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

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

On the Mountain.—Frontispiece.

"I am going to have more than that,
now I am about it," said Sarah.

ON THE MOUNTAIN;

OR,

LOST AND FOUND.

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," ETC.

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PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

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NEW YORK: NO. 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.

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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by the

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

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

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

CONTENTS.

——————

CHAPTER I.

FANNY

CHAPTER II.

SARAH

CHAPTER III.

CONSEQUENCES

CHAPTER IV.

THE STUMBLING BLOCK

CHAPTER V.

DANGER

CHAPTER VI.

AT MEETING

CHAPTER VII.

THE OFFENCE GIVEN

CHAPTER VIII.

SARAH'S PLANS

CHAPTER IX.

THE LOST CHILD

CHAPTER X.

ON THE MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER XI.

THE SEARCH

CHAPTER XII.

REPENTANCE

ON THE MOUNTAIN.

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CHAPTER I.

FANNY.

"GRANDMA, who was that old lady you were talking with, in the porch after church?"

"I don't know," replied Mrs. Lilly, rather absently, for she was thinking of the sermon she had heard, and had to come a long way back, as it were, to answer Fanny's question. "It was old Mrs. Merrill, I suppose. Oney, we must send her down something this week—some flour and butter and a good piece of pork or a chicken."

"I don't mean 'her'," said Fanny, in a tone of great contempt. "As if I cared for that old beggar woman with her poke bonnet as old as the hills!"

"If you don't care for her, you might," said Mrs. Lilly, in a tone of some displeasure. "Mrs. Merrill never begged in her life, and she is a good Christian woman, though she is old and poor. I desire that you will never let me hear you speak in that way of any old person again."

Fanny flounced in her seat and stuck out her lips, but she was too desirous of having her questions answered to sulk as she sometimes did.

"But I don't mean Mrs. Merrill, grandmother: I know her very well. I mean that old lady with white hair put up in rolls at the sides and a large thin black shawl."

"Oh! That was Mrs. Cassell."

"What! Mrs. Cassell, who lives up in the great house on the hill? Well, I never should have guessed that."

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Lilly.

"Oh, because she was dressed so plainly and she seemed so familiar with everybody. I thought Mrs. Cassell was very rich and aristocratic and all that."

"She 'is' very rich—richer than anybody about here, but I don't know about the aristocracy. She is a very good, kind, charitable woman, and everybody likes and respects her."

"Then I suppose the lady and gentleman with her were Mr. and Mrs. Hugh Brandon?" continued Fanny, paying little attention to her grandmother's remarks. "I don't think he looks so very different from other people, if he has written books."

"How did you expect him to look?" asked Oney, laughing. "Did you expect to see him with wings?"

"They say he is very dissipated," continued Fanny. "They say he drank and gambled so and treated his wife so badly that his mother sent for her home. But she would not come without her husband, so the old lady had to take them both, and now he doesn't do anything but lie about and smoke and chew opium all day long."

"What nonsense!" said Mrs. Lilly, in a tone of great displeasure. "Mr. Brandon is, and always has been, a very studious, industrious, religious young man. I have known him all his life. Who has been telling you such a heap of slanders?"

"I guess I know," said Oney, as Fanny did not answer. "That sounds a good deal like one of Mrs. Leyman's stories. I guess Sarah told you."

"Well, I don't care if she did. Mrs. Leyman heard it from Miss Clark, who does Mrs. Brandon's washing sometimes, and Mrs. Cassell's too; so I guess she knows all about them."

"A good reason for telling stories about them, because she works for them!" said Oney. "Miss Clark had better look at home. Her own character is none too good, for that matter."

"Let me never hear another such word from you, Fanny," said Mrs. Lilly. "I have forbidden you playing with Sarah Leyman before now, and I tell you again not to have anything to do with her. If I find you disobeying me again, I shall punish you."

Fanny looked very angry, but she had learned by this time that her grandmother was not a person to be trifled with, so she relapsed into a sulky silence, and did not open her lips again till they reached home. Then she went up stairs and shut herself into her own room. And when she was called to dinner, she answered that she did not want any. If Fanny had been at home, her mother would have been very much distressed by her refusal to eat. She would have come up stairs and tried to coax her by promising all sorts of good things. And when Fanny had made fuss enough, she would have given up and eaten her dinner with a good appetite. No such thing happened on this occasion.

"You had better come down and get your dinner, I guess," said Oney. "You will be hungry before tea-time."

"I won't," returned Fanny, without turning round from the window. "I wish you would go away and shut the door."

Oney did as she was desired. And no sooner had she gone down stairs than Fanny stole to the head of them to listen.

"She says she doesn't want any dinner," she heard Oney say.

"Oh, very well, we will have ours," answered Mrs. Lilly. "You made a chicken pie, didn't you?"

"Yes, and some raspberry pies and gingerbread. Hadn't I better carry Fanny something?"

"No," replied her grandmother, decidedly; "let her come down if she wants her dinner. However, I will give her another call." And she opened the door so quickly that Fanny had no time to get away.

"You had better come down to your dinner, Fanny," said she. "You know we shall have tea quite late on account of going to the five-o'clock meeting."

"I don't want any dinner," said Fanny, sulkily.

"Are you sick?"

"No, but I don't want any dinner," replied Fanny, thinking that her grandmother was going to give way and coax her, as her mother would have done.

"Very well," said Mrs. Lilly. And she shut the door without another word.

Fanny could hear the rattle of the knives and forks, and the conversation between her grandmother and Oney about the sermon and the Sunday-schools. It was clear that they were not going to send her anything, and that nobody would suffer from her perversity but herself. But still she could not make up her mind to sacrifice her pride and come down stairs. She was very hungry, and very fond both of chicken and raspberry pie, but nobody came to bring her any.

She thought she would try another line of conduct, and she burst out crying and cried as loud as she could. She cried till she was tired, but nobody came near her. For the truth was Mrs. Lilly had grown weary of Fanny's airs, and had made up her mind that the girl must, as she said, be broken in.

Finding that crying did no more good than sulking, Fanny presently stopped. For as she had cried only to get her own way, she could stop whenever she pleased. She went to the head of the stairs and listened. She could hear Oney wiping up the dishes and singing—

"Awake, my soul, to joyful lays!"

