Dora's mistake

THE FEAST OF TABERNACLES.

On the very next day began a season of warmth and sunshine, which did more to drive away coughs and restore vigour to late invalids than could all the skill of the doctor. Even Agnes was able to spend hours in the open air; and, except at meal-times, Lucius liked to be out all the day. His fidgety work, as he called it, could scarcely be done but indoors, and the boy found it a grievous task.

"But it would be a shame not to go on with the model now, after putting mamma to so much trouble and expense," observed Lucius one morning to Dora. "Besides, I engaged to do it, and no English boy must flinch back from keeping his word. The new knife which I bought yesterday is not to be compared to that which I so unluckily snapped over the pasteboard; but I must hack away steadily, and show a good example to that lazy puss Elsie, who since the fine weather began has not put another stitch into her Turkey-red curtains."

"She has stowed them away in her doll's cradle," observed Dora, laughing.

Mrs. Temple was not surprised to find that the making of the model now progressed more slowly; she was rather pleased to see the amount of perseverance shown by her children after the charm of novelty had worn off. Even the "lazy puss" drew her work from its hiding-place, and would sew—for five minutes at a time—"just to please dear mamma."

All the five Temples continued to work, when work had ceased to be an amusement; but they worked from different motives. Those which influenced Lucius—a manly, honourable boy—have been mentioned already, as well as the simple wish to please her mother which made Elsie prick her plump little finger under her Turkey-red cloth. But if we could glance into the hearts of the three other girls as they sit together industriously plying their needles, we should find an example of how the very same effect may be produced by different causes.

Amy had from the very first considered her humble work as something to be done for her Heavenly Master, and this sweet thought made her take pleasure in labour, which without it would have been wearisome indeed. It was this thought which made Amy put fine hemming and stitching into the long strips of white lawn which represented the linen curtains surrounding the court of the Tabernacle, and even unpick any portion which did not seem to her to be sewn neatly enough. Amy tried to give her best, her very best work, because she was giving it to the Lord, and some of the happiest hours which the little girl ever had known were spent over her tedious curtains.

"I cannot think, Amy, how you can go on so patiently with what is so tiresome, with no variety in it, and a kind of work which will not look striking when all is done," exclaimed Dora one day, as she unrolled some glittering gold thread from her reel.

Amy smiled as she glanced up at her sister's far more amusing occupation. "If I could have worked anything so pretty as the veil which you are making, I daresay that I should have liked it much better," she observed. "But I am pleased to do the plain work as well as I can, as the embroidery would have been far too difficult for me."

Amy's curtains might seem plain to the eyes of most people, but her mother looked upon them with special pleasure; for, as she said to herself, "they are embroidered all over with faith and love."

Agnes also made steady progress with her not very inviting work, though she took in it no great pleasure. Agnes regarded the sewing as a matter of duty, and therefore plied her needle in the same spirit as that in which she struggled to subdue her temper, and tried to put a bridle on her tongue. It was the work which had been given to her, and she would do it, without asking herself whether she liked it or not.

"This material, neither smooth nor pretty, is something like a type of me," thought Agnes, as she put the finishing stitch into one of her mohair curtains; "but the goat's hair had just as much its appointed place in the Tabernacle as loops of silver and sockets of gold. I shall never be as much liked and admired as Dora is—I may as well make up my mind to that—but if God help me by His grace, I too may lead a useful life, and be dear—at least to my mother."

And more and more dear was Agnes becoming to her mother, who watched with the keen eye of affection the struggle made by her eldest daughter against her besetting sins. Mrs. Temple guessed what it cost Agnes to bear a rough joke in silence, to lend pretty things which she feared that the borrower might spoil, to give up her own way, and to show no jealous anger when another was preferred before her.

"My girl's character is becoming stronger and nobler every day," thought Mrs. Temple; "I thank the Lord for my Agnes, for I am sure that it is His grace that is working in her heart. Agnes promises to grow up into a really valuable woman, one whom her mother can trust."

Mrs. Temple could not have said as much for her dearly loved Dora. She was perplexed and pained to feel that something—she knew not what it could be—seemed to have come between her and her bright, clever, and affectionate child. Dora, indeed, gave Mrs. Temple no cause to find fault with her conduct; her lessons were well learned, her temper was good, she was a favourite still with her brother and sisters; and yet her mother felt that there was a change in her Dora for which she could not account.

