But I can't be sure that I am asking according to his will, can I?" asked Claribel, doubtfully. "I can't be quite sure what his will is."

"In this case, you can be quite sure, because it is his will that all his children should be good and holy. So if you ask God to give you his Holy Spirit, and to make you like him, you may be sure he will hear you. Try him, my child, and see."

CHAPTER V.

FANNY.

"ISN'T it funny that Fanny and Claribel should have struck up such friendship?" said Percy to Flora one day. "Fanny is a good girl, but then she is such a scatter-brained thing, and so lazy."

"She has worked a great deal harder lately," said Percy. "I think Claribel is doing her good. How much better her compositions are!"

Percy looked a little grave. "Do you suppose, Flora," she asked, in a low voice—"do you suppose Claribel helps her in her compositions?"

"I have thought of that," answered Flora, "but I don't know that I think she does. You see, Claribel makes Fanny read and study, and of course that would improve her writing. I don't think Claribel would do anything wrong about it—anything sly or deceitful, I mean—like somebody you know."

"I know," said Flora. "No, I don't believe she would, but she might not think it was wrong to help Fanny a little, and I dare say she may give her a hint now and then. But if Fanny has improved, what do you think of Claribel?"

"I never saw such a change in anybody," answered Percy. "She does not even look the same. It seems as if her face had altered entirely since she came here. And how nicely she gets on with her drawing! Mrs. Claxton says she has more talent than any one in the class."

"So she has; anybody can see that. Well, I am sure I never would have thought I could like her so well that day we had the fuss about Bab; do you remember? I don't believe she thinks nearly so much about her looks as she used to."

The girls were right. Claribel had found an object in life outside herself, and that object was Fanny Moray.

Fanny was a little Texan girl who, having run as wild as one of her father's colts till she was thirteen, had then been sent North to school to be made a young lady of. We have heard her own story of her first experience of school life, from which she had been rescued by her uncle. Fanny would have been perfectly happy at Round Springs, only for the lessons. She was a pretty little creature, looking at least three years younger than her real age, and was a favourite with both teachers and playmates from her sunny, cheerful temper and her obliging ways, despite her heedlessness and laziness. For she was both heedless and lazy. She hated to study, she hated to mend her clothes and keep them in order, she hated to sweep and dust her room, and it may be doubted whether she would ever have done so of her own accord, so long as it could be made habitable by any process of picking up and tucking away.

Now, Claribel was just the opposite of all this. If Aunt Hepsey had taught her nothing else, she had at least made her neat and methodical. She had a place for everything, and everything in its place. Her clothes were always mended before they were put away, her books arranged in the most convenient and elegant order, and all the little knickknacks with which she had learned from the other girls to decorate her room were as carefully dusted and cared for as if they had been valued curiosities in a museum. It was the same with her lessons and school exercises. Fond as she was both of reading and work, Claribel never could enjoy either so long as a lesson remained unprepared or an exercise unwritten, while Fanny only cared to enjoy the present, always trusting that her lessons would get done "somehow."

"Fanny, have you done your French sentences?" Claribel would say.

"No, not yet," Fanny would answer; "there is time enough!"

"But French comes the very first thing, you know."

"Oh, well, I can learn it this evening."

"You have your arithmetic to do this evening, and your history analysis to have by heart. Come, Fanny, do write your French now to please me."

And partly to please Claribel, and partly to get rid of the teasing, Fanny would get out her books and write her exercises, or else she would make some excuse for going down stairs; where she would waste the hour in reading some little story which perhaps she had read a dozen times before. Then Fanny would be in disgrace with the French teacher,—a disgrace which Claribel felt, far more than she did.

Nevertheless, the girls did each other a great deal of good. The very vexations which Fanny caused her were good for Claribel, because they were vexations for another and took her attention from her own troubles. While she was fretting over her friend's indifference and carelessness of reproof, she forgot to look out for affronts and slights to herself.

