On the mountain
Date: 2025-08-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Sunday school literature

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Title: On the mountain
or, Lost and found

Author: Lucy Ellen Guernsey

Release date: August 29, 2025 [eBook #76760]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: American Sunday-School Union, 1872

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76760

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE MOUNTAIN ***

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.

——————————

PHILADELPHIA:

AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION

NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

——————————

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

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

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.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

—————————————————                        ————————————————
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.

——————

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?"

"Of course not," replied Fanny, trying to keep up her tone of dignity and reserve, but feeling all the time that she was making a signal failure. "I didn't want to tell of you, Sarah, though I don't mean to have anything more to do—with you," Fanny was going to conclude, but she changed it into "such doings."

"Oh, you needn't mind 'me'," said Sarah. "I wouldn't have you go on telling lies and deceiving your grandmother for anything. Come to think of it, I believe I will be a good girl and a Christian myself, and then I suppose we can play together again. But you can't be a Christian without confessing your sins, you know, Fanny. I dare say Mrs. Lilly is blaming somebody else for the pie all this time. Come, let us go together and tell her all about it directly." And Sarah quickened her steps in the direction of the farm-house.

Fanny looked at her to see if she were in fun, but she appeared quite serious and determined.

"You are not in earnest?" said Fanny, in rather a scared tone.

"Yes, I am in earnest. Come, why don't you walk faster? You can tell what I did, and I can tell what you did, or we can each tell of ourselves. I guess that will be the best way, after all."

"But I can't—I dare not!" exclaimed Fanny, stopping short. "Oh, Sarah, do come back!"

"Well, what now?" asked Sarah, turning and coming back, for she was already some steps in advance. "What's the matter?"

"You won't tell grandma, will you?" asked Fanny, trembling.

"Why, of course," replied Sarah, coolly. "That's the way to begin, by confessing our sins. When old Mrs. Burt joined the church last winter, she went to Mrs. Hoyt's and told her that she had cheated her out of three dollars by putting water in the milk she sold her, and paid her back the money. Mrs. Hoyt said that was the right way to begin, and she gave the money to the missionary collection. Besides, I dare say Mrs. Lilly is suspecting some one else all the time."

Fanny knew that this was true, for she had heard her grandmother say she thought the pie must have been taken by one of Mr. Wye's children.

"But—but I can't," she stammered. "I am afraid. I don't know what she would do to me."

"Didn't she ask you anything about it?" asked Sarah.

"Yes, of course she did."

"And you told her all sorts of lies, I suppose, and mean to stick to them; and yet you call yourself a Christian, and think you are too good to play with me!" said Sarah, in a tone of contempt. "Well, I don't care; I mean to tell her, anyhow."

Fanny sat down on a stone and burst into tears.

Sarah stood by her in silence a minute or two.

"So you don't want me to tell?" said she.

Fanny only sobbed.

"You will make your head ache with crying, and, besides, your grandma will ask you what was the matter," said Sarah, presently. "Come, Fanny, let's make a bargain. Don't you put on any airs to me and I won't tell of you. But just as sure as you act again as you did just now, I will go to Mrs. Lilly and tell her all about the pie and your running away. I don't mind it when people are really good, like Mrs. Lilly and Aunt Sally, but I do hate hypocrites. Come, will you agree to that?"

"I suppose I shall have to," said Fanny, rather sullenly.

"Well, then, kiss and be friends. And now tell me where you have been this afternoon."

"I can't stay now, Sarah, indeed I can't," said Fanny, rising. "I have been gone too long already, but I will tell you all about it another time," she added, seeing Sarah's face darken—"to-morrow, perhaps."

"Well, come up to the spring to-morrow afternoon. And, Fanny, I wish you would lend me a story-book. You have got ever so many, haven't you?"

"Yes, I brought a whole boxful, and Mr. Brandon lent me this one to-day."

"Let me see it," said Sarah, taking it from her hand and turning over the pages. "It looks nice; I would as soon have this as any."

Fanny felt very much vexed, but she dared not say a word.

"On the whole, I will let you read it first," continued Sarah, returning the book. "There! Run along, and be sure you come to the spring to-morrow, or I shall come down to the house and ask for you."

CHAPTER V.

DANGER.

FANNY hurried along up to the hill, walking so fast that she soon put herself out of breath and had to sit down and rest.

"Oh what a hateful thing she is!" she said to herself. "I wish she was dead; I wish the bull would get out and kill her when she is going home to-night. I don't care if it is wicked; I do wish so. There isn't one bit of use in my trying to be good when she is around. I don't care; it is all her fault."

When Fanny reached home, she found supper ready.

"We were just going to sit down without you," said her grandmother. "What has kept you so long?"

Fanny gave a straightforward account of herself, except that, as it may be guessed, she said nothing about Sarah Leyman.

"Oh, very well," said Mrs. Lilly; "I am glad you had a nice visit at Mrs. Cassell's, and it was very kind in Mr. Brandon to lend you and Willy such nice, pretty books."

"I wonder whether Mr. Brandon knows that Willy is a hired boy?" said Fanny.

"I presume he does. Why?"

"Oh, nothing—only I was wondering whether, if he knew it, he would take so much notice of him and lend him books, and so on."

"And I wonder whether he would take so much notice of Fanny if he knew how she talked about him and his wife?" said Oney.

"I dare say it would not make much difference in either case," said Mrs. Lilly, dryly. "Mr. Brandon is too much of a gentleman to think less of a good boy because he works honestly for a living, or to mind the idle gossip of two silly girls. Never mind, Willy; I hope Fanny will know better some day."

"Mr. Brandon does know," said Willy. "He asked me where I lived, and I told him all about it, and he said it was an excellent thing, and that I couldn't be better off. I hope it is no disgrace to be a hired boy, or man either."

"I hope not," said Mrs. Lilly. "Fanny's father was one."

"Why, grandma!" exclaimed Fanny. "You don't mean to say that 'my' father was ever a hired boy."

"I mean just exactly that," said Mrs. Lilly. "He lived out three winters at Judge Higley's, and worked for his board that he might go to school, and afterward, when he was in college, he used to hire out in harvest-time that he might help pay his way, for money was not very plenty in those times."

"I wonder if I could go to college?" said Willy, while Fanny suddenly subsided and became very busy in buttering her cakes.

"I don't know what should prevent you," said Mrs. Lilly, "but it is early to be thinking about that."

"But there is no harm in thinking about it, is there?" asked Willy.

"No, my dear, not the least harm," replied Mrs. Lilly; "on the contrary, there may be a great deal of good if you only think of it in the right way."

"What would you like to be, Willy—a lawyer or a minister?" asked Oney.

"Neither, I think," replied Willy, soberly, and as if he had been turning the matter over in his own mind for some time. "I think I should like to be professor of a college, or else a State geologist, like that gentleman who came here last summer and camped out on the mountain with Mr. Brandon."

"Well done!" exclaimed Oney, laughing. "You mean to aim high, anyway."

"There is no reason that I know of why you should not be either," said Mrs. Lilly, smoothing down Willy's black curls as he sat beside her at the table. "A good many learned men have been worse off than Willy to begin with."

"I don't think I am badly off at all," said Willy. "I think I am as well off as any boy I know."

"Good for you!" said Oney, putting a large piece of cake on his plate. "When you are president of a college, send for me, and I will come and keep house for you."

Fanny ate her supper in silence, feeling very much disgusted.

"What a fuss they do make over him!" she thought. "And nobody takes any more notice of me nor cares any more about me than if I was nothing at all. I don't care. I'll 'make' them care about me some time. I mean to be a missionary or something, and do a great deal of good, so that every one shall talk about me and praise me. But there doesn't seem to be much use in trying to be good so long as Sarah Leyman is round. I wish I was in a convent or something, like that girl in my book who went to the Moravian school in Germany. I mean to try, though. I will be very good about everything else, and perhaps it won't matter so much about Sarah. Grandma says we are all sinners, so I sha'n't be any worse than the rest are."

The next day, and for a good many days afterward, Fanny and Sarah met somewhere about the farm—either up by the spring or in the grove by the side of the river. Once or twice Sarah had tempted Fanny up on the mountain-side by telling her of the wonderful stones and flowers and mosses to be found there. But Fanny did not much like these expeditions. The loneliness scared her, and so did the thick dark evergreens, the great rocks, and the strange sounds she heard every time she listened.

"I don't see what you want to come here for," she said, pettishly, and just ready to cry, one day when Sarah had coaxed her into visiting one of her favourite haunts. "I think it is awfully lonesome and dismal, and I don't like it one bit. One would think we were out of the world."

"Now, that is just what I like," said Sarah. "It is so solemn, and the wind makes such strange noises. But you must never try to come up here by yourself, Fanny," she added, gravely. "Promise me that you will not."

"No danger," said Fanny; "I don't like it well enough for that. Come, do let us go down."

Sarah agreed, and they walked down the blind path which led to the spring. When they reached it, they sat down to rest, and Sarah took out of her pocket the last book Fanny had lent her and began to read.

"Don't read; it is so pokey," said Fanny. "I want to talk. You are very fond of reading, all at once."

"This is such a nice book," returned Sarah. "All the people in it are so natural."

She closed it, however, and they sat for some little time in silence.

"Well, why don't you talk?" said she, at last.

"I am listening," said Fanny. "I keep hearing such a strange noise, like something growling or grumbling under ground. What can it be?"

Sarah laid her ear to the ground to listen like an Indian.

"It is the bull," said she, after a minute's silence. "He has got out some how. We must run home as fast as we can. Now, don't begin to cry," she added, sharply. "That will only hinder you."