Mrs. Temple was wont to have little quiet conversations separately with each of her children at night; in these meetings they were able to open their hearts more freely to their mother than they could have done had a third person been present, and she could speak upon religious subjects in the way best suited to the character and age of each. These quiet moments spent alone with mamma had been greatly prized by all the children; but Dora could take pleasure in them no more, and her mother was conscious that such was the case.

The girl generally managed, only too easily, to forget all about her unrepented sin when the remembrance of it was not forced upon her now half-deadened conscience; but when her mother sat by her bedside and softly talked to her about heaven, Dora grew uneasy in spirit. She did not like to be reminded of the holy God whose law she had broken—what pleasure could the knowledge of His truth bring to one who was conscious of unrepented falsehood? The return of Sundays, nay, even the hour for family prayer, were never welcome to Dora. When she repeated texts or hymns, as the rest of the family did, she had the wretched consciousness that she was acting a hypocrite's part, and taking God's name in vain. Dora's life was becoming one long act of deceit. She was secretly ashamed of herself for appearing so much better than she in reality was.

"But my work—my beautiful work—my work for the poor—I'll make up for what I've done wrong by taking extra pains with that!" thought Dora.

And so the poor girl usually succeeded in winning much praise from others, and in deceiving her own sinful heart, only too willing to be thus deceived.

CHAPTER XVI

THE HIGH PRIEST

The young Temples little guessed that while their mother was in her own room, engaged, as they supposed, in reading or writing, or making up her household accounts, she was preparing for them a pleasant surprise. Mrs. Temple was not less with her family than usual; she did not neglect her house affairs, she never forgot either to order the dinner or to pay the butcher and baker, but she stole time for her novel employment from her sleep, and from her favourite amusement of reading library books.

On the day when the model was completed, when the last silver socket had been fastened and the last little curtain hemmed, the children had the pleasure of setting up the Tabernacle in the study, to see how it looked. There was great satisfaction in surveying the finished work; every one felt glad that the long labour was over, and that he had had a share in the work.

"How pleased auntie will be!" cried Elsie.

"And the ragged children, too," joined in Amy.

"And now go out for your walk, my dear ones," said their mother; "the morning is so frosty and bright that you may make your walk a long one; I should not be surprised should you wander as far as Burnley woods. I shall not expect you back for a couple of hours."

"Mother, you will go with us," said Lucius.

"I am particularly engaged this morning," replied Mrs. Temple, as she shook her head with a smile.

Elsie remarked afterwards that it had been "a knowing kind of smile," as if there had been some very particular reason indeed for her mamma's stopping at home.

The reason was clear enough to all the party when they returned from their walk, and with their cheeks rosy from the fresh air and exercise re-entered the study. The children found their mother standing beside the model. Elsie, who was the first to run up to it, gave almost a scream of delight.

"Oh! See—see what mamma has been making! Clever mamma!" she cried, clapping her hands, and jumping for joy.

"What lovely little models!" exclaimed Lucius. "Mother, it is you who have cut us all out."

"You have done what none of us could have done," said Agnes.

"And so quietly too," observed Dora.

"There is nothing wanting now!" cried Amy, putting her arm fondly around the mother who had so kindly entered into the little pleasures of her children.

"I thought that one thing more was wanting," said Mrs. Temple.

The lady seated herself beside the table, and took off the cover of a little pasteboard box which she held in her hand. The children looked on with mingled curiosity and pleasure, as their mother carefully drew out from it a beautiful little figure, about two inches long, exquisitely dressed in miniature garments, representing those which were worn by the high priest of Israel. To imitate these garments in a size so small had taxed the utmost skill of the ingenious and neat-fingered lady.

I need not set down all the exclamations of wonder and pleasure which were uttered by the younger Temples. If their mother's great object had been to gratify her children, that object was certainly attained.

THE TABLE OF SHEWBREAD.

"The dress which I have tried to imitate," said the lady, "is that in which the high priest appeared on solemn occasions. The Day of Atonement was, however, an exception; on that most solemn day in the year, when the high priest ventured into the Holy of holies, he did so in simple garments of pure white linen."

Their mother then showed and explained to her children the different articles of dress on her curious model. The under-tunic, or shirt, of linen, and above it the mantle of sky-blue colour, having at the bottom an ornamental border or fringe.

"This fringe, which, as you see, I have cut out in the form of tiny pomegranates, ought to be interspersed with bells of gold," said Mrs. Temple; "but my fingers could not succeed in making anything so very minute."