And she could hear the gentle "creak, creak," of her grandmother's rocking-chair, in which the old lady was apt to take a nap after dinner. Everything else was quiet about the house, and out of doors too, for that matter, except the chirping of the birds, the soft sighing of the wind, saying "hush, hush," in the two great pine trees behind the house, and now and then a low or bleat from the pastures. She looked out of the window.

"Oh dear, how lonesome it is here!" she said to herself. "If I ever get back to the city again, I shall know when I am well off. There! It is only two o'clock," as the distant sound of the church clock came from the village. "Only two o'clock, and we shall not have tea till seven, I know. We never do on Sunday nights, because grandma and Oney always go to that stupid meeting at the schoolhouse. Oh dear, how hungry I am! I shall starve if I don't have something before tea-time. I mean to go down and ask grandma for something to eat. No, I believe I will ask Oney first."

Fanny went down to the kitchen, where she found everything in order and Oney sitting by the shady window reading her Bible. Oney hardly ever read any book but her Bible on Sunday, because she said she did not have time to read all she wanted of it any other day.

"Oney, I want something to eat," said Fanny, decidedly. "Get me some raspberry pie and gingerbread and a drink of milk directly."

"That isn't the way to ask for it," said Oney, quietly. "Besides, if you want anything to eat, you must ask your grandma."

"Nonsense!" answered Fanny, loftily. "Get me something to eat this minute, Oney, or you will be sorry."

"Maybe so," said Oney. But she did not stir.

Seeing that commanding did no good, Fanny tried coaxing.

"Come, Oney, do give me something to eat, and I will give you a real nice present."

"You must ask your grandma, Fanny," was Oney's only reply.

"What is the matter?" asked Mrs. Lilly, coming into the kitchen. "What are you crying for now, Fanny?" For Fanny was crying again louder than ever.

"I want my dinner!" said Fanny, passionately. "I didn't come here to be starved, and I won't stand it. Give me my dinner, I say!"

"You will not get it in that way," said Mrs. Lilly.

Fanny screamed louder than ever.

"Fanny, stop this minute!" said Mrs. Lilly, taking hold of Fanny's arm in a way quite new to her. "Are you not ashamed of yourself?—A great girl, fourteen years old! Do you think I am going to have my Sunday broken up and the whole house disturbed for you? Stop this minute!"

Fanny obeyed, for she was frightened.

"Now, say 'Please, Oney, get me something to eat.'"

"Please get me something to eat," repeated Fanny, meekly.

"Get her a bowl of bread and milk, Oney," said Mrs. Lilly.

"I don't want bread and milk; I want some pie," sobbed Fanny.

"You cannot have any pie, and if you say any more, you will not have any bread and milk," said her grandmother. "When you have eaten it, go back to your room, and let me hear no more noise. You have made yourself ridiculous enough for one day."

Fanny ate her bread and milk and went back to her room, feeling very crest-fallen indeed. Never in all her short life had she suffered such a "taking down." She had been for twelve years the only child at home. Her father was away at his business from morning till night, and her mother never restrained Fanny in the least.

Mrs. Lilly, the younger, had some new-fashioned theories on the bringing up of children. She thought they should never be punished, for fear of making them slaves, nor restrained from saying all they pleased, lest they should become sly, nor checked in eating, drinking, or play, for fear they should think too much of these things, nor taught anything they did not wish to learn, lest their brains should be overtaxed, or they should take a dislike to learning. She had practiced all these theories on Fanny, and had not found much trouble so long as the child stayed in the nursery.

But when Fanny was twelve years old, she had a little brother born, and by and by a little sister, so that she found herself a person of much less consequence than she had ever been before. The faults which had seemed to her mother of little or no consequence when she was alone were now found very inconvenient and disagreeable. It was not at all pleasant to have Fanny saying before company whatever came into her head, and interrupting and contradicting her elders without scruple, or screaming and throwing herself down on the ground in the public street so that the policeman came to see what the matter was, or running away from school to play about the street and spend in sweet things the money she had taken from her mother's purse. In short, Fanny was found to be a very naughty, troublesome little girl. And when her mother's health failed and it was decided that she must travel in Europe, the nurse told the doctor that there would be no use in Mrs. Lilly's going abroad unless Fanny stayed at home.

"She will keep her mother in a constant worry about her from morning till night, and she will be in mischief from the time she goes away till the time she comes home again. I would not have the charge of her on shipboard for a thousand dollars, and if she is going, I am not. She is more trouble than the babies ten times over."

"I believe you are right," said the doctor, who knew Fanny well. "But what can be done with the child?"

"If her grandmother could take her, it would be the very best thing that would happen to Fanny," said the nurse. "Mrs. Lilly is an excellent, sensible woman. She would be kind to Fanny, and bring her into order if anybody can. I don't blame the child so much as I do some other folks, but she is just as hard to manage as if it were all her own fault."

"I will talk to Mr. Lilly about the matter," said the doctor. "I think you are right, nurse. It will never do for Fanny to go with her mother. And if the old lady is willing, she is just the person to take charge of the child."

There was a terrible scene with Fanny when she found that she was to go to her grandmother's in the country instead of going abroad with her father and mother. But her father was firm, and for once her mother did not interfere. There was no help for it. Go she must, and she comforted herself by thinking that at least she should do as she pleased at her grandmother's, and be a very great lady indeed.

But here, too, she found herself disappointed. Mrs. Lilly was very kind to Fanny and very forbearing with her, remembering how much she had been indulged at home. But she very soon saw that it would be necessary to assert her own authority and make Fanny submit. She was sorry that the contest should come on a Sunday, but there seemed no help for it. And she hoped that Fanny would herself see the folly as well as the naughtiness of her conduct, and try to do better.

Mrs. Lilly was quite an old lady. She lived by herself in the old red farm-house which stood in the very middle of her large farm, with no company but Oney, the Indian woman whom she had brought up from a baby, and a little boy whom she had taken from the poorhouse. The man who helped manage her farm and took a part of it on shares lived in a little house down on the roadside just by the gate of the lane that led to the farm-house. Mrs. Lilly's house was a long, low, red wooden building, and from the door one could see for a long distance, for the farm lay high up on the side of the mountain. The house was very plain and not specially convenient, but it was cool in summer and warm in winter. It had abundance of closets and store-rooms, and from all the windows up stairs and down there was something pleasant to be seen.

