She glanced at two or three sentences, while Gawky Anne stood looking at the vacant spout as if she contemplated creeping into it herself.
"Come to my room, Miss Higbee," said Miss Warner. "I must understand this matter."
Gawky Anne followed, like a prisoner to execution, thinking, no doubt, that the course of true love never did run smooth. When they were within, Miss Warner locked the door, and requesting Miss Higbee to take a seat, she perused both documents to the end, vainly endeavoring to keep the corners of her mouth in order. When she had finished and recovered her gravity a little, she prepared to interrogate Gawky Anne.
"How many of these letters have you received, Miss Higbee?"
Miss Higbee would not answer, at first, but upon Miss Warner's threatening to send for her father, she replied, "Ten or twelve."
"When and where did you come by the first one?"
"I found it in my desk, a week ago, Friday afternoon."
"And since then you have been answering them, and putting your answers in the spout," said Miss Warner, laughing in spite of herself.
"Yes, ma'am," sobbed Gawky Anne, "and Augustus has answered every one."
"Augustus, indeed!" exclaimed Miss Warner. "You poor child, is it possible you are silly enough to suppose that these letters are really written by Augustus Frederick de Root?—I see that is the name at the bottom."
"Why, yes, ma'am, of course," answered Chicago Anne, opening her eyes wide; "they are just exactly such letters as Theodore wrote to Adeline in the 'Romance of the Forest,' and I don't see why I should not have such letters as well as any one else."
Miss Warner rung the bell, and desired the servant to call Miss Lee.
"Oh, please don't tell any one, Miss Warner," exclaimed Gawky Anne.
"Do not be alarmed, child; I have not the least desire to expose your folly, but I must understand the matter."
Miss Lee made her appearance, and Miss Warner, after explaining as much of the story as was necessary, gave her the letter to read.
"Who should you say, Miss Lee, was the author?" asked Miss Warner, after she had finished them.
"The writing is Caroline Woodford's without doubt," said Miss Lee. "She has attempted to disguise it, but without much success. I do not think it originated with her, however: she never wrote any thing that displayed so much talent. If the thing were possible—"
"Well," said Miss Warner, seeing that she paused; "and what if it were possible?"
"I should say that Sophie Kennedy wrote it."
"I can hardly believe that Sophie would be guilty of such a thing," remarked Miss Warner.
"She would not have done it at one time, but Sophie has grown very careless lately, and she is a great deal with Carry Woodford and Martha Prime. I could tell with more certainty if I were to see the whole parcel."
"Chicago Anne, go with Miss Lee, and bring the rest of the letters here."
Chicago Anne entreated and wept in vain: Miss Warner was resolute, and she was obliged to produce her treasures. She waited in breathless suspense till the two ladies had finished the last one. Then Miss Lee said emphatically—
"There can be no doubt at all, that Sophie Kennedy is the author of these letters. I have lately found most extraordinary sonnets and scraps of verses written on her books and exercises, and here are the very same things. She has written them, and Caroline has copied them."
Poor Gawky Anne! She wept and cried more vehemently than ever. To be found out corresponding with an officer—a real live Augustus Frederick—was bad enough. Still there was consolation in the thought that Adeline and Malvina Fitzallan had been treated in the same way by cruel guardians. But to have the cup thus rudely dashed from her lips—to be assured beyond any possibility of doubt, that Augustus Frederick was a creature of air, with no existence except in the minds of her mischievous schoolmates, was too cruel. Miss Warner pitied the poor girl's distress, and forbore making any comments upon her folly for the present.
The bell now rang for prayers.
"You may remain here, Chicago Anne," said she; "I will send you some breakfast presently."
"I don't want any," sobbed the fair disconsolate. "I couldn't eat a mite, I know. I'll go right home this very day."
"We will see about that, my dear child. You must do just as I say, you know. Come, come, dry your eyes; we will say no more about it just now."
The boarders all wondered why Miss Warner was so late, and why Gawky Anne did not make her appearance, but when one of the other teachers made some inquiries about her, Miss Warner only said, "I have excused Miss Higbee this morning," without giving any reason. Nothing was said about her absence from the table, and Miss Warner herself prepared her breakfast.
Soon after school commenced, Miss Warner was missing from the room, and after a little time, the monitress came round to Carry Woodford and Sophie Kennedy: Miss Warner wished to see them in her room.