"And unless we had looked through a microscope, we could not have distinguished bells no bigger than needles' eyes," observed Lucius.

"And what is this fine uppermost garment, reaching to the knees?" inquired Dora, looking admiringly on the delicate embroidery in gold and colours similar to that which she had herself worked for the Veil, only a great deal finer.

"This is the Ephod," replied Mrs. Temple. "On the front of it I have, as you see, worked in very small beads of various colours an imitation of the high priest's breastplate, which was formed of twelve precious stones."

The minute breastplate excited more attention than any other part of the high priest's dress, and had, perhaps, given the skilful worker more trouble than all the rest. Every one of the little beads was of a different tint. They were closely set together in rows, so as to form a square ornament, and were fastened to the shoulder parts of the Ephod by little threads of gold.

"How very splendid the real breastplate must have been!" exclaimed Dora.

"Had it also some typical meaning?" asked Lucius. "I suppose so," he added, "as everything about the Tabernacle and the high priest seems to have been a type of something greater."

"On each of the precious stones in the splendid breastplate was inscribed the names of one of the twelve tribes of Israel," replied Mrs. Temple. "I believe that the breastplate was worn by the high priest—who was to pray in the Tabernacle for the people, and then to come forward and bless them—as a token that he bore their names on his heart."

"Oh, that is a beautiful meaning!" cried Amy. "Especially when we think," she continued more softly, "that the high priest was a type of our blessed Saviour Himself."

"Who bears all His people's names on His heart," observed Mrs. Temple, "both when He pleads for them in heaven, and when He blesses them upon earth."

"The high priest must have looked very noble and grand in his rich garments," observed Lucius; "and yet it seems too much honour for any mere man to be called a type of the Son of God."

"Ah, my boy! Poor and mean indeed must any earthly type appear when compared to the heavenly Antitype!" exclaimed Mrs. Temple. "That thought came strongly to my mind as I was sewing together these little worthless glass beads to form the model of the glorious breastplate. 'Can these poor little atoms of coloured glass,' I said to myself, 'give any idea of magnificent jewels, sparkling in light, set in gold, and each engraved with a name?' But even so mean, and small, and insignificant was Aaron, in all his splendour, compared to the sacred Being who deigns to call Himself our High Priest, and to make intercession for us above!"

THE HIGH PRIEST.

All the party were silent for several moments, looking down at the little model, and thinking over the words of their mother.

Elsie then pointed to the curious headdress which appeared on the figure. It was not exactly a turban, though it was formed of tight rolls of linen. It had the representation of a plate of gold in front, fastened on to it by a blue thread.

"That headdress is called the high priest's bonnet or mitre," observed Mrs. Temple. "There are rather different opinions regarding its exact shape. It cost me a good deal of thought to contrive it, and here again I felt how impossible it is to give anything like a just idea of the real object in a model so small as this. You see that I have not neglected to put a little gold plate on the front of the mitre; but I had no power to form letters so minute as to represent on it what was engraved on that which the high priest wore. This was 'HOLINESS TO THE LORD.'"

"Then the high priest had the Lord's Name written over his brow," observed Agnes. "It makes one think of the promise in the Bible, that saints in heaven shall have His Name written on their foreheads."

"All will be 'Holiness to the Lord' in that happy place!" observed Amy.

It was pleasanter to Dora to examine the little model before her, and to admire and praise her mother's skill, than to think of what was inscribed on the mitre worn by Aaron and his successors. It is the sad, sad effect of sin concealed in the heart, that it keeps those who indulge it from daring even to "wish" to be holy.

The Tabernacle was now carefully taken down, piece by piece, to be packed in a box, ready to be carried with the rest of their luggage when the family should quit their home for awhile. Every curtain was neatly folded, and all the pillars carefully wrapped up in paper. The figure representing the high priest was gently put back into its own little box, and all the other little objects were packed in cotton, so as to bear without injury a little jolting on the journey before them. With additional pleasure the young Temples now looked forward to the coming Christmas season, and the long expected visit which they were to pay to their Aunt Theodora.

CHAPTER XVII

THE BIRTHDAY GIFTS

It is just two days before Christmas: on the morrow Miss Clare's Ragged School is to have its annual treat. A feast and gifts of warm socks or mittens knitted for each child by the lady's own hands are not to form the only, or perhaps the chief attractions of the treat; the little scholars have been promised a sight of the model Tabernacle, which its young makers are to bring from their country home about ten miles away.