The two girls started for home, but as they came into the open field, they saw the bull coming across the pasture straight toward them. Sarah comprehended the situation in a moment, and had all her wits about her. She was a girl of naturally strong mind, and her out-of-door life had made her quick and self-reliant. Fanny wore a small red cloak. Sarah snatched it from her shoulders, saying at the same time, in sharp, clear tones,—

"Now, Fanny, do just as I tell you, and you will be all right. Walk away behind me—don't run—and get over the wall. I'll take to the trees, and I bet I can dodge him, but never mind me. If I am caught, run home and call somebody. There! Now, while I take across the field—'now'!"

Fanny did as she was bid.

With wonderful agility Sarah started for another part of the field, running like a deer. When she had gone some little way, she turned, and began shaking the scarlet cloak. The bull, attracted by the colour, and taking it, as all bulls do, as a personal insult to himself, instantly abandoned his intended chase of Fanny and ran at Sarah. But Sarah was too quick for him. She dodged out of sight, first behind one tree and then another, till she saw that Fanny was safely over the rough stone wall. Then picking up a good-sized stone, and wrapping the cloak round it, she threw it at the bull with such a correct aim that the missile struck him full in the forehead. The next minute she went over the wall at one spring, and came round to where Fanny was lying on the ground crying as if her heart would break.

"There! Don't cry. There is no more danger now," said Sarah, soothingly. "Nothing is hurt but your cloak, and I guess you won't get much of that," she added, peeping over the wall at the bull, who was now expending all his rage on the scarlet flannel, tossing and trampling it as if he had at last found the enemy he had been hunting all his life.

"It is all your fault," sobbed Fanny, finding her voice. "I should think you would have been ashamed, Sarah Leyman."

"Well, I declare!" said Sarah.

"You needn't have given him my cloak," continued Fanny. "It was an opera flannel, and cost ever so much money."

"Which would you rather the bull should be tossing—me or the cloak? It had to be the one or the other," said Sarah, very sensibly, and naturally vexed at Fanny's unreasonable faultfinding. "I wonder what you think would have become of you if I had not been here?"

For the first time it occurred to Fanny that Sarah had saved her life.

"To be sure, I don't know what I should have done," said she, "and I am very much obliged to you, Sarah—only I don't like to have my pretty new cloak spoiled."

"Nor I, but you would rather it should be the cloak than me, wouldn't you, Fanny?"

"Of course," said Fanny; "but what shall I tell grandma?"

"What you please," said Sarah, shortly. "Tell her the bull chased you and you dropped your cloak, or tell her the whole truth. Why not?"

"But then she will scold me for going with you," said Fanny.

Sarah turned and looked at her with an expression of wonder and contempt in her great black eyes.

"I wonder what makes me care to go with 'you'?" she said, at last, in an odd, choked voice.

Fanny was silent. She did not know what to say.

Sarah sat down on a stone and hid her face in her hands for a few minutes.

"I say, Fanny," said she, looking up suddenly, "let's you and I set out to be Christians in good earnest, instead of only pretending to be good."

"I 'am' good now," replied Fanny, rather indignantly. "I read my Bible and say my prayers every day, and I heard grandma say to Oney that I had been very good lately, and I have, I know. I learned three hymns yesterday of my own accord."

"Oh! Then, of course, Mrs. Lilly knows all about your running away, and about the pie and all?"

"Why, no," said Fanny, hesitating. "I didn't think it worth while. What would be the use? She thinks it was one of the Wye children, and she may as well think so."

"The use would be that you would be telling the truth instead of telling and acting lies all the time," said Sarah. "Now, it is of no use, Fanny. You know you can't be a Christian in any such way as that. Don't she ever say anything about the pie now?"

"Sometimes."

"And don't she ever ask you, when you come in, where you have been and what you have been doing?"

"Why, yes, she almost always does."

"And then you tell her the truth, I suppose?"

"It is no business of yours what I tell her," replied Fanny, sullenly.

"Maybe not, but it is of yours," said Sarah. "Don't you know, Fanny, the Bible says no one that loves or makes a lie can go to heaven? I remember Aunt Sally's telling me that years ago."

"What makes you want to be a Christian, Sarah? I mean, what sets you to thinking about it?" asked Fanny, trying to turn the conversation.

"Partly the books I have been reading, and partly some old journals and letters of Aunt Sally's that I found in a trunk up in our garret, and partly—well, I don't know that I can tell you if I try. All the best people I know are religious. Pa was going on the other day about pious people being all hypocrites, and says I, 'Pa, where would we have been if pious people had not helped us last winter when you broke your leg?'"

"You would have an awful time with your father," remarked Fanny.

"We have that now," said Sarah.

"And you would have to go to church and Sunday-school and learn your lessons," continued Fanny. "You couldn't run about all day Sunday and weekday as you do now. You wouldn't like that at all."

"I don't think I should mind," said Sarah, thoughtfully. "Running about is all very well, but one may have too much of it. I'll tell you what, Fanny: I will try if you will. Let us go together and tell the old lady all about it, and then we can begin in earnest. She won't be hard on us, I know."

"I can't, I tell you," said Fanny, in an agony of alarm and vexation. "She would whip me, I know, for she said the other day that she never whipped pa but once, and that was for telling lies. And then they would all despise me so. Oh, Sarah, don't! Wait till I go away, and then you can tell her if you like."

"Well, I won't tell of you, only of myself," said Sarah.

"She will get it all out of you, you may be sure. She is so sharp! I am afraid every day, as it is, that she will find me out."

"Don't you suppose God finds you out, Fanny?" asked Sarah, in a low voice. "Don't you think that, for all your hymns and prayers and Bible readings, you are only making believe all the time? Aunt Sally used to say he knew our very inmost thoughts."

"Your aunt was a church-member, wasn't she?" asked Fanny, hoping to divert Sarah's attention. "Mrs. Merrill told me something about her."

"She was a good woman, if ever there was one in this world," said Sarah, with feeling. "If she had lived, I know I should have been very different, but she died when I was only eight. But come, Fanny, let us go and see your grandmother."

"I 'won't'! So there!" exclaimed Fanny. "And if you tell her, I'll run away and go down to Boston all alone. I have got twenty dollars of my own, and I can go on the cars; and I will, Sarah Leyman, if you tell her one word. And besides, you can't tell her to-day," said Fanny, with a sense of sudden relief. "She has gone away, and won't be home till Saturday."

This was not true, for Mrs. Lilly expected to be at home next morning.

"If she isn't at home, of course I can't tell her," said Sarah. "You had better go home now, Fanny. Be sure you tell them that the bull is loose, because he may do some great mischief. Good-night."

Sarah turned and walked rapidly away across the fields.

Fanny watched her for a minute, and then went home. She informed Oney that the bull was loose, that he had chased her and torn her flannel cloak all to pieces, but she never said a word about Sarah Leyman.

CHAPTER VI.

AT MEETING.

FOR a good many days Fanny saw nothing more of Sarah Leyman. She was not at the spring or down by the river, nor did she come to the house, as Fanny had feared she would.

One day, however, Willy came in, bringing a pretty little birch bark basket filled with beautiful wild raspberries. He said Sarah Leyman had met him in the lane and handed him the basket, asking him to give it to Mrs. Lilly.

"What beautiful berries, and what a nice little basket the poor girl has made!" said Mrs. Lilly, admiring the basket, which was indeed most ingeniously made, and lined with fresh green leaves. "I wonder where she found the berries? I thought they were all over."

"Up on the mountains somewhere, I dare say," replied Oney. "They always ripen ten days later up there. I wonder she dares run about as she does, but she seems to have no more fear than a wild creature. They say she is often gone whole days and nights together."

"Grandma, why is it so dangerous to go on the mountain without a guide?" asked Fanny. "Are there wild beasts to hurt anybody?"

"It is dangerous for several reasons," replied Mrs. Lilly. "In the first place, it is very easy for inexperienced persons to lose themselves, and there are many dangerous places."

"Such as what?" asked Fanny.

"Such as precipices and deep cracks between the rocks into which one might fall and never be found again, and bogs in which you might be smothered and swallowed up in the mud. Then, in the upper part of the mountain, there are often sudden fogs and showers and cold winds which would chill you to the bone in five minutes."

"Are there any wild beasts?"

"Not on this side, though even here, I suppose, one might meet a bear or a wildcat now and then. But on the other side they say there are both bears and panthers, besides plenty of rattlesnakes, though I have not heard of any being killed very lately. But the mountain is a very dangerous place, and you must never go up alone as Sarah does. It is a thousand pities the poor child has not a better home."

"What is the matter with her home?" asked Fanny.

"Well, her father is a bad man, to begin with. He drinks very hard at times; and though he is a skilful workman, he will never do a day's work as long as he can help it. His mother is—well, I don't mean to be hard upon her," said Mrs. Lilly, "but the truth is, she is nothing but a nuisance—an idle, gossiping, tale-bearing, mischief-making slattern. If she spent half the time in taking care of her house and family that she does in running about the village, picking up and repeating slanders and gossiping with old Miss Clarke, she might keep things going on well enough. But as it is, they never have anything comfortable or decent from one year's end to another."

"Who was Sarah's aunt Sally?" asked Fanny.

"She was Mr. Leyman's sister, but as different from him as light from darkness. A better woman never breathed, and while she lived the family were somewhat respectable. She used to do tailoring and dressmaking, and sometimes she went out nursing. She was one of the best hands in a sick-room that ever I saw."

"What did she die of?" asked Fanny.

"Of hard work principally—of toiling night and day to support her great lazy brother and his family. I never saw a child grieve so at a death as Sarah did for her aunt. She was only eight years old, poor little wild thing! But when they came to screw down the coffin, she screamed, and threw herself upon it and would not let anybody touch it, and they had to take her away by force. Does Sarah ever say anything about her aunt?"

"I don't know," answered Fanny, coolly. "I never see Sarah nowadays. You told me not to play with her, so I don't."