Sophie's heart sunk within her at this announcement, for she felt sure her sin had found her out. She had been for two or three days very uneasy in mind, seeing the effect produced upon Chicago Anne, and she had written the last letter very reluctantly, and not without a great deal of urging from Carry. Sophie had wandered very far from the path of duty, but she had not strayed out of the reach of conscience. Having once been dead unto sin, she could not quietly live any longer therein, and the deceit and cruelty in which she had been engaged began to appear in their true light.
Another circumstance had helped to arouse her from the state of insensibility into which she had fallen. Dr. Shelby and Mr. Collins had spent the evening before at her father's, and the former, after announcing that the bishop's visit would take place in about eight weeks, had intimated to Sophie, that he should hope to see her come forward upon that occasion. Sophie had fully intended to do so at one time, but she had felt very differently then.
Now she dared not think of going up, with such a burden of sin upon her heart and hands. She looked back to the time when she had made that resolution, and saw how far she had fallen. She was now living almost without prayer: God was not in all her thoughts, and she had more than once been guilty of gross sins.
Should she then give up being confirmed at this time? She did not like the idea, and yet what could she do? She remembered what she had heard Mr. Collins say, that whoever was unfit for Confirmation was unfit for death, and she believed it, but then what was to become of her? If she continued as she was, she knew she must grow worse and worse, and fail of heaven at last. Sophie had taken great pleasure in thinking of heaven—of seeing her Saviour face to face, and seeing her own mother again; and was she to be disappointed after all? These thoughts made her very miserable: she wept and prayed, but her prayers seemed to have no wings, and she found no peace or consolation. She came to school in the morning very sad, and resolved on the first opportunity to beg Carry Woodford to undeceive Miss Higbee and give up the whole affair, but as it happened, Miss Warner's early discovery put it out of her power.
Miss Warner received them with a countenance of grave displeasure, and taking the package of letters, she spread them on the table, saying, "Young ladies, have you ever seen these papers before?"
The confusion which overspread the faces of the girls was not to be mistaken: Miss Warner continued, "Please to tell me what you have had to do with them."
"I do not see why you should lay all the mischief in the school at my door, Miss Warner," said Carry, trying to speak with her usual confidence. "I don't see why they are to be charged to me more than any one else."
"Because they are in your handwriting," said Miss Warner quietly.
"I did not 'write' them," said Carry, putting unconsciously an emphasis on the word "write."
"But you copied them," rejoined Miss Warner; "and you, Miss Kennedy, wrote them, did you not?"
"Yes, ma'am," answered Sophie frankly. She had already resolved to speak the whole truth, cost what it might. She thought she should probably be punished, and perhaps expelled, but any thing was better than continuing in the state of sin and misery in which she then was. So she answered at once, "Yes, ma'am, I wrote them in the first place."
"And Miss Woodford copied them, did she?"
"I would rather answer for myself only, if you please, Miss Warner."
Gawky Anne was sitting by the window, still crying, for she had the gift of inexhaustible tears. "Do you hear, Miss Higbee?" said Miss Warner, turning to her. "You see I was right."
"Ye—yes, ma'am," said Chicago Anne, with a fresh burst of tears, as the deathblow was thus given to Augustus Frederick.
"You may go to your room now," continued Miss Warner. "I shall excuse you from any lessons to-day. However foolish you have been, you are certainly more sinned against than sinning. I shall talk with you further another time."
When Gawky Anne had disappeared, Miss Warner turned again to the two delinquents.
"How came you to write the first letter, Miss Kennedy?"
"I hardly know, Miss Warner. We were laughing about Miss Higbee being so romantic and talking so foolishly, and I wrote the letter. I did not think then that any thing would be done with it."
"Then what became of it?"
Sophie was silent a moment, and then said, "I read it to two or three of the girls."
"Well, and what then?"
Carry now answered for herself, shamed out of her silence by Sophie's frankness:
"I copied it, Miss Warner, and put it in her desk."
"What was your object in thus deceiving and tormenting the poor girl?"
Neither answered, and Miss Warner continued—"And all this time you, Sophie Kennedy, have been lending yourself to this falsehood, which could bring forth nothing but mischief—which could end in no other way than in the distress and mortification of a schoolmate, who, whatever were her faults, never intentionally harmed any living being; and this you have done again and again. I am very greatly disappointed in you, Sophie. I have always thought you above any meanness or deceit; and since your return to school especially, I have believed you to be actuated by religious principles. I thought if there was one in the school I might trust, you were that one. It seems I have mistaken you entirely.