Christmas Eve has been fixed upon by Miss Clare as the time for her Ragged School Fête, because it is the birthday of her twin nieces, the younger of whom is her goddaughter and namesake. The arrival of the Temple family is expected almost every minute, and Miss Clare sits by the window, with the red glow of a December sun upon her, glancing up with a look of pleasant expectation whenever she hears the rattle of wheels along the narrow paved street. You might guess at once by the likeness between them that Miss Clare is the sister of Mrs. Temple, though her figure is a little taller, and her locks a little whiter than those of her widowed sister.

Miss Clare is evidently thinking; she looks a little perplexed and doubtful as she examines the contents of a large old-fashioned ebony box which holds her little treasures. Not treasures of silver or gold; there are but few indeed of such things in the possession of Theodora Clare: her silver spoons have fed the hungry; her gold chain has paid for the benches on which her ragged scholars sit, and her bracelets for the books which they learn from, and the big blackboard on the wall. A good many pairs of stout little shoes have come out of Miss Clare's silver tea-pot! But there is one article of jewellery which she still possesses, and this is to her the most precious of all. It is the likeness of her sister, Mrs. Temple, in a brooch set round with pearls. This was the gift of Mr. Temple on his wedding-day to the bridesmaid, Theodora; it is very beautiful as an ornament, and as a likeness almost perfect. But not even this jewel does the generous aunt intend to keep for herself; it is to be her birthday present on the following day to Dora.

Miss Clare has for years settled in her own mind that her goddaughter should receive the precious brooch on completing the twelfth year of her age; it is no doubt this subject that perplexes her now—for she does look a little perplexed as she searches her old-fashioned box for something which she seems to have some difficulty in finding. She opens this little packet, then that little packet, then silently shakes her head, or murmurs "No, that will not do," as she replaces it in the large box. The reason is that Dora has a twin sister, and that the birthday of the one is also the birthday of the other. Miss Clare does not like to give to Dora without also giving to Agnes, and as her hospitality and her charities leave her very little money for buying presents, she wishes to find some suitable article already in her possession of which to make a birthday remembrance. But what should that article be? Almost everything that would please a young girl had already been given away.

"I have nothing—nothing that can be compared in value or in beauty with the brooch," said Miss Clare to herself, as she locked the box where she had been vainly searching amongst locks of hair neatly wrapped in separate papers, old letters, and little pictures faded and yellow with time. "I hope that Agnes is too sensible a girl to expect that my precious brooch should be given to herself instead of to my namesake, who is to me almost as a daughter: but still Agnes is the elder of the twins; she is, I fear, of rather a jealous temper; her character has not—or had not a year ago—the generosity and sweetness of that of my Dora. I should be grieved to hurt the feelings of either of the dear girls; what can I find that will really please Agnes?"

Miss Clare had really given the subject a good deal of consideration, though apparently to little purpose, when a thought occurred to her mind which brought a smile of satisfaction to her kind pleasant face. She rose from her seat by the window, and went to a table which had in it a drawer hidden by the neat brown cloth that hung over the sides. The lady lifted the cloth, drew open the drawer, and then took from it a flat parcel wrapped in a peculiar kind of yellowish paper, with that scent about it which usually pervades articles which have come from India.

"Here is the delicate little embroidered neck-scarf which was sent to me years ago, and which I have always thought much too fine for my wear," she said, as she opened the parcel. "This will of course be a gift not to be compared to the brooch; but still it is pretty, very pretty. I think that Agnes is sure to admire it."

It was indeed impossible not to admire the exquisite embroidery in gold and colours on the small India-muslin scarf. The natives of India excel in this kind of work, and the little scarf was a gem of beauty for richness of pattern and brightness of hue. Miss Clare's only doubt was whether such an article of dress were not too gay to be given to her young niece.

Miss Clare had little time to think over this matter, for hardly had she put back the pretty piece of embroidery into its paper wrapping, and then replaced it in the drawer, when the rattle of wheels was heard on the stones, and a large carriage, well filled within, and with plenty of luggage without, was driven up to the door.

Well Miss Clare knew the smiling eager faces which crowded the carriage window, and the merry young voices which sounded through the clear cold winter air. She ran hurriedly to meet and welcome the party, and was at the open door, notwithstanding the cold of frosty December, before Mrs. Temple and her five children could manage to get out of the carriage in which they had been too closely packed for comfort, but in which they had been very noisy and merry. All trace of whooping-cough had long since departed, and the sounds which had been heard in the carriage had been only those of talking, laughing, and singing!