When the slate quarry was discovered and leased for so much money, many people thought that Mrs. Lilly would build a new house or come down and live in the village, but the old lady did neither. When her friends asked her about it, she said the old house would last her time; that she had come thither as a bride more than fifty years before and had lived there ever since, and that no other place would seem like home to her. When people talked to her son, he said he should like very much to have his mother live with him (which was quite true), but the old lady had her own fancies, and he thought it best to let her have her own way, which was a very good thing, as she would undoubtedly have had it at any rate. Both Mr. and Mrs. Lilly were very loving and dutiful to their mother, and wrote to her every week. Her son sent her plenty of books and papers, and fine tea and coffee such as he knew she liked, and her daughter made her pretty caps and shawls, and sent her rare green-house plants, and everybody was contented all round.

But Fanny was not satisfied at all in her new home. In the first place, she was really lonely. She missed her school and the bustle of the streets, and she was rather afraid of the solitude and of the great dark mountain which rose so close and steep behind the house. Then, so far from being considered a young lady, she was treated only as a little girl, and made to behave better than she had ever done in her life.

Then, too, her grandmother was surprised and distressed at the child's ignorance. For Fanny, though she had been to a very expensive and fashionable school, was not as far advanced at fourteen as she ought to have been at nine. She could not say the multiplication table, and knew next to nothing of English grammar, though she had begun French and Latin. And when her grandmother told her that the world was round, and showed her by means of a ball of yarn and a knitting needle how it turned on its axis, Fanny was perfectly astonished and could hardly believe it.

"Didn't you learn that in school, Fanny?" asked Oney.

"There was something about it in the geography book," said Fanny, "but I never understood it. I thought the world was shaped just like the map."

Still, Fanny was not unhappy. She liked the fresh air and the green fields, she was very kindly treated, and she found even a certain pleasure in being governed. She might have had a very nice time, if she would have been a good girl and minded her grandmother. But this was just what she could not make up her mind to do.

CHAPTER II.

SARAH.

FANNY went back to her room feeling very much vexed and a good deal ashamed. She did not at all like to be conquered, and she had certainly had very much the worst of it in her contest with her grandmother. She had not only failed in getting her own way, but she had made herself ridiculous. Then, too, she had lost a very good dinner, a circumstance to which she was by no means indifferent.

"How I wish I had just gone down at first!" she thought. "But then who would have supposed she would take one up so? Oh dear, I wish I had never come here. It is all the fault of that hateful old nurse and doctor. I know mamma would have taken me only for them, and I should be having a nice time in London this very day, instead of being poked up in this lonesome place with nobody to play with but Sarah Leyman. And now grandma says I must not go with her. But I don't care, I 'will' play with her. Mamma always let me play with anybody I pleased, and I guess she knows. I am not going to be made a slave of just because my mother is sick—so there!"

"Fanny," called Mrs. Lilly from the foot of the stairs, "do you want to go to the meeting to-night?"

Now Fanny liked very well to go to the meetings in the schoolhouse, though she had called them stupid. The walk was a very pleasant one through the woods and along the banks of the beautiful little river. They were sure to see squirrels and chipmucks and perhaps a wild rabbit, and the lambs in the pastures were so full of their pretty plays that Fanny was never tired watching them. Then the old ladies who came to the meeting took a great deal of notice of her, so that though she did not care for the services, she rather liked to go to the Sunday and Thursday meetings. But to-night she was just in the humour to "quarrel with her bread and butter," as Oney said. So when her grandmother asked her, she answered shortly that she did not want to go.

"You will be left alone in the house," said her grandmother.

"I would just as soon be alone as not," returned Fanny.

"To be sure, there is nothing to hurt you," said her grandmother, "but I thought you might be afraid. However, you can do just as you please."

"I mean to do as I please, thank you," said Fanny, under her breath.

Mrs. Lilly, seeing that Fanny was still out of humour, said no more, but shut the door, and presently went out with Oney. Fanny watched them across the fields. And when they were quite out of sight, she went down stairs into the pantry.

"I don't care; I mean to have some of that raspberry pie, anyhow," said she.

But in vain did she search; she could find neither pie nor cake.

Mrs. Lilly was not in the habit of locking up such things, but she had reason to think that Fanny helped herself slyly to a good deal more than was good for her, and she had taken the precaution before she went out to lock the door of the milkroom.

Fanny stamped her foot with vexation.

"Just like her, the stingy old thing! I don't care; I will have some in spite of her."

"Some of what?" asked a voice behind her.

Fanny started violently, and turned round in a hurry to see Sarah Leyman standing in the kitchen door.

"How you frightened me!" exclaimed Fanny, in an angry tone.

"Yes, you jumped as if you had been shot," returned Sarah, laughing. "I saw your folks going to meeting, and I knew you would be alone. But what is the matter? What have you been crying about?"

Fanny poured out the story of her wrongs with many exaggerations.

"What a shame!" said Sarah. "Folks think Mrs. Lilly is such a good woman, too!"

"Well, I suppose she is," said Fanny, "but I think she is too bad to treat me so. I know there are plenty of nice things in the milkroom, but the door is locked and I can't find the key anywhere."

"Isn't there any other key that will fit the door?" asked Sarah.

Fanny brought all the keys of the house, but none of them fitted.

"Can't we climb in at the window?" asked Sarah. "'I' can, I know."

"You can't, bemuse there are bars across it."

"Bother!" Sarah stood considering for a minute, and then, as if struck with a sudden thought, she ran out at the kitchen door.

Fanny followed her, and found her standing at the side of the milkroom. This room was a "lean-to" built on the north side of the house, and two or three of the clapboards were so arranged as to turn edgewise like window-blinds to let the cool air in on the milk. Sarah was peeping through these boards.

"Just look there!" said she as Fanny came up.

Fanny peeped in, in her turn, and saw a whole raspberry pie standing on the broad shelf.

While she was looking, Sarah slipped off the jacket she wore, and thrusting her bare arm through the slats, she pulled out the pie and held it up in triumph.

"Well, I declare!" said Fanny, half pleased and half scared.

"I am going to have more than that, now I am about it," said Sarah.

And again putting her hand through the slats, she pulled out a large cake of gingerbread. As she drew back her hand, however, she hit the gingerbread against the edge of the slat and broke off a bit, which fell into the milk.