"For you, Caroline Woodford," she continued, taking that young lady by the arm with some force, "I have but few words. You have more than once been the occasion of great disturbance in the school; and though you are one of the oldest girls, you give more trouble than all the rest. I do not exactly know whether or not it is sheer folly and want of sense that makes you behave as you do, but this I must tell you—and beware how you forget it—if you do not at once change your whole course of conduct, you leave the school. You may both thank Miss Higbee that I do not send you home at once, but I do not wish to make her folly more public than is necessary; and I am willing to give you a chance to retrieve your characters. You must not complain, however, of being strictly watched, since you have forfeited all claims to confidence and respect."
Sophie did not look up at all. She had nothing to say in excuse for herself, and she was too unhappy for tears.
"One thing, however, I must insist upon," added Miss Warner, "that you shall both beg Miss Higbee's pardon for the malicious trick you have played upon her, and that you shall be utterly silent in regard to the whole affair. You will not indeed be tempted to enlarge upon it, since it places you in such a contemptible aspect."
"May I not tell mother, Miss Warner?" asked Sophie, in a low tone.
"Your mother, certainly, Sophie. I am glad if you intend to do so. It is a sign of repentance, I hope. Now go to Miss Higbee, and apologize to her, and be sure you do it respectfully, too."
Carry would gladly have refused, but she was afraid Miss Warner would tell her father, of whom she stood greatly in awe; so she went with Sophie. They knocked at Miss Higbee's door, but receiving no answer, went in. She was standing with her back to the door, but turned as they entered, and her face flushed with anger as she saw who it was.
"Well, what do you want?" she exclaimed. "I should think you had been mean enough already, without coming spying in here. I'll never speak to you, the longest day I live, so please to walk out."
"Don't be in such a hurry, Chicky Anne," said Carry. "Miss Warner sent us to beg your pardon, so I will be as sorry as you please if you will only tell me how sorry that is."
"Don't speak so, Carry," said Sophie. "We really are sorry, Chicago Anne."
"You are not any such thing," answered Chicky Anne, more and more enraged by Carry's address. "You have told stories enough, Caroline Woodford, without coming here and telling more. As for you, Sophie Kennedy, you are a real little hypocrite—pretending to be so pious—" Chicky Anne stopped from sheer want of breath.
"Come, Sophie, let us go," said Carry. "She cannot deny that we have begged her pardon, if Miss Warner asks her. She wants to be left to weep over the memory of Augustus Frederick."
"Pray don't, Carry," said Sophie, distressed at her companion's levity. "I am sure we have been bad enough, without making matters worse. Do please try and say something to show that you are really sorry."
"I shall do no such thing, Miss Sophie," said Carry, angrily; "you had better not begin preaching again. We shall all know the worth of your wonderful piety henceforth. As for staying here to be abused, I shall not, for you or any one: I have begged her pardon, and if she doesn't choose to grant it, she may let it alone."
So saying, she left the room, but Sophie remained standing in the same place.
"Well, why don't you go too?" said Chicky Anne, turning round. "You helped her all along: go with her, and see what else you can find to do."
"I do not feel as she does," answered Sophie; "I really am sorry, Chicky Anne, and I would give the world if I had never had any thing to do with it. I don't expect you or any one else to believe me after this, but I will do any thing for you if you will only forgive me."
"I did not so much wonder at Carry," said Chicky Anne, weeping afresh; "she always makes game of me, but you, Sophie, that I thought was really so good and religious—I wouldn't have thought it. But it's just as pa says—folks that pretend to be pious ain't any better than other folks."
"Oh, don't think, so, Chicky Anne," said Sophie, with a new and more poignant feeling of distress.
"When I first came here," said Chicky Anne, without heeding the interruption, "I used to think so too. Pa isn't one of the pious sort at all. I expect ma was, from all I can hear, but she died when I was a baby. Well, then, there is Miss Warner, who is real good, for all she scolds sometimes; and there was Miss Carroll, who was a real saint—no one ever saw her do any thing wrong—and Miss Reed and Miss Weston were almost the same. I was so sorry when they went away. And when you came, you were so good at first, I thought you would be like them. I was beginning to think of being religious myself, and cared more for going to church and reading the Bible than ever I did in my life before. And now you have turned out so different, and I don't see that your religion does you a mite of good. I don't never mean to try any more."