CHAPTER XVIII

THE ARRIVAL

"Oh, auntie, here is our great work—our model! Where shall we set it up? Have you a table ready? It is all finished—every loop! Oh, you must see it! You must see it!" Such were the exclamations which burst from the children as Lucius appeared in the hall, laden with the long, flat deal box.

Miss Clare had not yet seen the model, though she had heard a great deal about it, and had given notice to many friends and neighbours of the little exhibition of it, to be held in her house through the following week, for the benefit of her school. She was amused at the eager impatience shown by the youthful workers. Except Agnes, who took the matter more quietly, none of the Temples cared even to warm themselves by the blazing fire after their wintry journey until the Tabernacle model had been unpacked from its box.

"Please, auntie, please don't look at it till it's all set up!" exclaimed Elsie, in a tone of entreaty. "You can talk to mamma, you know, while we are unrolling the little curtains (I did the Turkey-red curtains)—and fastening them up on the gilded pillars by the wee, wee loops which are made of silver thread!"

Miss Clare was quite willing to indulge the humour of her young guests, so that she did not even remain in the room while the Tabernacle was being put up on the table set apart for the purpose. She took her sister, Mrs. Temple, upstairs, and helped her to take off her cloak and furs, and talked over many subjects with her, while the young people below were busily engaged with their model.

It was not until nearly two hours had elapsed, and after the party had all partaken of a dinner of roast beef and plum pudding, that Miss Clare re-entered her own sitting-room to have her first sight of the wonderful work.

For wonderful it was in the eyes of its youthful contrivers, who knew the trouble which it had cost them to finish and fix those numerous pillars and curtains with sockets and loops. The Temples regarded their model as a triumph of art and patience, much as the builder of one of the Pyramids may have regarded his own gigantic work. Miss Clare was expected to look and feel a good deal more astonished than she could in sincerity do; but if she was not astonished, at least she was pleased, and plainly showed that she was.

"It's a pity, auntie, that you can't see more of my Turkey-red curtains; I wish they'd been the top-ones," cried Elsie, lifting up a corner of the merino covering to show her own work beneath.

"These linen curtains round the court of the Tabernacle are neatly, very neatly made," observed Miss Clare; "with so many silver loops, they must have required a great deal of patience in the worker."

Amy coloured with pleasure at the praise; she had not expected her own share of the work to attract much notice. She now silently drew her aunt's attention to the pretty little gilded pillars upon which her curtains were hung.

"But the beauty part—the real beauty part—is the 'broidery, the inner curtains, and the veil!" exclaimed Elsie. "Oh, auntie, you will be astonished at them. Just stoop down and look in—just look in! We've managed to leave the front open, and the veil is half-drawn aside, so that you can see the inner part quite well. No one could see the inner part of the real Tabernacle, you know; but then ours is only a model."

Their aunt stooped, as requested, and looked through the space between the front pillars, not only into the outer Tabernacle, but beyond the veil into what, in the model, represented the Holy of holies. Dora, who had for months been looking forward to this moment, listened eagerly to hear what her darling aunt would say of her work.

Miss Clare, it will be remembered, had that day been examining a lovely specimen of some of the most finished embroidery to be found in any part of the world. Dora's work was clever, regarded as that of a girl not twelve years of age, who had had to contrive her own pattern; but it was, of course, very poor compared to that on the Indian scarf.

"Is it not splendid 'broidery?" persisted Elsie, who wished others to share her own unbounded admiration for the work of her favourite sister.

"It is nice," said Aunt Theodora quietly, "but wants a little more scarlet, I think."

And was this all that could be said of that which had cost Dora hours of thought, and many hours of patient labour—these few words of qualified praise! Dora was bitterly disappointed, far more disappointed than Agnes, whose curtains, whether mohair or merino, seemed to win no notice at all. But there was good reason why Dora should feel pain which Agnes was spared. It was not time and labour only which the younger twin had given to gain success; she had made a sacrifice of conscience, she had forfeited her own self-respect, she had lost the blessing of confidential intercourse with her mother, and all pleasure and comfort in prayer! Dora had given up all this, and for what? To hear the observation, by no means unkindly uttered, "It is nice, but wants a little more scarlet."