Willy's black eyes shot a glance at Fanny which said a great deal, but he spoke not a word.

Fanny felt the look, however, and wondered how much Willy knew, and whether he would be likely to tell of her.

The next Sunday, as they were coming home from church in the village, Mrs. Lilly said to Fanny, "We are going to have some company this week, Fanny. Mrs. Cassell and Mr. and Mrs. Brandon and Annie are coming up here to spend the day on Wednesday, and perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Brandon may stay a few days."

"Oh how nice!" said Willy.

And Oney added, "It will seem like old times to have Mr. Brandon about the house again. But I must be careful, now that he has grown such a great man. As likely as not, I shall be calling him Hugh, the first thing."

"I dare say it wouldn't do any harm if you did," said Mrs. Lilly.

"Where in the world did 'you' ever know Mr. Brandon?" asked Fanny, with an emphasis on the "you" which was not very polite, to say the least.

"He used to live with us once," replied Oney. "He was rather a delicate boy, and his father used to send him to the mountains in summer, and he spent all his college vacations with us after his father died. Don't you remember the description of our house in his book—I don't remember the name, but that story about the war?"

"I never read any of Mr. Brandon's books," said Fanny.

"Why, Fanny!" exclaimed Willy, who had an untamable appetite for books, and who was perpetually astonished by Fanny's indifference to them. "Why, it has lain on the table all summer."

"Well, what of that?" returned Fanny, tartly. "Is that any reason why I should read it?"

"It would be a reason with me," said Willy; "besides, it is so interesting."

"There's an odds in folks, you see, Willy," said Oney. "But hadn't you better study it up, Fanny? Mr. Brandon might ask you some questions about it."

"Dear me! I hope not," said Fanny, in alarm. "Do you think he will, grandma?"

"No, my dear. Authors are not very apt to talk about their own books."

"Do you think he would be offended if I were to ask him about some things in his other book—I mean the one about South America?" asked Willy.

"No; I dare say he would be pleased to find that you had read his book so carefully."

"I am glad of that, because there are ever so many things that I want to know more about," said Willy. "I mean to get the book and look it over again."

"Well, I shouldn't think you would want to, Willy," said Fanny, who had her private reasons for being alarmed at Willy's announcement. "It would look like putting yourself forward, and I am sure Mr. Brandon would not like it. He isn't used to associating with all sorts of people," said Fanny, with a grand air. "He associates with the best families in Boston."

"Oh!" said Willy. "Well, I don't know about the first families in Boston, but I don't mean to keep any company I am ashamed to own, Fanny."

This hint alarmed Fanny, and she did not speak another word all the way home; she was afraid Willy knew too much.

That evening Fanny went with the rest to the five-o'clock meeting in the schoolhouse down the road. They were rather early, and took their usual seats on the side of the room. Fanny liked this, because she could watch all who came in, and make her remarks on their dress and manners. The room was pretty full at last, for it was a cool, pleasant evening, and quite a number of people walked up from the village to attend the service.

Just as the first hymn was being sung, Sarah Leyman came in and slipped into a seat near the door. She had made herself as neat as she knew how, and looked very handsome, for in spite of her dark skin, made darker by exposure to all sorts of weather, Sarah was a beautiful girl. She behaved with perfect propriety; and when she raised her head after the first prayer, Fanny felt sure that she had been crying.

"Well, I declare!" said Fanny to herself. "I wonder what she will do next? I wonder if she really means to do as she said! Oh dear! I am sure I hope not, for then she will go and tell grandma."

And then for one moment Fanny saw how utterly mean and selfish she was, and what a wicked and false life she was leading. That momentary glimpse of herself might have done Fanny a great deal of good and saved herself and others a great deal of distress if she had profited by it. But she did not. She only went on thinking how she could possibly manage to keep Sarah and her grandmother apart.

"Were you not surprised at seeing Sarah Leyman at meeting?" asked Oney of Mrs. Lilly as they walked home together. "I should as soon have expected to see one of the wild eagles off the mountain. But she looked and behaved very well, didn't she?"

"Very well; and I was glad to see her there," replied Mrs. Lilly. "I hope it is a good sign. I must try to have a talk with her some time. I have a Testament that her aunt gave to my Eunice when they were girls together; I think I will give it to Sarah. Perhaps she would read it because it was her aunt's."

"I wouldn't, grandma," said Fanny; "she would only make all sorts of fun of it, as she does of everything about religion. That's one reason why I didn't want to play with her any more. She talked so she scared me."

"I am sorry to hear that," said Mrs. Lilly.

"That's all she went to meeting for, I know," continued Fanny, growing bolder, and determined at all hazards to prevent any chance of an understanding between her grandmother and Sarah. "She will go home and mimic the minister and deacon and poor Mr. Willson, and make all sorts of fun of them. She has listened under the window on purpose before now."

"Who told you?" asked Oney.

"She told me herself," returned Fanny, boldly. "I used to play with her when I first came here, and I did play with her two or three times after grandma forbade me, but I have not done it this long time—not since I have been trying to be a good girl. If you talked to her ever so kindly, she would only go away and make fun of you."

"Well, that wouldn't hurt me," said Mrs. Lilly, "and we can never know what words will do good. I don't like to think that any girl can be a hardened sinner at fifteen, and especially one who was the child of so many prayers as Sarah."

"Mrs. Lilly," said Willy, "don't you think that a person who pretended to be good and religious all the time that he knew he was wicked would be a great deal harder to convert than one like Sarah Leyman?"

"No doubt," returned Mrs. Lilly. "Especially if the hypocrite were self-deceived."

"I suppose hypocrites usually do impose on themselves more or less," remarked Oney.

"Almost always to some degree, I presume. A man who is destroying his neighbour's body and soul by selling liquor, may very likely make himself think that he is quite a good man because he gives away money liberally; and another, who will cheat half an ounce in every pound he sells, comforts himself by thinking that he keeps Sunday carefully, and always has family prayers; and so of other things. I would rather undertake to make an impression on poor Sarah, or even on Sam Leyman himself, than on such a person. But I will certainly speak to Sarah if I have a chance. It can at least do no harm. Oney, there is Squire Howe before us, and I want to speak to him about drawing Mrs. Merrill some wood. He said he would give her a load any time, and I dare say it will be more convenient for him to do it before harvest."

Mrs. Lilly and Oney walked on quickly, and no sooner were the children alone together than Willy broke out with more than his usual vehemence.

"Fanny Lilly, I do think that you are the very meanest creature that ever lived in this world. Nobody but a girl could be so mean as you are. You are as much worse than Sarah Leyman than she is worse than—than Grandma Lilly," said Willy, finishing up with a grand climax.

"Why, Willy, what is the matter now?" asked Fanny. "What have I done to you?"

"To me! You haven't done anything to me, only you are always hinting about my being a hired boy and coming from the poorhouse, and Mr. Brandon said himself that nobody but a snob would throw such a thing in a fellow's face. But I don't care so much about that. It is the way you treat Sarah Leyman that makes me despise you. As if I didn't know how you have been with her day after day, going over to the Corners with her, and all! As if I didn't know how she saved you from the bull! And you never said one word about her, though it is the greatest wonder in the world she wasn't killed."

"I should like to know how you found out anything about it," said Fanny, trying to speak in an unconcerned manner.

"Because I saw it; that's all."

"I think you might have come to help us, than, instead of watching and spying," said Fanny.

"I did come, but I was too late. I was up in the barn-loft and saw the whole performance, but before I could get to you, it was all over. So I went to find Mr. Wye and tell him about the bull. And after that, you abuse her behind her back, and don't want your grandma to show her the least kindness or even speak a good word to the poor girl. I suppose you are afraid she will find out some of your secrets. I always thought you knew more about that pie than you chose to tell."

Fanny was very angry, but she controlled herself; and answered, quickly, "You are very much mistaken, Willy, as you will see when you know all about it. I only met Sarah by accident that day. The only reason that I didn't tell grandma and Oney how she saved me from the bull was that she made me promise not to say a word about it, because she said she left the bars down, and let out the bull herself. All I said about her making fun of religion was every word true, only I didn't tell it half as bad as it was, because I didn't like to repeat such stuff, and because I didn't want to tell grandma how Sarah made fun of her for praying in the meeting Thursday evening, and for sitting at the table with a dirty nigger, like Oney. Those were her very words."

"Oney isn't a nigger, and if she was, she couldn't help it; and I don't think nigger is a very pretty name to call any one," said Willy.

"Nor I; and that wasn't the worst she said, by a great deal. As for the pie," continued Fanny, feeling that she was "in for it," and that a few more lies would not make much difference—"as for the pie, you are right, Willy. I do know—or at least I have a very good guess—where it went, but I wasn't going to say what I thought when Sarah and I had played together. I would like to have Sarah a good girl as well as anybody, and I have talked to her myself, but there is no use in it. She only makes fun of me, and I don't want her to make fun of grandma.

"I know I have hurt your feelings, sometimes, Willy, but I never meant to do it, and I beg your pardon. You see things are very different here from what they are in Boston. There were two girls who came to our school last winter, and everybody liked them at first, but by and by the girls found out that their mother was a dressmaker, and after that a good many of the scholars would not speak to them. I heard Cousin Emma tell of a gentleman who refused to be introduced to a young girl at her house because he thought she was not genteel enough."

"If I had been master of the house, he would have seen the outside of it pretty suddenly," said Willy, who had the instincts of a gentleman. "Besides, I know all Boston people are not like that. Those gentlemen who came up and camped out on the mountain last summer were as polite and pleasant to everybody as they could be."

"Well, anyhow, that was the reason I didn't like to see Sarah at meeting, because I knew why she had come," persisted Fanny, returning to the first subject. "Of course I am thankful to her for saving me from the bull, though she got me into the scrape in the first place, but that doesn't prevent me from seeing her faults."