"That was smart!" exclaimed Fanny. "What will you do now?"

"Let it alone, to be sure," replied Sarah. "But grandma will find it when she skims the milk."

"Well, let her. She won't know how it came there, will she? Here, hold the things while I put on my jacket."

Fanny did not quite relish Sarah's tone of command, but she did not know how to object, and she did as she was told.

"Come now!" said Sarah, when she had put on her jacket and closed up the slats again. "Let's go up to the spring and have a good time."

"But suppose grandma comes and catches us before we get through; what shall we do then?" asked Fanny.

"She won't come home this hour and more, goosey. Meeting is not out till six, and it is only five now. Besides, she always stops to talk to every one. Come along!"

"I wish you would not call me names, Sarah Leyman," said Fanny, angrily. "I am not used to it."

"Nonsense, child! Who minds being called a goose? Come along, and don't waste all the time."

"I won't go up to the spring; it is too far," said Fanny. "You can go if you like, and I will eat my piece here."

"'Your' piece!" returned Sarah, in a taunting tone. "Your piece, indeed! I should like to know how it comes to be yours. Do you think I am going to steal pies and cakes for 'you'?"

"Sarah Leyman, if you don't give me a piece of pie this minute, I will tell grandma the instant she comes home."

"Oh, you will? And tell her too how you told me where all the things were, and how you got all the keys to try the door, and how you ran away and went down to the village the other day, and then said you had been playing down by the brook all the time. Oh," said Sarah, "you will make a fine figure telling of me. Suppose I tell of you; what then?"

Fanny burst into tears.

"Oh, come, don't cry," said Sarah, changing her tone. "I was only in fun—only you see, Fanny, I don't like to hear you talk of telling of me as if I had been the only one to blame. Come, let us go up to the spring and have a nice time, and I will tell you what I heard Miss Clarke tell mother about the Brandons."

Fanny did not feel at all satisfied, but she dried her tears and followed Sarah through the garden and a small field beyond it, and then a little way up the path which ascended the mountain, till they came to the spring.

It was a beautiful place. Just at the foot of a high, steep ledge of rocks was a little mossy dell shaded by great pine and spruce trees, mixed with graceful white-stemmed birches. The ground was covered with moss and ferns, and scattered over its surface lay several large rocks covered with lovely green and brown mosses. The spring came running out of the very heart of the mountain, as it seemed, about four feet from the ground, in a stream as large as a man's wrist. And making a pretty little cascade as it fell down the stones, it slipped away among the roots of the great trees to join the river below. Almost all day long this little glen was in shadow, but as the sun got low in the sky, it shone in and lighted everything beautifully.

The girls sat down on a stone side by side, and Sarah divided the pie with a knife which she took out of her pocket.

"Take care! Don't drop the juice on your dress," said she. "Here, wait till I make you a dish."

"How will you make a dish?" asked Fanny.

"You'll see," said Sarah.

And going to the nearest birch tree, she cut round the bark and peeled it off in a broad sheet. Then turning up the edges, she made of it a very nice square dish and handed it to Fanny.

"How pretty!" exclaimed Fanny. "But won't it hurt the tree to take the bark off so?"

"Oh no; it won't hurt the tree so long as you don't cut down through the soft wood," replied Sarah. "I have heard Aunt Sally say that when the country was new the school children used to learn to write on birch bark."

"How funny! Won't any other bark do as well?"

"No; other trees won't peel as the birch does."

"How much you do know about such things!" remarked Fanny.

"Well, I ought to know. I don't know anything else." There was a bitterness in Sarah's tone which made Fanny look up in surprise.

"It does make me mad," continued Sarah, "to see how other girls can go to school and have books at home, and all—such fools as some of them are too—and I never have a chance. It is too bad!"

"But you might go to school," said Fanny.

"Yes, I look like it, don't I?" returned Sarah, scornfully. "My clothes are so nice! I think I see myself going down to the Union school among all the young ladies, and being put into the baby-room to spell along with the little ones. I did use to go sometimes when we had the old district school up at the Corners, but it is altogether another thing now."

Fanny did not know what to say to this, so she was silent, and went on eating her pie.

"I tell you what," said Sarah: "if I had your chance, Fanny Lilly, I wouldn't be such a dunce as you are."

"What do you mean?" asked Fanny, surprised.

"I mean just what I say. Here you have been to school all your life and had good people to bring you up, and you have had, I dare say, hundreds of dollars spent on your schooling already, and what do you amount to? I don't see that you know much more than I do, and you are just as ready to get into any sort of mischief as I am. I suppose your folks are pious and believe in the Bible, and you have been to Sunday-school all your life and learned the commandments, and everything, haven't you?"

"Of course," replied Fanny; "I began to go to the infant school before I can remember, and I could say all the catechism before I went into the intermediate room. We have such splendid Sunday-school rooms at our church in Boston—larger than the church is here, with a gallery all round it for the Bible classes, and the walls all hung with pictures, and with painted texts and with cushioned seats that turn like those in the cars." And Fanny went on describing the beauties and glories of her Sunday-school room, and, I am sorry to say, stretching the truth a good deal in order to show Sarah how much superior was everything in Boston to everything anywhere else.

Sarah listened silently, but with evident interest. And when Fanny had concluded, she said, simply,—

"And after all that, you are not one bit better than I am."

Fanny was very much "taken aback." She had not expected any such answer.

"It just shows what all that stuff is worth," continued Sarah, breaking the gingerbread in two and giving Fanny half. "After all that teaching and preaching and reading the Bible and praying, here you are 'breaking the Sabbath,' as old Mrs. Crane says, running away to eat stolen goods on Sunday evening when your grandmother is at meeting. It just shows that you don't believe one word of it, any more than pa does, for all your talk. I wonder if anybody does?"

"Does what?" asked Fanny.

"Believe really in the Bible and all the minister preaches."

"Of course," said Fanny. "My father and mother do, and so do I."

"Oh, you do! Then, what are you here for?"

Fanny had no answer ready. She had never regarded the matter in that way before.

"Well, never mind," said Sarah. "Here we are, and the pie is eaten up, and there is no help for it now. I wonder how they are getting on at the schoolhouse? I think I can hear Deacon Crane starting the tune this minute."