But Fanny's good qualities did Claribel more service than her bad ones. Fanny was so good-natured, so self-sacrificing, so ready to put aside her own convenience or pleasures for the sake of others, that Claribel could not, for very shame, keep on expecting everybody to give way to her as she had done. When Fanny stayed at home from a boat ride to amuse one of the little girls who was sick, Claribel was ashamed to select for herself and keep the very best seat,—a thing she would have done as a matter of course when she first came to school; and so it was in other things.

And on the other side, when Claribel was so prompt in learning her lessons, and so careful in keeping her things in order, Fanny did not like to annoy her friend by carelessness and disorder. So each improved by association with the other.

One day when Claribel was alone in her room working very hard at her French, Rebecca Stiney came in. Rebecca was no great favourite with her schoolmates, though no one could exactly tell the reason, except that she was always complaining and finding fault with the school. Claribel looked up in some displeasure as Rebecca entered, for she had put up her "engaged" card on the door, which should have secured her from any intrusion.

"Isn't the card on the door?" said she. "I asked Fanny to put it up when she went out."

"I didn't see any card on the door," said Rebecca. This was true. The card had blown down from the door and lay on the floor beside it, but with its face up, and Rebecca knew very well where it belonged. "Of course I shouldn't have come in, if I had seen it. But, Claribel, I want you to do me a favour if you will."

"I will, if I can," said Claribel, mindful of her promise to Mr. Hausen. "What is it?"

Rebecca closed the door after her, and coming close to Claribel as she sat at the table, said in a half whisper, "I want you to write my composition for me."

"To write your composition for you!" Claribel paused, amazed at the audacity of the proposition.

"Yes. It is only for once. I haven't had time to touch it yet, and I want a good one, because we are to have company this week. Why, Claribel, you needn't look so wonderfully innocent and astonished. Everybody knows that, you help Fanny, and why shouldn't you help me?"

"Everybody knows that I help Fanny write her compositions!" repeated Claribel. "What do you mean?"

"Well, Fanny herself says so, and all the girls believe it. And why shouldn't you? Dear me! It is a very common thing, and nobody cares, so long as it is not found out."

"Do you mean to tell me that Fanny says that I write her compositions for her, and that the girls believe it?" asked Claribel.

"Well, perhaps she didn't exactly say so in so many words," replied Rebecca, qualifying a little, "but she certainly did let it be understood; and everybody thinks so, because Fanny's compositions are so much better than they used to be. And I don't see why you shouldn't help me as well as Fanny Morey. Come, do, Claribel, just this once. There won't be any harm in it, and you can write so easily."

"If there is no harm in it, I suppose you would have no objection to my asking Mrs. Richardson's permission," said Claribel. "If she is willing, I will do it for you this afternoon."

"What nonsense!" said Rebecca, peevishly. "Of course I can't do that. I never heard anything so absurd. Just as though one wanted to tell everything that one does!"

"But, Rebecca, if I write your composition, and then you pretend it is yours, that will be a lie, and you know what Mr. Hausen said yesterday about liars. It is in the Bible, too, for Fanny and I found the text last night."

Rebecca writhed uneasily in her chair:

"Oh, well, of course; a great many things are in the Bible that we ought to mind more than we do. But then it, is only for once, and I thought you would be obliging enough. Come, do, Claribel; I will never tell. And I am sure it is in the Bible that we ought to help one another. You and Percy and all the girls help little Maud, and why shouldn't you do as much for me? And all the girls think you write Fanny's compositions and exercises, and Fanny lets them think so; and where is the harm? Come, do, Claribel, please."

Claribel paused, hardly knowing what to say or think for a moment. Then, as she remembered Mr. Hausen's remarks the day before, she answered, decidedly,—

"No, Rebecca, I can't. I am sure it wouldn't be right for me to write you a composition and for you to hand it in as your own. It would be lying. I'll give you a subject if you like, and that is all I can do."