"Oh, don't, Chicky Anne, that is worse than all," sobbed Sophie, feeling as if her heart would break. "Oh, what will become of me, what can I do?"
"I believe you really are sorry, after all," said Chicky Anne; "I am sure I forgive you, Sophie. But I don't know what 'I'm' to do, I am sure," she continued; "I shan't dare to show my face in school; I suppose all the girls know about it."
"No, they do not," answered Sophie, as soon as she could speak. "We never told any one, and I am sure we shall not now. But pray, Chicky Anne, don't judge all religious people by me. If I had only kept on being religious, I should never have done so. It was only when I left off watching and praying that I began to go wrong. I do not know what I shall be now, for it does not seem as if God could ever forgive me: I shall keep on growing worse and worse to the end, I suppose."
"Don't cry any more," said Chicago Anne, seriously alarmed by Sophie's violent emotion. "It ain't worth while; don't think no more about it; I don't care much, after all. Come, I wouldn't cry any more; you will make yourself sick, and your ma won't like it."
"You are a good girl, Chicky Anne!" exclaimed Sophie, kissing her. "A great deal better than I am; and I will never laugh at you again."
Sophie spent the rest of the morning in Miss Warner's room, and went home at the usual time.
There was no one at home, for her father was in New York, and her mother was spending the day at Mrs. Gaylord's, where Sophie was to have gone with Emma, as soon as school was out. When Emma appeared, she could give no reason for Sophie's absence; and Mrs. Kennedy fearing she might be unwell, excused herself as soon as she could, and hastened home.
She found Sophie in her own room, with a severe headache, but suffering still more from distress of mind. As soon as she could command herself sufficiently, she related the whole story to her mother, not seeking to excuse herself in the least. Mrs. Kennedy, though greatly grieved at her daughter's misconduct, was glad to see that she was fully sensible of her sin. She thought it right, however, to set the full consequences of her conduct before her.
"You have not only lost Miss Warner's confidence," she concluded, "and lowered yourself in her estimation, but you have brought disgrace on the name of religion. You have wounded your Saviour in the house of His friends; and your conduct may perhaps hinder this poor girl from seeking Him at all."
"That is the worst, mother. And Carry too thinks me a hypocrite, as well she may. Oh, mother! What shall I do?"
"You must return to God, Sophie, and He will return to you."
"I have tried, but it does not seem to do any good; I cannot feel as if He heard me. And see what it says in this chapter," she continued, pointing to the Bible which lay open before her. "I have been trying to find some comfort, but there seems to be nothing but threatenings."
Mrs. Kennedy looked where she pointed, and saw these words—
"For it is impossible for those who were once enlightened, and have tasted of the heavenly gift, and were made partakers of the Holy Ghost, if they shall fall away, to renew them again unto repentance; seeing they crucify to themselves the Son of God afresh, and put Him to an open shame."
"These are indeed fearful words, my daughter, and I do not wonder that they alarm you, but be not dismayed. Do you not repent already of your sin?"
"Yes, indeed, mother, I am sure I do."
"And have you tried to make all the amends in your power, by asking Miss Higbee's forgiveness?"
"Yes, mother; and I persevered till she said she forgave me, for she would not believe me at first."
"Then, Sophie, you have every reason to believe that your sin will be blotted out. 'If any man sin, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous.' 'Whosoever cometh to me, I will in no wise cast out.' 'If the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, he shall save his soul alive.'"
"But I have denied Him, mother."
"So did Peter, yet his Lord forgave him, and sent him a token of love on his first rising again. Be not faithless, but believing, my dear."
Sophie wept, but not so bitterly, for she began to feel that there was yet hope for her. Her mother talked with her, and prayed with her, and though she knew that it would be long before she could be happy again, she did not feel that God had given her up.
She had at first thought she would ask her mother to take her out of school, but on reflection she saw that she might perhaps retrieve what she had lost, by a true penitence and an anxious desire to do right. She had now no self-confidence left but with a heart truly humbled, she prayed earnestly against temptation.