And Sarah began to imitate first the deacon's way of singing, and then stammering Mr. Wilson trying to make a prayer, and so on, till she had Fanny in a fit of laughter, though something told her all the time that Sarah was doing wrong, and that she was equally wrong to laugh at her.

"It is getting late, Fanny," said Sarah, checking herself suddenly. "Hadn't you better be going home? Your folks will be back from meeting by this time. Look at the sun."

Fanny looked, and was startled to see how low it was in the sky. "They must have been home ever so long," said she. "What shall we do?"

"Oh, you needn't say 'we,'" returned Sarah, coolly. "It is nothing to me. I've had my supper, and I mean to stay up here till the moon rises, but I think you had better run along."

"But grandma will see me," said Fanny. "She will have missed me by this time, and what shall I say?"

"Say you got tired of staying alone and went out for a walk, and that you didn't know how late it was," returned Sarah, readily. "She won't think anything of that. I have known her walk up here herself on a Sunday evening."

"But what shall we do with the plate?"

"Hide it here," returned Sarah, putting the plate away in a kind of little cavern under the rock on which they had been sitting. "There it is safe enough, and we can have it to use again some time."

"But what shall I say when they miss the pie?"

"What you please," returned Sarah. "I guess you are as well able to make up lies as I am to make them for you. Oh, you needn't look at me! Didn't you tell me how you ran away from school at Boston, and all the rest of it? Come, do run along! You won't make it any better by waiting."

There was no help for it, and Fanny went on her way, wishing a hundred times that she had stayed quietly at home. As she entered the garden, she met Oney coming to look for her.

"Why, Fanny, where have you been?" asked Oney.

"I got tired of staying at home and went out for a walk," replied Fanny. "I didn't know it was so late. How long have you been at home?"

"About half an hour. But come, supper is almost ready."

Mrs. Lilly was standing at the back door when they came in.

Fanny repeated her story, adding, "I am sorry I stayed so long, grandma. I never thought how late it was till I looked at the sun, and then I hurried home as fast as I could. There was no harm in my going far a walk, was there?"

Fanny spoke in such a natural tone that Mrs. Lilly was quite deceived.

"Why, no, perhaps not, though you should not have left the house all open. And besides, you know I like to know where you are. There is no harm done, but I would rather you would not do so again."

"I won't," said Fanny, feeling a little self-reproach at the kind tone in which her grandmother spoke. "And, grandma, I am sorry I was so naughty this noon, but I will never do so again if you will forgive me this time."

Mrs. Lilly was pleased that Fanny should thus confess her fault and ask pardon of her own accord.

"I am sure I forgive you, my dear," said she, kissing Fanny. "I thought you would think better of it. Go, now, and get ready for supper."

"Oh dear! I wish I hadn't done so!" said Fanny as she went up stairs. "I wish I was good like grandma. I believe she is good, for all Sarah says. Anyhow, it was all Sarah's fault. She made me do it."

CHAPTER III.

CONSEQUENCES.

FANNY had only just come down stairs after washing her hands when Oney came out of the milkroom with a very disturbed face.

"Did you see anybody about before you went away, Fanny?" she asked.

"No. Why?"

"Because somebody has been here, and some not very honest body, either," answered Oney. "The pie I set on the milk-shelf is gone, plate and all, and a card of gingerbread beside."

"That is queer," said Mrs. Lilly; "nobody could get into the milkroom, because I had the key in my pocket all the time. I think you must be mistaken, Oney. How many pies did you bake?"

"Only two; one we had for dinner and the other I set on the milk-shelf before I went out."

"But nobody could have taken it, Oney, because the door was locked and no one could get in without the key," argued Mrs. Lilly. "Are you sure you baked two pies?"

"Now, Mrs. Lilly, don't you think I know?" asked Oney, who did not quite like being called in question. "Didn't you say yourself that the pie on the grate was rather overdone, and that I had better heat the brick oven next time?"

"Very true; so I did," replied Mrs. Lilly. "Let me take a look."

She went into the milkroom, and Oney and Fanny followed her, Fanny thinking it would look odd if she stayed behind.

"The pie stood just here," said Oney, marking the place, "and the gingerbread here. I meant to set them up in the cupboard, but I forgot it. And it is so odd that nothing else is gone. The loaf of cake is not touched nor any of the cheeses."

"The pie and gingerbread were taken from the outside," said Mrs. Lilly, who had been using her eyes while Oney was talking. "Don't you see the crumbs here on the shelf, and the juice of the pie spilled on the edge of the slat? Somebody has turned the slats and put his hand through, and that accounts for nothing else being taken. See, here is a piece of gingerbread in the milk."

"How sorry I am I went away!" said Fanny, speaking quite naturally, for, I regret to say, she was no novice in the art of telling lies.

"Why, yes, it is a pity, though I don't know exactly what good you would have done," said Mrs. Lilly.

"Probably if the thief had seen anybody about, he would not have touched the things," said Oney. "The wonder is that, seeing the doors all open, he did not enter the house."

"Perhaps that was the very thing that kept him out," remarked Fanny. "He might think that nobody would leave the house in that way. But, grandma, I am sure I shut the door, and I will tell you how I know: because I came back and opened it again to let the cat go in to her kittens."

"I noticed the open door the minute we came in sight of the house," said Oney. "Who could it have been? Do you suppose Willy could have meddled with them?"

"Dear me, no! I hope not," said Mrs. Lilly, looking startled. "Willy has been such a good boy lately, I should be sorry to think of his going back to his old tricks."

"Besides, he has been away all day," remarked Fanny.

"He was down at the barn when we came home, for I heard him singing," said Oney. "Here he comes now. Willy, have you been here before to-day?"

Oney tried to speak just as usual, but of course she did not quite succeed.

Willy was conscious of something peculiar in her manner, and blushed up to the roots of his hair. "Yes, I came up to get the milk-pails, but the door was locked," said he. "Why?"

"Some things have been taken from the milkroom—a pie and some gingerbread," said Mrs. Lilly, adding, kindly, "but you need not look so distressed. Nobody suspects you."

But Oney was not quite satisfied. The truth was that she had begun with a little prejudice against Willy because Mrs. Lilly had taken him from the poorhouse, and besides that, on his first coming to live at the farm, Willy had now and then been caught helping himself to sugar and cake, and such matters.