"Humph!" said Willy, not more than half satisfied. "Well, anyhow, I hope Grandma Lilly will have a real good talk with her."

"And so do I, because, after all, it won't hurt grandma if Sarah does make fun of her, and perhaps grandma may do her some good," said Fanny. But in her heart she was determined that this talk should never take place if she could help it.

CHAPTER VII.

THE OFFENCE GIVEN.

THE next day, and the next, Fanny went up to the spring and down to the grove, but she could see nothing of Sarah.

The next afternoon she was sent on an errand to the Corners. She went "'cross-lots," as they say; and passing the end of Sam Leyman's garden, she saw Sarah sitting at work on the back doorstep and called to her.

"Is that you, Fanny?" exclaimed Sarah, jumping up and coming to meet Fanny with an expression of real pleasure on her face. "Where are you going?"

"Over to the Corners for grandma. Don't you want to go with me?"

"I am afraid Mrs. Lilly wouldn't like it," said Sarah, hesitating in a way very unusual with her.

"Seems to me you have taken a very sudden fit of goodness," said Fanny, not at all pleased. "I wonder how long you have been so particular? Ever since you went to meeting the other night, I suppose. But do come a little way with me. I want to see you ever so much."

"Well, I don't care."

"I went down to the grove yesterday on purpose to find you," said Fanny, in rather an injured tone, as they walked across the pasture together. "I thought you would certainly be there. Why didn't you come?"

"Well, for two or three reasons; I was busy at home, for one thing, mending and washing Ally's clothes, and trying to patch up some of my own old frocks, so as to be a little more decent. And besides, Fanny, to tell you the truth, I thought it would be rather mean after your grandma spoke to me so kindly Sunday night."

"Oh yes; very kindly indeed—to your face," said Fanny, sneeringly.

"What do you mean?" asked Sarah.

"Oh, nothing—only Oney said she wondered what had brought 'that' Sarah Leyman to meeting, and grandma said she presumed you had only come to make fun of everything and everybody, and she thought you had better stay away, at least till you had something decent to wear."

"Did Mrs. Lilly say that?" asked Sarah, in a low tone.

"She said a great deal more than that," replied Fanny, "and so did the rest of the people?" And she proceeded to repeat a number of contemptuous speeches which she professed to have overheard, till she was stopped by Sarah's throwing herself on the ground and bursting out into a passionate fit of crying.

"What is the matter?" asked Fanny, surprised and rather alarmed at the storm she had raised. "What are you crying about?"

"I don't care so much for the rest of them," said Sarah, sitting up with her black eyes flashing through her tears. "But Mrs. Lilly that I thought was so good, and that spoke to me so kindly! I don't care; I never will believe in anybody's goodness again. Fanny, are you telling me the truth? Was your grandma really so mean and wicked as that?"

"I don't see anything so mean and wicked," said Fanny, rather scared, but not at all understanding Sarah's state of mind. "She said what she thought, I suppose."

"When did she say what she thought, when she was telling me to my face that she was glad to see me and hoped I would come again, or when she was talking against me behind my back, and saying she should think I would be ashamed to show myself? Come now, Fanny! She did not really say all that. You are making it up to tease me, I know."

"You can ask Willy, for he heard her," said Fanny, determined to stand her ground, but beginning to wish she had not said anything.

"I have a great mind to go and ask Mrs. Lilly herself," said Sarah.

"You will get into a scrape if you do, I can tell you," said Fanny, knowing that if Sarah and her grandmother came together, they would soon arrive at an understanding. "Grandma knows that it was you who let out the bull."

"It was 'not' me!" exclaimed Sarah, indignantly. "I 'never' leave the bars down, and hardly ever go through them, and I had not seen the bull that day."

"Well, anyhow, she thinks you did, and she is very angry about it. She said if she caught you, she would have you sent where you would be taken care of and kept out of mischief. And Mrs. Crane said you would be a great deal better off in the asylum, and that grandma would be doing a good turn to everybody."

"I should like to see them put me in the asylum!" exclaimed Sarah. "I never will go there. I will kill myself or somebody else first." And down went her head on the grass again in a tempest of grief and anger.

"I don't believe there is one single good person in all the world," she said, through her sobs. "I wonder whether there is anything good anywhere? If it wasn't for poor Ally, I would go and jump into Pope's hole this very day, and so be dead and buried at the same time."

Ally was Sarah's younger sister, and her special pet.

"I wonder if Aunt Sally was just such a hypocrite as your grandmother?" continued Sarah, with a fresh burst of grief. "I wonder if all her goodness was just lies and pretence?"

"You shall not call my grandmother a hypocrite, Sarah Leyman; I should think you would be ashamed." And then Fanny stopped suddenly, for it occurred to her that it was herself who had given her grandmother such a character, and not Sarah. She could not in the least understand the cause of Sarah's excessive grief, and thought she was only angry at being laughed at.

"Oh come, never mind," said she, presently. "Why, it isn't anything so very dreadful; and besides, if you want to come to meeting, you can come, for all them."

"I shall never come again, never," said Sarah, sitting up and wiping her eyes. "I did think that night I would try to be a Christian. I made up my mind to it; I have said my prayers ever since, and I was going to ask you to give me or lend me a Testament to read myself and to teach Ally out of. Father won't have a Bible in the house, if he knows it, but I would keep it hidden away where he could not find it. But it is all over now. There is no use in trying."

The tone of hopeless despair in which Sarah said these words made its way even into Fanny's blunt feelings. She began to feel a little sorry for what she had done.

"Oh, I wouldn't say so," said she; "I wouldn't give it all up for that—just because grandma isn't perfect. Just keep on and be good all the same. I do."

"You do!—You!" said Sarah, in a tone of contemptuous wonder. "Fanny Lilly, do you really think you are a good girl?"

Her tone and words made Fanny wince, but she stood her ground.

"Why, yes, I do," she replied. "I read my Bible and say my prayers every day, and I have been reading ever so many good books. I learned two hymns only yesterday. If that isn't being a good girl—"

"Well, it isn't—not according to my notion," said Sarah. "That would not be my way of being good. Fanny," she added, with sudden energy, "if you tell me that all you have said is just made up to tease me, I will be your friend for ever, and I will do anything in the world for you. I don't care; I mean to ask Mrs. Lilly about it, anyhow."

"Well, you can do as you please, of course," said Fanny, affecting an unconcern which she by no means felt. "I shouldn't think you would like to be taken and shut up with all those poorhouse children, and never see Ally nor anybody again, but if you do, I don't know why I need care. I went to see the asylum with grandma, and it did not look very pleasant, I tell you."

The asylum spoken of by Fanny was one for poor children which had been established at R— by the joint efforts of two counties. The children of paupers were carried to this asylum instead of the poorhouse, and were taught and cared for.

"Besides, I shouldn't know whether she told the truth or not if she spoke ever so kindly to me," said Sarah. "I shall never know whether anybody is true again, or anything, for that matter. Well, let it go. I dare say it is all nonsense, as pa says, and that nobody cares whether we are good or bad. Come, tell me the news. What has happened?"

"Nothing very particular that I know of, only old Mrs. Cassell and her granddaughter and Mr. and Mrs. Brandon are coming up to our house to spend the day on Wednesday, and Mr. and Mrs. Brandon are going to stay for a visit. Oney is making all kinds of nice things. Oh, by the way, Sarah, I want that volume of Mr. Brandon's travels that I lent you. Willy has been hunting the house over for it."

"I'll get it when I go home," said Sarah. "He's another, I suppose."

"Another what?" asked Fanny.

"Another of the hypocrites," said Sarah.

"I didn't know he pretended to be anything so very good."

"Don't he? I met him up on the mountain last week. He was looking for wild flowers, and I showed him some kinds he had never seen before; and didn't he talk 'good'? I thought he was a wicked young man before, and so I told him."

"Oh, Sarah, you never told Mr. Brandon all that stuff?"

"Yes, I did; and he only laughed and said, 'Don't be in such a hurry to believe evil of people you don't know, my girl. Anybody as bright as you ought to have something better to think about than idle, gossiping stories.' And then I told him I was reading his book, but I couldn't understand it very well. Oh, we had a real nice talk, I can tell you. But I dare say he is all humbug, like the rest of them. Annie Cassell is a cunning little thing, though. You bring her up to the spring, and we will have a real nice time."

"I don't suppose grandma will let me," said Fanny.

"You needn't tell her all about it, you goose. Just tell her you want to show Annie the spring. There is no harm in that."

"I don't know about it."

"If you don't, I will just come down to the house and ask to see you, and tell your grandma you promised to come and bring Annie with you."

"You wouldn't tell such a lie?" said Fanny, alarmed.

"You'll see," was the answer. "Why shouldn't I tell lies as well as other folks? Just as sure as you don't come, I will come down to the house and ask for you. You needn't be afraid. You don't suppose I want to hurt the child, do you?"

"No; of course not. Well, I will come if I can."

When Fanny reached home, she went to find her grandmother, who was in the dairy. The truth was, she had seen Willy in the field, and was by no means sure that he had not seen her walking with Sarah. So she meant to be beforehand with him, in case he should have any intention of telling of her. So first putting Mr. Brandon's book down behind the parlour table that it might have the appearance of having fallen by accident, she went into the milkroom, where Mrs. Lilly was working over her butter—an operation which she always performed herself if possible.

"Grandma," said she, "I met Sarah Leyman at the Corners; and she walked over home with me. I couldn't get rid of her without being rude, and I knew you wouldn't want me to hurt her feelings."

"Of course not," said Mrs. Lilly, feeling pleased that Fanny should come to her so frankly. "Don't be unkind to her in any way. How did she seem to feel?"