Her first care was to seek Miss Warner, and again express her sorrow for her offence. Miss Warner received her kindly, but pointed out to her that her future conduct would be the test of her repentance. Chicky Anne had entirely gotten over her angry feelings towards Sophie, though she still felt resentment against Carry.
Miss Warner had a long talk with Chicago Anne, and had the satisfaction to perceive that she was fully sensible of her folly. She declared her resolution henceforth to avoid romances, actually put her whole collection into Miss Warner's hands, and announced her intention henceforth to "try and be somebody." The teacher commended her resolution highly, and took the opportunity of commending to her attention various matters regarding her manners and appearance. We may as well say in this place, that Chicago Anne continued to improve from this time. She remained with Miss Warner some two years longer. That judicious lady marked out a course of reading for her, which so far enlarged her mind, that she lost all taste for Thaddeus and the Romance of the Forest. Gawky Anne indeed never became remarkable for grace or intelligence, but she was not at all deficient; and better than all, she became a consistent and faithful Christian, and in the end a very useful woman.
The other task Sophie had set herself was rather harder—to seek out Carry Woodford, and acknowledge to her how much she had been in the wrong. Carry received her very coldly, and hardly listened to her; she felt that Sophie's humility and earnest desire to make amends, condemned herself, and was angry accordingly. The next time they met, Carry refused to speak to her and though Sophie made several efforts to establish peace between them, Carry refused to be conciliated.
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION.
IT was long before Sophie began to recover her cheerfulness at all. She felt that she had forfeited the respect of her best friends, and that was enough to make her unhappy, but what most burdened her heart was, that the cause of religion had suffered in the school through her. All the girls had seen her become giddy and careless; and though the particulars of the affair were not known, all were aware that she had been involved with Carry Woodford in something very disgraceful. She had of course lost all influence with Carry and her friends; and whatever and however carefully she might govern herself by Christian rules henceforth, they could never forget how she had once disregarded them.
The next Sunday after the detection of the plot, Dr. Shelby gave notice in church that the bishop's visit would take place in about six weeks, and that lectures preparatory to Confirmation would begin upon the next Wednesday evening. He hoped to see all the young people of the congregation at these lectures, and would be at home upon certain mornings and evenings of each week to all persons wishing to converse with him upon the same subject. Sophie felt her heart sink within her; she put down her head, and wept bitterly. Her mother noticed and pitied her distress; she divined what was passing in her mind, and determined to introduce the subject as soon as possible, in order that Sophie might be relieved.
A convenient opportunity occurred that very afternoon, as the mother and daughter were sitting together in the nursery. Mrs. Kennedy alluded to Dr. Shelby's notice, and asked Sophie if she still held her resolution to be confirmed at this time.
"I am afraid not, mother," said Sophie, sorrowfully. "Not that I do not desire it as much as ever, but I am afraid I ought not. What would the girls in school think to see me come forward so soon after—" She could not finish the sentence.
"They would think, perhaps, that your profession and practice have not agreed very well together, and they will be right. But as that does not hinder you from making every effort to regain what you have lost and to walk henceforth in the path of duty, so it should not hinder you from making a public profession of your faith. You are no more likely to fall because you acknowledge your dependence on a Higher Power. Moreover, you have learned something, have you not, from what you have gone through?"
"Yes, mother," answered Sophie; "a great deal, I hope. I have been humbled in my own eyes, by seeing how weak I am when left to myself, and I have learned too how dangerous it is to go one step out of the way. As long as I preserved the spirit of watchfulness and prayer, I had no trouble. The very beginning of my fall was studying my lessons for school when I knew I ought to have been reading my Bible."
"Do you think that you have truly repented of your sins?"
"Yes, mother, I hope so."
"What reason have you to hope so, my dear?"
Sophie hesitated, and her mother continued: "I know it is rather a difficult question, but I wish you to try and answer it, for your own satisfaction."
"I think, mother," said Sophie, after some minutes' silence, "the chief reason I have to hope so, is, that I hardly think of myself at all. I mean, when I think over the matter, I do not care most about losing my place in school, or even for having the girls consider me a hypocrite, as some of them do, I know, but I am most sorry that Miss Higbee should be so mortified, and that she should be made to believe that religious people are no better than others. I am sorry to have made Carry Woodford worse, too, as I know I have. And when I think on my God and Saviour," she continued, "I am ready to sink into the earth. If I could only hope that the harm I have done could ever be repaired, I should not care much what became of me."