"How long have you been back from the village, Willy?" she asked.

"I don't know; I should think about an hour," replied Willy.

"And what have you been doing all that time?"

"I drove up the cows, and then I came to get the pails, but the door was locked. So I went down to the barn and did up my other chores."

"Then you didn't come into the house at all, except to get the pails?"

"Why, yes, I went up to my room to change my clothes and put away my books."

"And you didn't see anybody about?"

"No, of course not. I didn't go round any, only right up stairs and down again," said Willy, colouring more deeply than before. "Yes, I know what you think, Oney. You think I got the things, but you are mistaken; I never touched them. Come now, Oney," he added, in a quieter tone and smiling; "it isn't fair to put everything on me because my father wasn't very respectable. You wouldn't like to have me accuse you of killing Deacon Crane's sheep because your father and grandfather used to take scalps, would you?"

Oney laughed: "That's so, Willy; I don't believe you had anything to do with the theft. But the question is, who had?"

"Well, we won't talk about it any more, or let it spoil our Sunday," said Mrs. Lilly. "Come, Oney, let us have our supper, for I am sure we are all ready for it, especially the children. Wash your hands and face, Willy, and we will sit down."

When Fanny had first come to the farm, her dignity had been very much hurt by thus sitting down with Oney and Willy at the same table. She had spoken to her grandmother about it, but Mrs. Lilly only smiled, and said it had always been her habit ever since she kept house, and she thought Fanny would have to get used to it.

"But I am not used to it," said Fanny, loftily, "and I don't think my father would like it at all. He is one of the richest men in Boston, and my mother belongs to one of the very first families."

"Don't be a goose, child. Your father and Oney were brought up together, and as for your mother, she knew all my ways before she sent you here. And when she comes to visit me, she always conforms to them, whereby she shows her real good breeding. What is good enough for her is good enough for you."

That was all the satisfaction Fanny could get from her grandmother. She consoled herself with thinking that, after all, Oney was not a common servant, and that none of her fine friends need know anything about the matter.

After tea was over, Mrs. Lilly sat down in the door to enjoy the beautiful summer evening. Fanny sat on the step at her feet, and by and by Willy came and joined them.

"How do you like your new teacher, Willy?" asked Mrs. Lilly.

"Oh, ever so much," replied Willy, warmly. "Only think! He has been to Jerusalem and to the Sea of Galilee—to the very places. He told us to-day how he and a Scotch gentleman hired a boat and went out fishing at night just like the apostles—to see how it would seem, you know. And he described the places to us, and said he would show us some pictures of them—I forget the name—the kind you look at through a glass, you know."

"Stereoscopic pictures," said Mrs. Lilly. "Mr. Brandon has been a great traveller."

"And he has seen the Dead Sea and Mount Sinai and Nazareth and Bethlehem," continued Willy, with enthusiasm.

"I don't believe it," said Fanny. "There are no such places now as Nazareth and Bethlehem and those places in the Bible; are there, grandma?"

"Why!" exclaimed Willy. "Why, Fanny!"

"To be sure there are, child," said Mrs. Lilly; "didn't you know that? Jerusalem is still a city, though not like what it used to be, and so are Nazareth and Bethlehem. Thousands of people go from all over the world to visit them every year. I will find you a book of travels which tells all about them. I must ask Mr. Brandon to show me his pictures. I should like to see them very much."

"It would make the story seem very real if one could see all the places with one's own eyes," remarked Oney. "I am something like Fanny in that. I find it rather hard to believe that there is such a place as Jerusalem, where people are living and going about at this minute."

"I don't suppose they are going about much just now," remarked Willy; "I suppose it is about the middle of the night there. That seems strange, too, doesn't it, Fanny?"

Fanny did not answer. She was very much ashamed to have exposed her ignorance before Oney and Willy. For the ignorance itself she did not care. As they sat in silence for a few minutes, looking over the fields, they saw a small, active figure come down from the mountain-side and cross the pasture.

"There goes Sarah Leyman," said Willy. "What a queer thing she is, anyhow! I dare say she has been roaming over the mountains all day long."

"Maybe it was Sarah that helped herself to the pie," remarked Oney.

"Possibly, though I don't like to think so," replied Mrs. Lilly.

"She is none too good for it, or her father either," said Oney.

"Poor thing! She has not had any great chance in her life," said Mrs. Lilly, sighing.

"Well, I don't know," remarked Oney. "To be sure, her father is a downright wicked man and does not believe in anything, but her aunt Sally, that she was named for, was an excellent woman. And think how many people have tried to make Sarah go to Sunday-school!"

"Yes, but there is the example at home all the time, Oney. And then she has always been used to such a roving, out-of-door life that I suppose she would really find it hard to settle down. It is a pity, for she is naturally very smart, and might be as good a woman as the one for whom she was named."

"But if you think she is so smart and might make such a good woman, why is it you don't want me to play with her, grandma?" asked Fanny.

"Because, my dear, I think she is a great deal more likely to do you harm than you are to do her good. She is very wild and reckless, uses bad language, and has many bad habits."

"She will make fun of anything, even of the Bible," said Willy; "and she doesn't care any more about Sunday than her father does. I heard him going on the other day down at the store, and he said he would as soon do a day's work on Sunday as on any other day."

"That wasn't saying much," said Oney, dryly.

"That's just what Squire Holden told him. 'Sam,' says he, 'you ain't very fond of doing a day's work any time,' says he. Then Sam began to swear and to talk against the Bible, till Squire Holden told him either to shut up or quit the store."

"It is no wonder that poor Sarah doesn't amount to much," said Mrs. Lilly, sighing again. "How thankful children ought to be who have good homes and kind friends to tell them what is right!"

"I guess we 'are' thankful," said Willy. "Ain't we, Fanny?"

"Of course," said Fanny, but she did not feel what she said. It had never yet entered her head or her heart to be thankful for anything.

"But some children do have good homes and kind friends to teach them, and yet they don't turn out well," remarked Willy. "They lie and swear, and do all sorts of bad things."

"Such children are a great deal more to be blamed than poor Sarah," said Mrs. Lilly. "You know, Willy, the Bible says that to whom much is given, of him will much be required. But it is growing late, and we must be up early in the morning, so we will have prayers and go to bed."