"Oh, just as usual," said Fanny. "She says she thinks all religious people are hypocrites alike."

"I wonder whether she thinks her aunt Sally was one?" said Mrs. Lilly.

"I asked her that, and she said she didn't remember much about her, but she didn't believe there was much to choose."

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Lilly, sighing.

"Well, I suppose one ought to be sorry for her, and yet I could not help being angry," said Fanny. "I told her she ought to be ashamed, but she went on worse than ever. I do believe she will make fun of anything. I never heard her so bad as she was to-day."

"That may be only a sign that her heart is touched," said Mrs. Lilly. "She may be trying to silence her conscience. Those have a great deal to answer for who have brought her up in such a way."

"Yes, indeed," said Oney, who had just come in with her hands full of cake warm from the oven. "'Whoso shall offend one of these little ones, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.' I wouldn't like to have the responsibility that rests on that girl's father and mother."

"I hoped for better things from seeing Sarah at the meeting," said Mrs. Lilly, "but Fanny tells me she only makes fun of the whole thing. But it may be only that she is trying to put down conviction in her own mind. You must be very careful what you say to her, Fanny. I wish I could get a chance for a quiet talk with her."

"Has Willy found that book yet?" asked Fanny, feeling very uncomfortable, and wishing to change the subject before anything else was said.

"No, not yet; I can't think what has become of it," replied Mrs. Lilly. "I hope it is not lost."

"I believe I will go and take a look for it; perhaps I may find it in some place Willy has overlooked," said Fanny. "I am pretty good at finding things."

"Do, my dear, and dust the books in the parlour at the same time. And, Fanny, you may get out all the Indian curiosities, and arrange them; they will help to amuse Annie."

Fanny dusted and arranged and put everything in nice order, trying to become so much interested in her work as not to think of anything else, for the words of Oney rang in her ears very uncomfortably. "Whosoever offendeth one of these little ones—" Fanny thought that did not sound quite right, and she opened the book to see.

"Whoso shall offend one of these little ones which 'believe' in 'me,—'"

That did not mend the matter, and she shut the book and laid it down as if it burned her fingers. Was not this just what, she had done? Had she not offended Sarah just as she was beginning to believe? Had she not done her best to prevent her from taking another step in that path which the poor girl was just trying to enter—the path which led to safety, to happiness and salvation? Suppose Sarah should never repent and become a Christian, whose would be the fault?

"Well, I couldn't help it," said Fanny to herself. "I couldn't have her coming up here and talking to grandma, and telling her everything, as I am sure she would the very first thing if grandma coaxed her a little. I don't see how I can help going to the spring to-morrow, either, but I must be sure and make Annie promise not to tell. Tiresome little torment! I wish she wasn't coming at all. I dare say she will get me into some scrape or other."

Fanny busied herself till tea-time with the books and curiosities, and in unpacking her doll and its clothes, which had remained in their box ever since she left home. When Oney called her to supper, she came into the kitchen, holding up the missing book in triumph.

"See what I have found," said she.

"Oh, Mr. Brandon's book! How glad I am!" exclaimed Willy, with sparkling eyes. "Where did you find it? I have hunted all over for it."

"It was behind the table in the parlour," said Fanny. "You couldn't have looked very sharp, Willy."

Willy looked as if he did not know how to believe his ears.

"Why, Fanny!" he exclaimed. "I don't see how that can be. I moved the table and looked behind it this very morning, and I am sure the book was not there then, or I would have seen it."

"I am sure it was," answered Fanny, positively. "I found it when I was dusting the parlour. I happened to think I would move out the table, and down fell the book directly. So you see, Willy, you must be mistaken."

"Perhaps you only thought you would move it, or you might not have moved it far enough," said Mrs. Lilly. "Never mind; I am glad the book is found."

"Well, if that isn't the strangest thing, I wouldn't say so," said Willy to Oney when they were alone together. "Oney, I know just as well as I know anything that the book was not there this morning. I pulled the table clear away from the wall, and looked behind it and under the cloth and everywhere."

"So did I," said Oney. "I am sure that it was not there."

"Then why didn't you say so?" asked Willy, a little vexed.

"Because I am an Indian, and know how to hold my tongue—a thing which I sometimes think white folks never learn," said Oney, smiling. "Where's the use in making a fuss?"

"But Fanny is so awful deceitful," said Willy; "I do think Mrs. Lilly ought to know."

"Oh, she'll find out, never you fear," replied Oney; "and I would rather she found out of herself, without any help of mine. You see, Fanny is playing 'good' just now, and the old lady thinks she is just right. I have given her two or three hints, but she would not hear, and the other day she as much as told me she was afraid I was jealous of Fanny. So I made up my mind to let matters alone, and you had better do the same."

CHAPTER VIII.

SARAH'S PLANS.

THE next day was Wednesday—the day appointed for Mrs. Cassell's visit. Fanny remembered it the moment she opened her eyes, and did not exactly know whether she were glad or sorry.

"I should be glad, only for going up to the spring," she thought, "but perhaps, after all, Annie's grandmother won't let her go, and then I shall have a good excuse. I don't care: I mean to have a good time, anyway. And even if Sarah does come to the spring, grandma need not know that I expected her. How bad she did feel yesterday! I wonder what ailed her? I shouldn't think she need mind so much. They can't do anything to her."

In truth, Fanny was quite incapable of understanding Sarah's feelings. With Fanny, partly from her natural disposition and more from the way in which she had been brought up, self was everything. She judged of everything as it affected herself. What pleased her or afforded her any advantage was right; whatever displeased or annoyed her was wrong. She would not have shed a tear at finding out her best friend in the greatest crime or meanness, so long as it did not affect herself.

She liked Sarah in her fashion, because Sarah's wit and wild stories amused her, and because she was, on the whole, an agreeable playmate, and it never troubled her in the least to think that Sarah was a very naughty girl and in a fair way of going to utter destruction. She loved her father as well as she was capable of loving anybody, but the most disgraceful failure on his part would have affected her less unpleasantly than his refusal to pay fifty dollars for some dress or trinket on which she had set her heart. In fact, self was her idol, her god. Whoever sacrificed to that god was right in her eyes; whoever treated her deity with neglect or disrespect was wrong, no matter how good he might otherwise be.

It was very different with Sarah Leyman. Utterly wild and untaught as she was and had been ever since she was eight years old, the poor child had a heart capable of devoted attachment and of great sacrifices. Till she was eight years old, Aunt Sally had been her all—her friend, teacher, protector, and playmate, all in one. Mrs. Leyman often said before her sister and daughter that Sarah took after her aunt a great deal more than she did after her mother, and predicted that she should turn out just such another saint—saint being a term of the deepest reproach in the vocabulary of people like Mrs. Leyman.

Everything that Sarah knew she learned from Aunt Sally, who taught her to say her prayers and read her Bible, and to know that she had a Father in heaven who would always love her and take care of her. But Aunt Sally died at thirty, because she hadn't any ambition according to her sister-in-law—in reality, of hard work and anxiety and grief and shame. Poor Sarah was left without a friend. Two or three people would have taken her for her aunt's sake, Mrs. Lilly among the rest, but her father would not hear of binding her out, and nobody wanted to be at the trouble of dressing and teaching and becoming attached to her, only to have her taken away as soon as she was old enough to become useful. Moreover, Mr. Leyman made it a condition that Sarah should not go to church or Sunday-school or be "taught any priestcraft and superstition."

So Sarah grew up with no education except what she picked up herself by reading such books as fell in her way and by going for a few weeks at a time to the district school. Here she learned to write and cipher a little. Aunt Sally had taught her to read almost before she could remember, and she heard the Bible read and read it in turn with the other children, and now and then an earnest teacher would try to put into the child's mind some sense of the truths of religion, so that she was not absolutely ignorant on that subject.

But during the last year, she had lost that small chance. The three or four small district schools in and around the village had been consolidated into one grand union school, attended by all the young ladies of the village, and Sarah was too proud to show herself among those who were so much better dressed and educated than herself.

Sarah's father was what he called a freethinker, which in his case meant nothing more nor less than an impudent, reckless creature, regarding the laws neither of God nor man. He made a regular business of ostentatiously breaking the Sabbath, and as far as possible, he brought up his children in the same way. The training had produced its legitimate fruits. One son was already in the penitentiary, and the other had escaped a like fate only by running away and going to sea.

Mrs. Leyman was pretty much what Mrs. Lilly had described her. She had come of a decent family, and there were those who were willing to show her kindness for the sake of her father and mother. But Mrs. Leyman was one of those people who take two or three miles for every ell that is given them. If she had an invitation to any house in the village or at the Corners—the little hamlet which had grown up at the slate quarry—she made such an invitation a pretext for a dozen visits at least. If anybody gave her a pail of skim milk or buttermilk one day, she would send the next for a piece of cheese or butter, or to borrow a washboard or flat-iron; and those who were weak enough to lend to her seldom saw their property again.

Her chief pleasures in life were strong green tea and scandal. A small property which still remained to her from her father's estate supplied her with means for purchasing the first. For the second she was chiefly indebted to Miss Clarke, the washerwoman and tailoress employed in good families for her abilities in doing up fine muslins and making children's clothes. Miss Clarke was an inveterate collector of news and scandal, and the worse a story was, the better it pleased her. She was, to put it in plain English, an inveterate and malicious liar, and she improved her natural gifts in that direction by taking opium. Such was Mrs. Leyman's chosen friend, and from her did she obtain all those stories of the secret sins and shortcomings of church-members and respectable people with which she entertained her husband.