If Dora had ever believed that in working her embroidery she had really been labouring for anything higher than earthly pleasure or human praise, the extreme vexation which she now experienced must surely have undeceived her. Why should she care so much for what was said of her performance if her real object was but to please her Heavenly Master? Agnes and Amy, who had worked from motives of duty and love, were safe from any such keen disappointment. They both looked with pleasure on the completed model, in forming which they had taken inferior parts; while Dora had to walk to the window to hide from the eyes of her family the mortification which she felt.

That day was a very happy one to all the members of the Temple family, Dora alone excepted. She felt a kind of dread of the evening conversation which she knew that she would have with her aunt. The eve of her last birthday Dora remembered as, perhaps, the happiest time of her life. Aunt Theodora had come to sit with her, and talk to her of her coming birthday—a new milestone, as she called it, on the pilgrim path towards heaven. Dora had on that evening opened her heart to her godmother aunt, and the two had loved each other more fondly than they had ever loved before, and their parting embrace had been so sweet that Dora had felt that she could never forget it.

Miss Clare was certain to come again this evening into her godchild's room—in this house Dora had a little room to herself—and must the niece act the hypocrite's part to an aunt so loving and true? Must the girl so trusted and loved make a show of openness while concealing a secret from her godmother, which, if confessed, must lower her in the eyes of that tender relative and friend!

Miss Clare did indeed come that night, as Dora had expected that she would come. The girl soon found herself sitting on a stool with her arms resting on her godmother's knee, as they had rested twelve months before; and she heard the same dear voice speaking to her of holy things, as she had heard on that well-remembered night. The room was the same, the furniture, the pictures were all the same, but Dora felt in her own heart a miserable change. Half a dozen times was the poor girl on the point of laying her head on her aunt's knee, and sobbing forth a full confession to relieve her burdened heart. But to own repeated falsehood and long deceit to one herself so truthful, to lose the good opinion of one whose regard she so greatly valued, oh! Dora could not muster up courage sufficient for this!

"And now that you are making a new start in life's journey, my child," such were the godmother's concluding words as she rose to depart, "give yourself anew to the best of Masters, the most tender of Friends. Ask His blessing upon all that you do: without that blessing our best works are but like building on sand, or writing on water—all end in vanity and vexation of spirit. The great lesson taught us by the history of ancient Israel is this: When God's people followed where He led, and did what He commanded, then were their hearts filled with joy; but when the Israelites turned aside to paths of disobedience, sorrow followed close upon sin. The path of obedience is the path of safety and happiness also."

CHAPTER XIX

DISAPPOINTMENT

For on the mantelpiece of the room now occupied by Dora there chanced to stand a glass bottle, corked and labelled; and by the light of her candle Dora had noticed that "SCARLET INK" was printed upon the label. The sight of that little bottle had aroused in the mind of the girl new hopes, and again turned her energies into the channel of work.

"My supply of scarlet silk ran short, and I was not able to get another skein at the shop," thought Dora. "Aunt is quite right, there is not enough of scarlet mixed with the purple and blue; it is that which spoils the effect of my curtains. I wonder that no one noticed that before! But I have a skein of white silk with me, and why should I not dye it myself with that beautiful scarlet ink? This is a capital idea! The school children do not come till the afternoon; I should have time to dye my silk before breakfast, and after breakfast to work enough scarlet into my pattern to give a brilliant effect to all that part which is most easily seen. How pleased Aunt Theodora will be to find that I have taken her hint, and that I grudge no extra trouble to make my work complete! How very lucky it is that she put that ink into my room!"

Dora actually forgot both her prayers and her Scripture reading on that birthday morning in her impatience to get downstairs, and quietly remove her inner veil and curtain from the model, before any other member of the family should enter the room where it was kept. With rough hair, and dress only half-buttoned, Dora noiselessly opened her door, and then crept down the staircase, and into the sitting-room in which the Tabernacle stood, covered from the dust by large sheets of silver paper. There was no one in the room except the housemaid, who was employed in opening the shutters to let in the light of morning.

The model, as we know, was made to be taken to pieces at will; but as Dora's sot of curtains was the innermost of all, it cost her some time and trouble to remove them. She pursued her occupation while the housemaid went on with that of lighting the fire and dusting the room, and was at last able to disengage the whole of the embroidered portion of the drapery of the little Tabernacle. With this Dora returned to her own apartment, and she laid her work on the pretty little table which her aunt had placed for her convenience.