Fanny was not sorry to hear this, for she felt very uncomfortable both in mind and body. She was mortified at having made such a display of her ignorance. She knew that she had been very wicked, and she was afraid of betraying herself or being found out.

Besides, she began to feel very sick. She had eaten half a raspberry pie and a large piece of gingerbread up at the spring, and did not want her supper in the least, but the bread and honey and cold ham and sponge-cake and coffee were all so good, and she was so afraid that her grandmother would suspect something wrong if she did not eat as usual, that she made a hearty meal. The consequence was that she felt very sick and her head ached violently. She hastened to bed, hoping to forget her troubles in sleep, but she passed a restless night, and in the morning was too ill to get up.

CHAPTER IV.

THE STUMBLING BLOCK.

FOR two or three days Fanny was pretty sick, and did not sit up at all. She was really frightened about herself, was sure she had some dreadful disease, and was very angry at the old doctor from the village for saying there was nothing serious the matter.

"I guess you don't know how badly I feel," said Fanny.

"I guess I have seen other little girls who had made themselves sick by eating too much of grandma's nice cakes and pies," said the doctor, smiling. "A little medicine and a few days of toast and gruel will make you all right again, and then you must be more careful. If you eat so many sweet things, you will get the dyspepsia, and then I cannot cure you."

Fanny said no more, for she did not like the allusion to her having eaten too much, and she was afraid of his asking inconvenient questions.

She was better in a few days, but it was a whole week before she was able to go out of the house. During this time she was in a manner forced to think a little, for she could not read all the time, and her grandma was very busy helping Oney in the dairy, so Fanny was left to herself for some hours of every day. As she looked back over the time she had been at her grandmother's, she was not pleased with herself. She was conscious that, so far from making the impression she had intended, she had not made herself respected by anybody. Her grandmother had threatened to punish her, and, as she confessed, not without reason. Willy showed himself a better scholar than herself, and had been surprised at her ignorance, and Sarah Leyman, so far from being impressed with her superiority, had declared that Fanny was no better than she was, for all her schooling. All this was very disagreeable, and made Fanny very angry at herself and everybody else as she remembered it.

Then again, Fanny's conscience was aroused. She realized for the first time in her life what a naughty girl she had always been, and she wondered, with a shudder, what would have become of her if she had died. It was all true. She was not one bit better than Sarah Layman.

"But I am going to be better," said Fanny to herself. "I mean to read my Bible and say my prayers and attend to the sermon and learn my Sunday-school lessons. Grandma says that Willy is a real Christian. It is a pity if I can't be as good as that little poorhouse boy."

This was not exactly a Christian spirit, but Fanny did not think of that. She was as good as her word, however. She read three chapters in the Bible every day, said all the prayers she could think of, and felt very good indeed.

She went to church and Sunday-school and to the meeting at the schoolhouse, and was so sober and attentive that her grandmother was much pleased with her, and told her so. This set up Fanny still more in her own conceit, and she was wonderfully well satisfied with herself.

"Fanny, do you Want to take a walk this afternoon?" asked her grandmother one day when Fanny was quite well again. "It is very cool and pleasant after the rain."

"Yes, grandma," replied Fanny; "I should like it very much."

"Then there are two people suited," said Mrs. Lilly, smiling. "I want you to carry this basket down to old Mrs. Merrill, and you may stop at the post-office and see if the papers have come. Put on your broad hat, and don't walk to fast."

"May I play in the grove a little while when I come back?" asked Fanny.

"Yes, if you like, only don't stay too long or lose your papers."

Fanny, set out on her errand feeling very well pleased. She went first to Mrs. Merrill's and left her basket of eggs and other good things.

"Dear, dear, how good your grandma is to think of me!" said the old lady, much gratified. "And what a nice little girl you are to do errands! I suppose you are Alvin's eldest girl, ain't you?"

"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny.

"You look like your aunt Eunice," said Mrs. Merrill. "I mean as she did at your age."

"I never knew that I had an Aunt Eunice," said Fanny.

"Oh, she died long before you were born, my dear. She was only sixteen when she died—just the age of my Mary Jane. I remember as if it was yesterday when we had our first Sunday-school in the village. Eunice and my Mary Jane and Sally Leyman and Mrs. Cassell's eldest girl—her name was Eugenia—they were all in one class, and the next year they all joined the church the same Sunday. But Sally was the only one who lived to be over thirty."

"Was Aunt Eunice pretty?" asked Fanny.

"Why, no, not so very—not what folks call handsome nowadays, but she was so sweet in all her ways that nobody ever thought of her looks after the first five minutes. I don't think I ever saw a better girl than Eunice Lilly—such a consistent Christian, and yet nothing gloomy about her, always ready to help on any fun there was no harm in, but as firm as a rock when any one tried to make her join in what wasn't just right. You will try to be like her, won't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I mean to try."

"That's right. Here's your basket; and thank you very much, and your grandma too."

"I mean to be just like Aunt Eunice," thought Fanny as she walked up the quiet street. "I mean to be so good that everybody will love me and praise me, just as they did her, and I mean to set a good example to Harry and Nelly, and make everybody look up to me. I mean to be very good indeed, and perhaps somebody will write my life some day."

Fanny's musings were interrupted by hearing her own name called. She looked up and saw Mrs. Cassell leaning out of her carriage.

"Isn't this Miss Fanny Lilly?" asked Mrs. Cassell, politely.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Fanny.

"I have some books that I wish to send to your grandmother," said Mrs. Cassell. "I intended to drive up and bring them myself, but I find I shall be engaged to-morrow. If you will get into the carriage and ride over to our house, I will give you the books, and Hiram shall bring you down to the village again."

Fanny got into the carriage, and a few minutes brought her to Mrs. Cassell's house. It was a beautiful old mansion built of dark red bricks with trimmings of white marble, which is very abundant in that part of the country. It stood a long way back from the road, and there were many noble old trees about it. Everything about the house and grounds was in perfect order, and Fanny thought she had never seen a prettier place in her life.

"I must ask you to come in and wait a few minutes," said Mrs. Cassell. "Annie shall take you to see the kittens and Guinea pigs and the rest of her pets. Annie, where are you?"

"Here, grandma," answered a pleasant voice, and a little girl came out of the next room. She was much younger than Fanny, being only about seven years old. She was a blue-eyed, fair-haired, delicate-looking child, and was very prettily dressed in a pink frock and white apron.