Sarah listened to her mother's tales because she liked anything in the shape of a story, and because, being sensible of the degradation of her own family, she took a sullen satisfaction in thinking that others were no better. But she despised her mother and almost hated her father, and she would have run away from home long before now, only for Ally, her poor little sickly sister. It was Ally who kept Sarah at home for the few hours that she ever spent there from the beginning to the end of warm weather. For her sake, Sarah recalled all she could of Aunt Sally's hymns and verses, her Bible, and other stories. For Ally she learned Sunday-school hymns and borrowed Sunday-school books from the other children, and gathered flowers and berries and everything that could comfort and amuse the child in her sick times.

It was Mrs. Lilly's kindness to Ally which had made Sarah like her in the first place. Poor Sarah was a very naughty girl—there was unfortunately no doubt of that—but she would have been a great deal worse only for Ally, and for the half-remembered lessons learned at Aunt Sally's knee. But for these things and for an undefined something—she could hardly tell what—which had lately been creeping over her, and making her feel a kind of hope that she might some time become better and happier, she would have run away and left the family to its fate.

What Sarah found to love in Fanny it would, perhaps, be hard to say, but she did love her, and would have done anything for her. Fanny was very pretty, for one thing. She had nice manners and a pleasant way of speaking when she was pleased, and she could tell tales of a world of which Sarah knew nothing, and which she fancied must be more wonderful and beautiful than her own. Sarah soon found out that Fanny was shallow, and she had begun to feel, rather than suspect, that she was false: but she was one of those people who, having loved once, love always, and she was still devoted to Fanny with her whole heart and soul.

Sarah could hardly have told what led her to go to the meeting on Sunday evening. She had never attended before, though all the neighbours went, especially Mrs. Lilly, and she had a feeling that everything Mrs. Lilly did must be good. She had been quite serious in what she had said to Fanny after the adventure of the bull. She did want to be a good girl, a true Christian like Mrs. Lilly and Aunt Sally, but she did not know how to begin. Perhaps she might find out at the meeting. So she made up her mind to go and try, and she found out that, at any rate, it was very pleasant, though rather awful. Those things which she had mimicked for Fanny's amusement—Deacon Crane's broad accent and Mr. Howe's bad grammar—did not now strike her as so absurd because she felt as she never had done, that both the deacon and Mr. Howe were talking to some very real Presence: not the less real because unseen. The singing, the Bible reading, the speaking, all touched her heart, and the kindness with which she was met by everybody, especially Mrs. Lilly, increased the charm.

They had all seemed so glad to see her there, and had asked her to come again. Sarah made up her mind that she would go again, that she would somehow have a Bible and read it and teach Ally to read it, and she would try her best to be a good Christian girl. And then to find out that these people who had seemed so glad to see her were laughing at her and plotting to separate her from Ally and put her in prison, to find out that Mrs. Lilly was capable of such treachery—Mrs. Lilly, whom she had always considered as the very model of everything good,—this it was, and no hurt vanity, which had caused the violent burst of feeling which Fanny could not understand. This it was which made her feel as if there were no real truth or goodness anywhere, and no use in trying to do right, since religious people were, after all, no better than any one else. This was the mischief Fanny had done, and at which she might well have stood appalled if she had at all understood it.

But she did not. She was sorry to have made Sarah feel so badly, but she was glad to have prevented any chance of an explanation between Sarah and her grandmother. To be sure, this was not much like the missionary work over which she had been dreaming lately, and which was one day to make her famous and admired. But perhaps Sarah might not have been good, anyway, or perhaps she would become a Christian, after all. And, anyhow, she could not help it now, so there was no use in thinking about it any more.

On the Mountain.

"Here is a nicer cup than that."

This was always Fanny's way of consoling herself and quieting her conscience when it happened to be disturbed: "I can't help it now, so there is no use in worrying myself about it."

She jumped up and dressed herself as nicely as possible, and ran down stairs to help her grandmother with the milk without stopping to say her prayers, as she had been very careful to do lately.

Mrs. Cassell had promised to come early, and by ten o'clock the carriage was seen by Fanny's eager eyes coming slowly up the long ascent. Mrs. Lilly's farm lay mostly on the first rise of the mountain, as it was called, a kind of broad terrace ascending from the river, which ran through the valley, to a nearly level plain of some quarter of a mile in extent. Besides this, Mrs. Lilly owned a broad strip of meadow-land along the river, and a large extent of pasture and forests extending to the "No man's land" and cloudland on the top of the great mountain which overlooked Hillsborough.

To Annie, coming from Detroit, where the land is literally as flat as a pancake and the river looks as if it had been spilled on the top of the ground, this country of mountains and swift-running streams, "of fountains and depths that spring out of valleys and hills," was a land of enchantment. It was as beautiful as fairyland the little girl thought, but, like fairyland, it was also rather alarming in respect that one never knew exactly what might be coming next. She had received the announcement that they were going to make a visit up on the mountain with some inward misgivings. And when she found herself going up and up without seeming ever to come to the end, she began to wish herself at home. But when she finally arrived and was met by Mrs. Lilly's cordial welcome, all her fears vanished, and she was quite ready to respond to the old lady's kindness, and to enjoy herself thoroughly.

"And where is Hugh?" asked Mrs. Lilly. "I hope he is not going to disappoint us."

"Hugh will come up this afternoon," said Mrs. Brandon. "He was all ready this morning, and indeed came with us as far as the post-office, when he found a bundle of proof-sheets lying in wait for him, so he had to return and devote himself to them. He will ride up this afternoon as soon as he finishes his work. But proof-sheets are like time and tide: they wait for no man."

"No, I suppose not," said Mrs. Lilly. "Well, I am sorry, but it is not as if this was the only day there was, so you needn't look so doleful, Willy. But come, you had better get your things off. You know the way up stairs, Emma."

As soon as Annie had disposed of the piece of cake which Mrs. Lilly was sure she must need after her ride, Fanny took possession of her. She was fond of children in her selfish way—that is, she liked to play with them as if they were dolls, and amuse herself with them as long as they were "good,"—that is, just so long as they did exactly what she wished.

Annie would have been quite contented to look out of the windows and amuse herself with the Indian curiosities, of which Mrs. Lilly had a great collection, but it was one of Fanny's ways that she never could enjoy herself in the presence of grown people. She could not be easy till she had drawn Annie out of the parlour and carried her off to her own room, where she got out her doll to amuse her visitor. They played with it for some time, and then Fanny proposed that they should go out.

"Can we go and see the raccoon?" said Annie. "Uncle Hugh said Willy had a tame raccoon."

"Oh yes, you shall see everything, and I will take you to the prettiest place you ever saw," replied Fanny, who felt very amiable and patronizing. "I will show you the spring up in the woods, and everything."

"That will be nice," said Annie, "but we must ask grandma first."

"Of course," said Fanny; "I will go and ask her now while you dress the doll."

"Take Annie up to the spring?" repeated Mrs. Lilly, aloud, after Fanny had whispered in her ear. "Why, yes, I suppose so, if Mrs. Cassell has no objection."

"Where is the spring?" asked Mrs. Cassell.

"Only a little way off—just upon the side of the hill. You can almost see it from this window. It is a very pretty place, and there is no danger for them to run into. Fanny spends half her time there, I think. But, Fanny, remember, you must not go into the woods."

"No, ma'am," answered Fanny.

"And don't leave Annie alone anywhere," said Mrs. Cassell. "Remember she has always been brought up in the city, and knows nothing about taking care of herself. Promise me that you will keep close by her."

"I will," answered Fanny. "I will not leave her alone a minute. Please let Willy ring the bell in the garden, grandma, when you want us to come in."

"Very well," said Mrs. Lilly; "we shall not have dinner till two, so you will have a nice time to play and enjoy yourselves."

Fanny put on Annie's hat and jacket, and then led her out to see the raccoon and the guinea hens. As they were looking at the former, Willy came up.

"Now, Willy, you may just go away," said Fanny, sharply. "We don't want you around after us."

Annie looked surprised. She was not used to hear people spoken to in that way.

"It is my raccoon, and I suppose I have a right to look at it," returned Willy.

"Are you Willy Beaubien?" asked Annie.

"Yes," replied Willy, rather shyly, but added, presently, "I have seen you at Sunday-school. Don't you want to see Cooney eat? He looks real cunning."

"Oh yes," exclaimed Annie, much interested. "What does he eat?"

"Oh, anything that he can get. I will run and ask Oney for some cake for him."

"Come, Annie, let's run away while he is gone," said Fanny.

"I don't want to," answered Annie; "I want to see the raccoon eat."

Fanny was tempted to speak sharply, but recollecting herself, she said, "I shouldn't think you would care about that. Come, we sha'n't have any time at all."

But Annie had a little will of her own as well as Fanny, and she would not stir till Willy came back with the cake, and till she had seen the raccoon eat, and had agreed with Willy that he was very cunning and looked as if he knew everything.

"Just as if he knew what we were talking about!" said Annie. "I guess you like animals very well, don't you, Willy?"

"Yes," answered Willy. "I was going to ask you whether you would let me see your Guinea pigs, some time."

"Yes, indeed, and give you a pair, if you like," replied Annie, smiling; "I am sure you would be good to them."

"I don't believe grandma will let him have them," said Fanny, growing cross, as usual, as soon as she was not the chief object of attention. "She says Willy has so many playthings now that he doesn't attend to his work."

"I guess you stretched that a little," said Willy. "Anyhow, I can ask her."

"Well, do come, Annie, if you are ever coming," said Fanny.

The truth was, she was growing uneasy. She had seen Sarah going up to the spring some time before, and was afraid of her losing patience and putting into execution her threat of coming down to the house.

Annie saw that for some reason Fanny was really annoyed, and she at once gave up looking at the guinea hens and followed her conductor through the garden and across the fields.

"See, here is the spring," said Fanny, when they reached the little mossy dell so often spoken of. "See how it comes running out of the mountain-side. Isn't it pretty?"