"I must be quick about the dyeing," she said to herself, "for I hear Lucius whistling upstairs in the passage, and little Elsie running about in the room just over my head. The family is now all astir, and in a quarter of an hour the prayer-bell will ring. If I don't dye my silk scarlet at once, I shall be sadly delayed in my work, for I cannot, of course, use it for sewing until it is perfectly dry."

Dora took the bottle of ink down from its place on the mantelpiece, and in a great hurry set about removing the sealing-wax which covered the cork, for the bottle had not yet been opened. It was a tolerably easy matter to break off the edges of the red wax, but Dora did not find it easy at all to pull out the cork, which was low in the narrow neck of the bottle, and happened to be a very tight fit.

"Dear! Dear! How troublesome this is!" she exclaimed, hunting about for her stout pair of nail scissors to help her in forcing out the obstinate cork.

"Good-morning, Dora dear, many happy returns of the day to you!" cried the merry voice of Elsie, as she tapped at the door of her sister's room.

"Thank you, darling, don't come in now; I'll soon be downstairs—I'm not quite ready!" called out Dora, who had just succeeded in finding the scissors.

She heard the little feet patter down the stairs.

"Happy birthday to you, Dora! Mind you're not late, Miss Twelve-years-old!" This time it was the voice of Lucius at the door.

"No, no, I'll not be late; I'll be down in ten minutes!" cried Dora, digging her scissors vigorously into the cork.

The clatter of Lucius's boots showed that he followed little Elsie.

"Oh! This cork, this tiresome cork!" exclaimed Dora. "There, it's out at last."

And setting the opened bottle on the table, she turned round in a great flurry to get from her box the skein of silk which was to be changed from white to scarlet.

"More haste, less speed." Dora was not the first who had proved the truth of that proverb. She whisked round so rapidly that her dress struck the top of the bottle, which she had carelessly set down in a place that was not very safe. The bottle was knocked over, but it fell upon something soft which lay upon the table, so that it was neither broken, nor did it make enough noise in falling to attract Dora's attention. It was not till she had found the skein (which she had some trouble in doing) that on turning back to the table she perceived the mischief caused by her hasty movement.

What a start and exclamation of distress poor Dora gave when she saw on the table her embroidery lying actually under the overturned bottle, and soaked through and through with the scarlet ink, which had flowed in abundance from it!

Dora stood for a moment as if rooted to the spot, scarcely able to believe her own eyes. She then darted forward, caught up the half-emptied bottle in one hand, and the stained, dripping linen in the other. The first glance at the embroidery showed the poor girl that the mischief done was utterly beyond repairing; in one minute, the fruit of all her long toil had been completely destroyed!

"Oh, it is all my own fault—all my own fault—it could not have prospered!" cried out Dora, in a loud tone of anguish, as she put down first the bottle, then the embroidery, and then, hiding her face with her scarlet-stained fingers, she burst into a passion of weeping.

That cry, that weeping, reached the ears of her aunt, who had just approached her door, carrying with her the destined gifts for the twins—the Indian scarf, and the brooch with the miniature set in pearls.

"My darling girl, what is the matter?" exclaimed Miss Clare, opening the door in alarm.

There was no need to repeat the unanswered question; the bottle, the little heap of embroidered linen dripping with scarlet ink, told their own story plainly enough. Miss Clare saw the nature of the accident which had happened, and, with kind sympathy for her niece's great disappointment, folded her affectionately in her arms.

CHAPTER XX

CONFESSION

"IT is vexatious, my Dora, very vexatious," said Miss Clare, in a tone of condolence; "it is trying to you, after all the pains which you have bestowed on your work, to see that work suddenly spoiled. But still take comfort, dear child, in the thought that no labour undertaken for our Master can really be lost."

Dora sobbed more bitterly than before, for she knew that hers had not been labour undertaken for the Master, and she felt that her time and toil had been worse than lost.

Miss Clare did all that she could to comfort her favourite niece. She showed Dora the beautiful brooch which she herself valued so greatly; she told her goddaughter that she had brought it as a birthday remembrance.

But, much to her surprise, Dora only shook her head sadly, and sobbed forth, "Not for me—not for me! Oh, that model, I wish that I never had touched it—I wish that I had never set a stitch in one of those curtains!"