Mrs. Kennedy could not doubt that Sophie spoke the exact truth. She had observed from the first that she had no disposition to escape from even more than her just share of blame.
"Since, then," said she, "you do truly and earnestly repent you of your sins, and are in love and charity with all men, and intend henceforth to lead a new life, why should you not draw near with faith?"
"I am not in charity with all, mother," said Sophie.
Mrs. Kennedy looked inquiringly at her.
"Neither Carry Woodford nor Martha Prime will speak to me."
"But how is it with you?" asked her mother. "Do you cherish feelings of anger or resentment towards them?"
"No, mother," answered Sophie, "I am certain I do not. I have no reason to do so, for I was much the most to blame."
Mrs. Kennedy thought within herself, that the fact of having been the most to blame, would with many people be reason enough for resentment, but she said nothing.
And Sophie continued—"I have tried my best to make friends with them, two or three times, without success and the last time, Carry told me in so many words, that she wished I would not speak to her again: she said she did not want any thing to do with me."
"Did you not feel angry with her then?"
"Only for a moment; I do not, now, the least in the world."
"Then it is they who are not in charity with you—not you with them."
"I thought it was just the same, mother."
"Not at all, my dear; if you have tried your best for a reconciliation, as I doubt not you have, and they remain obstinate, you have no more to do. I would advise you to drop the matter for the present, and renew your attempt some other time. Is there any thing else in your way since this obstacle is disposed of?"
"Only what people will think, mamma. I do not know what will be said about my coming forward so soon after having behaved so badly."
"You know, my dear, how the Saviour received the woman that anointed his feet; and Matthew, a publican, was numbered with the apostles. You cannot suppose that the faults of these people were not very generally known."
"You always find a passage in the Bible for every thing, mamma," said Sophie.
"I believe, Sophie," said Mrs. Kennedy, "that there is something there applicable to every case which can possibly occur to man. But to return to our great subject: I do not think your late backsliding any reason for postponing your Confirmation. You have done your best to repair your fault, and have since been careful to walk circumspectly; you fully intend to obey God's holy will and commandments and to walk in the same all the days of your life. You have carefully considered the subject before, and made up your mind, and I should certainly advise you to adhere to your resolution."
"I am sure I wish to do so, mother," said Sophie. "It was only the fear of doing wrong that made me hesitate. It seems as if it must be a great assistance in doing right."
"Suppose you talk with Dr. Shelby about the matter, Sophie?" suggested her mother. "He may be able to set your mind at rest."
"I know just what he will say, mamma, but I shall be glad to hear him talk about any thing. I believe you are right, but I should like to have a little time to think it over."
Sophie considered, and talked with Dr. Shelby, as her mother recommended. And she came to the conclusion to go forward, and gave in her name accordingly.
There were various opinions on the matter when it came to be talked of in school; some of the girls applauded, while others thought she might have waited a little before taking such a decisive step. Among the latter was Martha Prime, who said she thought Sophie might be sick of making such great pretensions. "She had better wait till we have forgotten her late performances."
"I don't see why," said Carry Woodford. "Sophie has done the best she could to make amends, and more a great deal than any one else would have done."
"Why don't you speak to her, then?" inquired Martha. "She has tried several times to make friends with you, and you told her in so many words that you would have nothing to do with her."
"I know it, and I wish I had not done so. The truth is, girls," said Carry, coloring a good deal, and speaking with effort, "I feel as if I had behaved very badly to Sophie. It was more that than any thing else, made me speak to her as I did—because she made me look so mean in my own eyes. I am a wicked girl, I know, and I wish I was not, but I cannot help doing justice to people—at least when I am not angry."
"Why do you not make friends with her now?" asked Martha.
"Because I am afraid she would not let me, after all that has passed."
"That is a very good excuse, no doubt," returned Martha, sneeringly. "But if you feel as you pretend, you ought to be willing to apologize to her, whether she is civil to you or not. Miss Emma, is not that Scripture doctrine?" she asked, turning to Emma Gaylord, who had joined the group in time to hear Carry's confession.
"I believe it is, Martha, but I do not think, Carry, you need be afraid of Sophie's meeting you unkindly. She would be very glad to be friends with you and Martha both, I know."