"Beautiful!" said Annie. "How clear and cool it is! Is it good to drink?"

"Yes, very. There is a cup here somewhere. Oh, here it is." And Fanny produced a somewhat rusty tin cup from under a stone, rinsed it, and filled it from the spring for Annie to drink.

"Here is a nicer cup than that," said Sarah Leyman, coming out from among the bushes, holding in her hand a large scallop shell, such as is frequently brought from Florida and Key West by travellers. "I found it this morning among some things in our garret, and brought it up on purpose for Annie to drink out of."

"Did you?" asked Annie, looking wonderingly at the dark, handsome girl. "That was very good of you. But how did you know that I was coming up here to-day?"

"Oh, a little bird told me," answered Sarah, playfully. "The little bird told me that a fairy was coming up to visit the spring, and would want something pretty to drink out of. Here, drink, little fairy."

"Oh how nice!" said Annie, after she had drank from the shell, which Sarah held to her lips. "I don't think I ever tasted such good water."

"More people than you have thought so," said Sarah. "I was reading a letter last night that your aunt wrote to my aunt from India, in which she said she would give all the fruit in India for one drink from this very spring."

"Was that my aunt Eugenia, and did she write to your aunt?" asked Annie, very much interested. "How nice that is! I should think that ought to make us some sort of cousins, shouldn't you?"

"Very distant cousins," answered Sarah, laughing. "Your name 'is' Annie, isn't it?"

"Yes—Annie Eugenia Mercer. I was named for my aunt and grandmother."

"And where do you live when you are at home, Annie Eugenia?"

"In Detroit," replied Annie.

"I suppose it is a great way off?"

"Oh yes; we were a night and two days coming, and we stopped one night at Albany. And oh, Fanny," exclaimed Annie, "you know I told you how that girl stole my doll on the cars?"

"Yes," answered Fanny. "Why?"

"Don't you think, day before yesterday, Uncle Hugh came up from the cars, and brought a great parcel directed to me. And when I opened it, there was a beautiful doll all dressed, and a letter from this very girl telling me she was sorry she had been so wicked, and she hoped I would forgive her, and that my doll was spoiled, but she had sent me another. Wasn't that nice?"

"Very nice," said Fanny.

"I didn't care so very much about the doll; though, after all, one can't have too many dolls," said Annie, sagely. "But it was nice to think she should be sorry and want to make up for what she had done. Grandma said it was beginning in the right way if Celia—the girl's name was Celia—really meant to be a good girl."

"What was beginning right?" asked Sarah—"Sending back the doll or saying she was sorry?"

"Both," replied Annie. "Grandma said—I am not sure that I can tell it just right—"

"Never mind," said Sarah, who seemed very much interested. "Tell it as well as you can."

"She said we must confess all our sins to God if we want them forgiven; and if they are against our neighbours—that is, if they have done harm to anybody, you know—"

"Yes," said Sarah, "I understand."

"Then we must go to them and try to make up, and if we have done them any damage, we must make it good. I didn't quite understand that at first, and grandma said if I had borrowed Mary Patterson's scissors, and lost or spoiled them, it wouldn't be enough to say I was sorry; I must buy her a new pair if I possibly could. So she said it was right in Celia to send me a new doll."

"I see," said Sarah. "Don't you think you are a happy little girl to have such a good grandma?"

"Yes, indeed!" said Annie, with emphasis. "Mary Patterson says I ought to be thankful every day that I have such good friends to take care of me."

"Who is Mary Patterson?" asked Fanny. She was not very easy under this conversation, and she was, moreover, in a great hurry to improve the time in finding out all about Annie's family history.

"Mary is my nurse," replied Annie. "She has lived at our house ever since I can remember, and we think everything of her."

"How many servants does your mother keep?" was Fanny's next question.

"Oh, let me see: there is Mary Patterson and old Mary the cook—only we don't call her 'old' Mary because mamma says it isn't polite, so we all call her Willis—and Jane the chambermaid, and Arthur, papa's servant, that was with him in the war, and John the coachman."

"Your father must be very rich to keep so many servants."

"Well, I suppose he is," replied Annie, simply. "I heard Uncle Harris say that papa was worth almost a million of dollars. That is a great deal, isn't it?"

"Why, yes, quite a good deal," said Sarah, laughing.

"My father is worth two millions," said Fanny, "and there are people on our street richer than that. But I didn't suppose anybody out West was as well off as that. I thought only poor people went West, and that they lived in log houses and never had anything nice."

"I don't think there are any log houses in Detroit, though I have seen them in the country," said Annie. "Detroit is a very pretty place, though not as nice as it is here, because it is all so flat. There isn't the least little bit of a hill anywhere round. If that hill Mr. Willson lives on were in Detroit, they would think it was a mountain."

"And what would they say to such a mountain as this?" asked Sarah.

"I don't know; I suppose they would be afraid of it, as I was when I first came here," said Annie.

"Oh, you needn't be afraid; he is a pretty good old mountain," said Sarah, who seemed very much taken with the pretty little child. "See what the mountain sent you by me." And going to a ledge of rock close by a kind of natural shelf, she produced two of her pretty little baskets, one filled with red raspberries, the other with blueberries.

"Oh how pretty!" exclaimed Annie. "Did the mountain send them to me? I am sure he was very kind."

"Yes; he told me to tell you that you were welcome to eat his berries and drink out of his spring, but you must never climb up on his back, because that is no place for little girls."

"Well, I won't. Tell him so, with my love. I should like to do something for him. I might work him a slipper—you know they talk of the foot of a mountain sometimes—only I shouldn't know where to get a piece of canvas big enough."

"How silly you are!" aid Fanny, who never could understand a joke. "The mountain isn't alive. It is only a great heap of rocks and dirt."

"I know it," said Annie. "I was only making believe."

Annie ate her berries, and then began admiring the mosses which grew all about the spring.

"I know where there are much prettier mosses than these," said Sarah, "but the place is too far for you to walk. Don't you want to sit here a few minutes while Fanny and I go and get you some snail shells?"

"I don't know," said Annie, rather doubtfully. "If you won't be gone long."

"Oh no, only a few minutes. You just sit still here or play about on the rocks, but don't go away from the spring, whatever you do. Come, Fanny, I want to speak to you. I have something to tell you and to ask you."

"I don't know about leaving Annie. I am afraid she will get into some mischief or other," said Fanny, hesitating a little, though she was very anxious to hear what Sarah had to tell. She had seen all the morning, through all Sarah's playfulness with Annie, that she had something more than usual on her mind, and she was very desirous of finding out what it was.

"I don't see what mischief she can get into," said Sarah, looking about her and considering. "There are no snakes. The wicked old bull is shut up in his stable, and the cattle are all away at the farther pasture. Even if she should take a notion to run home, she can't miss her way. You are not afraid to stay here a few minutes, are you, Annie?"

"No," said Annie—"only don't be long."

"Oh no; we will be back in a very few minutes."

"And you will bring me some snail shells, won't you?"

"Yes, if I can find them, and I am pretty sure I can. After all, Fanny, perhaps we had better not leave her alone. She is such a little thing she might get scared, and I can tell you some other day."

Fanny thought she saw in these last words an indication that Sarah had repented and did not mean to tell her what she had on her mind, and this made her all the more anxious to find out what it was. So she answered, decidedly,—

"Yes, I shall go, too. Mind, Annie, that you don't stir away from this place or you will get lost."

To do Sarah justice, she had not the least idea that in leaving Annie alone at the spring she was exposing her to any danger. The children she was acquainted with played in the woods all day long and made excursions after berries and flowers without any fear. She knew that there were no snakes and no wild animals bigger than a rabbit to be met with at this time of year, and she had really taken pains to assure herself that the bull was safely shut up in his stable. She wanted very much to speak to Fanny, and she did not see that she was likely to have another chance very soon.

Fanny was much more to blame than Sarah, for she had promised faithfully not to leave Annie alone for ever so short a time, and she ought to have kept her word. She knew this very well, but she said to herself that no harm would come to her, and that she must hear what Sarah had to say.

Sarah led the way in silence a short distance up the mountain, and then turned aside into the woods.

"Well?" said Fanny, as Sarah stopped and began gathering some wintergreen shoots. "Well?" she repeated, impatiently, as Sarah did not speak. "What do you want to say to me?"

"Fanny," said Sarah, "I want you to do me a very great favour."

"Well, what?"

"You told me you had a good deal of money of your own."

"Yes; my father gave me twenty dollars, and I have only spent a little of it. Why?"

"I want you to lend me ten dollars," said Sarah. "There! The murder is out."

Fanny looked very much taken aback. "Why do you want ten dollars?" she asked, with a good deal of suspicion in her tone.

"I will tell you all about it if you will listen," said Sarah. "Sit down here on this log."

The two girls sat down side by side, and Sarah went on in rather a low tone:

"After I left you yesterday, I went up in our garret and pulled out all Aunt Sally's old letters to read. There were a good many from Annie's aunt Eugenia in India, and from Mary Jane Merrill and other people. But at last I found the letters I wanted. They were from my Aunt Caroline, my mother's sister, over in Concord. She used to be a schoolteacher, but I knew she had married since, and I wanted to know what sort of woman she was. The letters were very nice indeed, and sounded a good deal like Aunt Sally herself. Then I asked ma about Aunt Caroline, and ma said she had married a rich man and felt above all her relations. But I kept on asking questions till I found out that Aunt Caroline had lost all her own children, and that she had wanted to adopt me or Ally when we were little, but father would not let either of us go. I made ma show me the last letter she had from Aunt Caroline, and it was a real good letter, and I made out that she had always helped ma a great deal."

"Well," said Fanny, impatiently, "what has that to do with my lending you ten dollars?"