"I see that you are distressed, very naturally distressed, by the mishap which has befallen your curtains, fearing that thereby the whole model may be spoilt," observed her aunt. "You are thinking of the disappointment of your brother and sisters, of the Ragged School children who are coming to-day, of my friends who are invited to see the model. You think that there is no time to repair the effects of the spilling the scarlet ink; but I think that I see a way to remedy the mischief."

And Miss Clare, as she spoke, placed before the weeping girl her beautiful embroidered scarf. "I had intended to give this to Agnes when I gave you the miniature brooch, but I will now alter my plan. I will try to find out, or purchase, some other remembrance for Agnes; and, with a little alteration, do you not think, my sweet girl, that this work will do nicely for the inner curtains and veil?"

"A thousand times better than mine could have done!" exclaimed Dora, darting a glance of almost fierce dislike at the embroidery, now stained and marred, which she had once surveyed with such proud admiration.

"No, indeed," said Miss Clare, very kindly; "for though the Indian scarf may be—certainly is in itself more beautiful than your curtains, we cannot see in it the same token of patient perseverance in making what was intended to be an humble offering of love to the Lord."

"Oh, Aunt Theodora, I can stand this no longer!" exclaimed Dora, almost choking with the violence of her emotion. "You must know all, I can hide it no more; you must hear what a naughty, naughty girl I have been!"

Then, as well as she could through her tears and sobs, Dora relieved herself of the burden of concealment which had become at last intolerable. She told everything to her aunt—the first fault, the breaking of the fourth commandment; then the falsehood, the deceit which had followed, for when did an unrepented sin ever stand alone?

Dora concluded by passionately exclaiming, "You cannot, you must not, give me the brooch—Agnes has deserved it much better; she has been conquering her temper and doing all that she can to please mamma, while I have been only a hypocrite! Please give the brooch to Agnes, and the scarf for the model; I could not bear now to take either—I who have only deserved to be punished!"

Miss Clare was surprised, pained, disappointed by what she now heard; yet there was comfort to her in seeing that now at least her poor niece was heartily repenting.

"I cannot tell you, my child, how thankful I am that this accident has happened to your work, and that you have been led to speak out bravely at last," said her godmother, putting her arm round Dora, and drawing her tenderly towards her, so that the poor girl could weep on her bosom.

"Then you don't despise me—you won't give me up?" murmured Dora, crying still, but much more softly.

"Give you up—never!" cried her aunt, and she pressed a kiss upon Dora's brow. "It may be a question, indeed, whether I had not better reserve the brooch till next birthday."

"Oh, I never could take it, never!" cried Dora. "Let it be given to Agnes."

"Do you think, Dora, that by giving up the brooch you are winning a claim to forgiveness—that by this sacrifice you are atoning for what you have done wrong?" asked Miss Clare. "If so, I am bound to tell you that you are mistaken."

"No, aunt," replied Dora, for the first time raising her eyes, heavy with weeping, and looking her godmother full in the face; "I know that nothing that I can do can atone for my sin—that there is but one Atonement; but I feel as if I could not take the brooch which you meant to give to a good girl, and which I have so little—" Dora could not finish the sentence, tears came again, and she hid her face on the bosom of her aunt.

Miss Clare hesitated no longer. She felt that it would deeply impress on Dora's mind the painful lesson which she was learning if she saw the brooch in the possession of her older twin. What Miss Clare had heard from Mrs. Temple of the marked improvement in the character of Agnes convinced her that she was the sister who best deserved to receive the miniature of her mother. Miss Clare made a sacrifice of her own inclination in thus deciding to follow her judgment, but she was in the habit of doing what she thought right, instead of what she thought pleasant.

"I will confess all to mamma, now, just as I have done to you—I won't be a hypocrite any longer," murmured Dora, as soon as she recovered the power to speak.

"And there is Another to whom my child must also confess," said Miss Clare, still with her arm round her niece, still with Dora's head on her breast; "there is One who is ready freely to forgive every penitent who approaches the Mercy-seat pleading the merits of Christ. We have no power to remove one spot from our souls—" the eyes of Miss Clare chanced to rest, as she spoke, on the embroidery, stained and destroyed—"but there is the Lord's promise to comfort the broken and contrite heart,—

   "'...though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red as crimson, they shall be as wool.'"

Dora and her godmother knelt down together, and together prayed, but in silence. When they rose from their knees, though Dora was still very sad and subdued, there was a peace in her heart, and a sense of sin forgiven, which she had not experienced for months.

CHAPTER XXI

CONCLUSION