Fanny peeped through the half-opened door, and saw that the room out of which Annie had come was a large library.

"This is Miss Fanny Lilly, my dear," said Mrs. Cassell; "Miss Fanny, this is my granddaughter, Annie Mercer, from Detroit, who is come to spend the summer with me."

Annie came forward, like a well-bred little girl, to speak to Fanny.

But Fanny, like many other girls who are bold in the wrong place, was also shy in the wrong place, and made but a poor and awkward return.

"You may take Fanny to see the kittens and Guinea pigs, Annie, while T do up the parcels," said Mrs. Cassell, kindly. "I suppose you have done all your lessons?"

"Oh yes, grandma, and my sewing too," answered Annie. "I hemmed a yard on my cap border, and Aunt Emma said it was very nicely done. I have been helping Uncle Hugh cut the leaves of the new books. Come, Fanny."

"Do you like Guinea pigs?" asked Annie as she led the way along the verandah at the back of the house.

"I don't know; I don't like pigs, anyway," answered Fanny.

Annie laughed.

"Oh, they are not real pigs, you know," said she. "They are little wee things, and Uncle Hugh says they are more like rabbits than pigs. See, here they are. I have to keep them shut up, away from old puss; he would soon eat them. But he don't know any better, you know," added Annie, apologizing for pussy. "He thinks they are some kind of mice."

Fanny looked down into the box, and saw half a dozen little creatures about as large as young rabbits, spotted with black, brown, and yellow. All of them that were not eating were asleep, and all that were not asleep were eating, after the custom of Guinea pigs.

"Are they not pretty?" said Annie. "Old Mrs. Willson gave them to me. I had only these two at first; all the rest are young ones."

Fanny did not care much for pets, and she was mortified at the mistake she had made. But she looked at the Guinea pigs and said they were very pretty.

"After all, they are stupid little things; you may pet and feed them ever so long, and they never seem to care for anything but eating," said Annie. "But I don't suppose they are to blame for not knowing any more."

"What will you do with them when you go home?" asked Fanny.

"I mean to take one pair home with me for a little lame boy who lives near our house, and give the others away. I will give you a pair if you like. Don't take them if you don't want them," she added, seeing that Fanny hesitated; "I shall not be offended a bit."

"I guess I won't take them, then," said Fanny, "though I am much obliged to you all the same. I am afraid I should forget to feed them, or something."

By this time Fanny began to feel at her ease, and, as usual, she began to ask questions.

"Do you learn lessons every day?"

"Yes; every day but Sunday."

"Who hears you say them?"

"Aunt Emma, generally, and sometimes Uncle Hugh. I used to go to school when I was at home, but they do not think I am well enough now, and I am glad of it, because I like doing my lessons with Aunt Emma."

"Where do you live when you are at home?" asked Fanny.

"In Detroit, in Michigan. Oh, it is a long way from here. We were two or three days coming, and only think, Fanny! I had a beautiful doll, all dressed in a travelling suit, and with a little morocco bag and all, and I let a girl play with it on the cars, and she stole it when I was asleep. Wasn't it a shame? But she hadn't any mother, I know, and perhaps she didn't know any better."

By the time Mrs. Cassell called Fanny to take the books, the two girls had become very good friends. When they went back to the parlour, Mr. Brandon came out of the library with two or three pretty-looking books in his hand.

"Are you fond of reading, Miss Fanny?" he asked, pleasantly.

"Yes, sir—some kinds," answered Fanny, doubtfully.

"'Some kinds' means stories, I suppose?" said Mr. Brandon, smiling. "I believe one of my Sunday-school boys—Willy Beaubien—lives at your house, does he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"I should like to have you carry him this book, if you will be so kind; and here is one you will perhaps like to read yourself. Tell Willy he shall have another when he has finished this."

"I wonder if Mr. Brandon knows that Willy is only grandma's hired boy," thought Fanny. But she did not say anything, and the carriage being ready, she took her leave.

"Hiram had better take you home, I think," said Mrs. Cassell. "It is a long walk, and up hill all the way. Drive to the entrance of Mrs. Lilly's lane, Hiram."

Hiram obeyed, and left Fanny at the gate of the lane. Annie would have thanked him for such a service, but Fanny never thought of doing so. She had never been taught to be polite to servants, and she considered them as a being much below herself in the social scale.

As she walked along, she was startled to hear somebody say, in a laughing tone, "What a great lady, to be sure! She feels too fine to speak to common folks."

Fanny turned round in a hurry.

The next minute Sarah Leyman jumped over the fence almost as lightly as a deer, and walked along by her side.

"Where have you been, all so grand?" she asked.

"Nothing so very grand," replied Fanny, in a superior tone. "I dare say it seems so to you, but I have often been in much finer carriages than Mrs. Cassell's."

"Oh 'dear'!" said Sarah, mimicking Fanny's tone. "How wonderful we are, to be sure! I wonder we can condescend to speak to anybody, much less to a common person like poor Sarah Layman. But never mind. Let's go into the grove and have a good time. What books have you got?"

"I am not going to play with you any more, Sarah," said Fanny, in what she intended for a very impressive and dignified tone. "I don't want to quarrel with you, and I am very sorry for you, but I am going to be a Christian, and, of course, I can't have anything more to do with you."

"Well, I declare!" said Sarah, and then she burst into a ringing fit of laughter. "What next? I should like to know how long since you felt so?"

Fanny felt very much vexed, but she answered, in the same tone, "Since I was sick. I was very low indeed, and the doctor thought I was dying for ever so long—"

"That's a big one to begin with," interrupted Sarah. "I asked the doctor about you myself, and he said that there was nothing more the matter than that you had eaten too much, and that you would be about again directly."

"I don't believe it!" exclaimed Fanny, though she knew that Dr. Perkins had told her the very same thing. "Where did you see him, I should like to know?"

"I saw him go up to your house, and I waited for him at the gate and asked him what was the matter. You see I thought about you, Fanny, though you don't mean to play with me any more."

Sarah said these words with an expression of real feeling, and then, suddenly changing her tone, she added, "By the way, as you have made up your mind to be a Christian, I suppose you began by telling your grandmother all about your helping to eat the stolen pie and gingerbread, didn't you?"