"I shall not trouble her," answered Martha. "I have friends enough already, without going out of my way for them. Carry may do as she pleases. Here comes Saint Sophie now. Miss Kennedy!" she continued, elevating her voice as Sophie entered. "Will you please to come here?"
Sophie came, looking surprised enough.
"Now, Carry," said Martha, "now you have a chance."
Carry colored and hesitated. Martha exchanged a contemptuous glance with one of the other girls, which roused her spirit, and she said, though with an unsteady voice, and holding out her hand—
"Sophie, I am sorry I have behaved so badly to you, and been so unkind. I am ashamed to ask you to forgive me, but I shall be glad if you will."
"I have nothing to forgive," said Sophie, cordially taking Carry's outstretched hand, and kissing her. "I was more to blame than you but I am glad you are not angry with me any more. I cannot bear to have a quarrel with any one."
Carry would have answered, but her voice failed, and tears stood in her eyes. At last she said, "I wish I were like you. I will never call you a hypocrite again."
"What an affecting scene!" sneered Martha. "It is a pity there are no more to witness it." She glanced around the circle, but met with no response: the feelings of the girls present were clearly against her, and she walked away with a contemptuous toss of her head, feeling very much vexed with both Carry and Sophie.
Carry sought Sophie in recess, and had a long private interview with her, the result of which was, that she went to Miss Warner's room after school and made an ample apology for all her misconduct. Miss Warner received it graciously, and had a long conversation with her idle and careless pupil. She set before her in plain terms the consequences of the course she was running, and endeavored to arouse her to a sense of duty and responsibility. She urged it upon her to begin a new course of life from that moment, and Carry promised to try her best. Miss Warner did not fail to show her that she could not depend upon her own strength to help herself, but that she must seek a higher power to assist her.
From this time Carry was a changed girl. She became quiet and orderly in school, learned a reasonable quantity of lessons, and absented herself entirely from the recitation room group, of which she had been the centre. That society, having lost its principal pillars, gradually declined and fell into disrepute, to the great improvement of manners and morals in the school.
As the time approached for the Confirmation, Sophie's mind grew more and more quiet, and she saw her way fair and clear before her; she seemed to herself to be putting away childish things, and standing upon the threshold of a new and important life. She fully appreciated the privilege of being admitted with God's people to the Blessed Sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ, and endeavored to prepare herself for receiving the full benefits of that holy ordinance. On the day of the Confirmation she was calm and happy; and with a full sense of her own weakness, and a humble trust in God, she renewed her baptismal vows, in the presence of God and the congregation. The next Sunday she accompanied her mother to the Communion, and there again consecrated herself to the service of her Maker, Redeemer, and Sanctifier.
Thus, we have accompanied our little friend through several important years of her life. We have seen her in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health. I hope we may have learned something from her.
A few words will conclude this little history. Sophie held fast through life the good profession she had professed before so many witnesses. She met with trials and temptations, and sometimes gave way to them, but when she fell, she immediately arose. As a daughter and elder sister, she was beloved at home; and as a teacher and friend, she was useful abroad. And among her many causes for thankfulness for mercies bestowed, she accounted it the greatest that she had been provided with such a mother, to fill the place of the one she had lost.
Laura Bartlett came home after a three years' absence, somewhat reformed in outward things, and considerably less ignorant than when she left home. She had acquired a little of a good many things, because she could not help it, and she had grown very pretty. She had learned to sit, stand, and walk well, and to dress beautifully; and she made the most of these acquirements, especially the latter. She never made any attempt to renew her intimacy with Sophie, though she did with Carry, but the latter rather declining the honor, Miss Bartlett contented herself with remarking to her admirers, that "Miss Woodford had really turned out quite a blue, after all."
Caroline Woodford left school about a year after the Confirmation, and devoted herself almost exclusively to the care of her grandmother, who was in very infirm health. This lady was an example of all that is beautiful in the Christian character; and under her gentle guidance, Caroline was at last brought to an obedient and humble walking in the true faith of Christ.
Betsey's mother obtained an excellent situation as nurse in a large boarding-school, where she is very useful, and very much liked: her little daughter is being educated in the institution.
Nancy lived to a great age, respected by all who knew her. Her declining years were made happy by the affectionate attentions of her master and mistress and their children. And when she died, she was buried by the side of Sophie's first mother.
Thus having accounted for our principal personages, we take our leave of our readers (if we should happen to have any) with the best wishes for their prosperity.
THE END.