"Just this," replied Sarah: "I have been thinking the matter over, and I have made up my mind what to do. If you will lend me ten dollars, I will go and see Aunt Caroline myself, and try to persuade her to take Ally to live with her. I don't think pa would care now. He don't like Ally because she is so plain and sickly. Then, if I succeed, I will get a place to work in a mill or somewhere, and take care of myself."

"Why don't you write to your aunt?" asked Fanny.

"Because I can't write very well, and I want to see Aunt Caroline and talk to her myself. If I have ten dollars, I can get myself a decent frock and hat, so that she need not be ashamed of me, and the rest of the money will pay my fare to Concord and back."

"If your aunt is rich, I should think she would lend you the money," said Fanny.

"I don't want to begin by asking her for money for myself," said Sarah, colouring. "She doesn't know anything about me. But if you will lend it to me, I will pay you back the very first money I earn."

"Oh, of course," said Fanny, sarcastically.

Sarah's eyes flashed. "Don't you believe me?" she asked.

Fanny was rather alarmed, and continued, in a superior but more friendly tone, "I suppose you think you would, but this is all nonsense, Sarah. It is the greatest wild-goose chase I ever heard of. Suppose you go to Concord, what good will it do? Your aunt won't do anything for you. As likely as not, she won't let you come into her house. And as for her adopting Ally, you might as well expect her to adopt a black baby. I know, because my mother is one of the managers of the orphan asylum, and I have heard her say that the people who take children always want a healthy, pretty child with curly hair."

"And what becomes of all the ugly, straight-haired children?" asked Sarah.

"Oh, I don't know. They get bound out, or something. Anyhow, nobody wants them, and I am sure your aunt wouldn't want Ally. You see it is all nonsense, Sarah. You couldn't do anything if you tried."

"Then you won't lend me the money, Fanny?" said Sarah, in a tone of deep mortification and disappointment.

"No, because I don't think there would be any use in it. You had a great deal better stay where you are, or else write a letter to your aunt and ask her to send you some money."

"I can't write, I tell you," said Sarah, flushing crimson. "I can't put one sentence together and spell the words right." She paused a moment, and then spoke again with more earnestness than before, and in a pleading tone very different from her usual off-hand manner:

"Come, Fanny, do lend me this money. It won't be very much to you even if you have to do without it a year, and it will be everything to me. I can't leave home while Ally is there, whatever happens, and I feel almost sure that Aunt Caroline will take the child if I can only see her and tell her how things are, which I couldn't do in a letter if I could write ever so well. If Ally is only safe, I know I can find some place where I can earn money. I can learn any kind of work easily enough if I only give my mind to it, and I will send you every dollar I earn. Come, Fanny, don't say 'No.' Why won't you lend it to me?"

"Because I want it myself," said Fanny, coming to the true reason at last. "I have only that twenty dollars to last me for pocket-money till my father comes home, and I am always wanting candy or something that grandma won't buy for me. As likely as not you never would pay me, and then I should lose it altogether."

"Don't you think I am honest, Fanny? I risked more than that for you the day we met the bull," said Sarah, with a quiver in her voice. "I didn't stop to think whether you would ever pay me."

"That is different," said Fanny.

"Yes, there is a good deal of difference between risking your life and risking ten dollars," said Sarah, dryly. "Fanny, why did you ever make friends with me if you don't care enough for me to do as much as that for me?"

"Because I had no one else to play with, and it was so stupid at grandma's with nobody to speak to," said Fanny, speaking the truth for once.

"Then, if you had any one else to play with—anybody more genteel—you wouldn't care any more about me?"

"Well, no, I don't know that I should. You see, Sarah, you are very different from me."

"Very different," said Sarah, rising—"so different that the less we have to do with each other, the better."

As she spoke, she went a little farther into the wood and began to turn over the fallen sticks and leaves.

Fanny followed her, feeling rather uneasy.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"Some shells for Annie," answered Sarah, without looking up. "You had better go to her. She may get tired of staying alone."

"I don't want to go without you," said Fanny.

Sarah did not reply; but having found what she sought, she turned back.

"I suppose you are very angry with me?" said Fanny, presently.

"No, I am not," returned Sarah. "I am angry at myself for ever having cared for you."

"You say so because you are vexed at not getting the money," said Fanny, "but I think you are very unreasonable."

"If you say another word, I will box your ears," said Sarah. In another moment she added, more gently, "I am sorry I said that. I shall never see you again, and I did love you dearly, Fanny."

The tone in which Sarah said this showed that she at least was not heartless.

"What makes you say that?" asked Fanny.

"Because it is true. I shall go to Aunt Caroline's, if I have to walk every step. Besides, I never want to see you again—never!"

As Sarah said these words, the two girls came in sight of the spring. Annie was not there.

CHAPTER IX.

THE LOST CHILD.

"THERE, now! See what a scrape you have got me into!" said Fanny, angrily. "Tiresome little thing! She has run off home; and now she will tell them that I left her alone."

"Well, what of that?" returned Sarah. "What harm was there in your leaving her alone a few minutes in a safe place?"

"Because I promised I wouldn't, stupid! That's why."

"Did you really promise not to leave her alone?" asked Sarah, gravely.

"Of course I did. Her grandmother wouldn't let her come unless I promised not to leave her alone anywhere. A nice scrape you have got me into with your secrets!"

"You never told me you had promised, so don't lay all the blame on me," said Sarah. "Besides, I wanted to come back and wait till another time, and you wouldn't. I don't suppose there is any harm done. She has got tired and run back to the house. Fanny," said Sarah, suddenly starting and turning pale, "you don't suppose she has started to find us, do you?"

"No, of course not," returned Fanny, impatiently. "What do you want to put such a notion into one's head for?"

"I never thought of her doing such a thing," continued Sarah, looking very uneasy. "I should never forgive myself in the world if any harm should happen to the dear little thing. Do run down to the house and make sure that she is safe."

"Oh yes, that is all you think about," said Fanny, in an injured tone. "You don't care anything about what they will say to me, I suppose."

"Well, no, not much," returned Sarah. "Why should I? I don't suppose they will break any of your bones, and you haven't shown any very particular regard to my feelings. But why don't you go?"

"Of course—" Fanny began, but Sarah interrupted her.

"Now, just look here, Fanny, if you don't go, I shall go myself. I suppose, of course, that Annie is safe, but I want to know for certain. I can't bear to think of her wandering in the woods half scared to death, and perhaps falling into Pope's hole."

"For goodness' sake, what is Pope's hole?" asked Fanny. "I have heard of it ever since I came here, and I don't know what any one means by it."

"It is a deep, deep gulley—a hole in the mountain nobody knows how deep—with high steep walls of rock all around it, and it is half full of water, and under the water is soft black mud. Cattle get in sometimes, and never get out again. A man named Pope fell in when the country was new, and for two or three years nobody knew what had become of him. But one very dry summer, when the water was low, somebody saw a gun lying partly out of the water. So he got somebody to let him down with ropes, and then he found Pope's gun and his watch, but they never found the body. It is an awful dark place to look into. But come, Fanny, do run home. Wave your handkerchief at the back door, and then I shall know if she is safe."

Seeing that there was no help for it, Fanny obeyed. She did not or would not believe that Annie was lost, and she dreaded only the reproof she was sure to receive for leaving the child alone at the spring. She reached the house without seeing anybody, and went straight up to her own room, turning, however, at the door to wave her handkerchief.

Sarah saw the signal, and satisfied that the child was safe, she went back to the spruce wood, and sat down to consider what she should do next.

"It is time the children were at home," said Mrs. Lilly, presently. "Oney, you may tell Willy to ring the bell in the garden."

Oney called Willy, and then went up stairs for a clean apron. As she did so she bethought herself to look into Fanny's room and see whether there was a supply of water and clean towels. To her great surprise, she found Fanny sitting by the window reading.

"Why, Fanny!" she exclaimed, in surprise. "I thought you were up at the spring with Annie. Where is she?"

"Down stairs in the parlour, of course," said Fanny, vainly trying to speak in an ordinary tone. "I wish you would not come into my room without knocking, Oney."

"I didn't know you were at home," replied Oney. "But are you sure Annie is down stairs? I haven't seen her."

"Of course she is. Do go away and let me alone, can't you?"

Oney began at once to suspect that something was wrong. She had no confidence in Fanny, and she had seen nothing of little Annie. She went directly down stairs and opened the parlour door.

"Well, Oney, have you come to tell us that dinner is ready?" asked Mrs. Lilly.

"Dinner is pretty nearly ready," replied Oney. "Is Annie here?"

"Annie? No," answered Mrs. Cassell, starting. "Have the children come in? I have not seen them."

"Fanny is up in her room, and she just now told me that Annie was down here," said Oney.

Mrs. Cassell turned pale. She was rather a nervous woman, and she naturally felt a great deal of responsibility about Annie.

"Don't be frightened," said Mrs. Lilly. "I dare say she is out with Willy looking at the chickens." As she spoke, she went to the foot of the stairs and called, "Fanny, come down directly."

"I have got my shoes and stockings off, grandma," answered Fanny, who had indeed stripped them off with all speed the moment Oney had left the room.

Mrs. Lilly went up stairs.

"Why are you barefooted?" was her first question.

"I wet my feet, and had to change my shoes and stockings," answered Fanny, searching in her drawer for a pair of stockings, and taking a long time to find them.

Mrs. Lilly's quick eye fell on the boots which Fanny had just taken off.

"Your shoes are as dry as a bone," said she, taking one of them in her hand. "But never mind that now. Where is Annie?"

"Down stairs, I suppose," answered Fanny, shortly.

"Where did you leave her?"

"I didn't leave her at all. She ran away from me and came home," said Fanny. "Cross, hateful little thing! I wish she had never come here."

"Put on your shoes and stockings and come down stairs," said Mrs. Lilly. "Don't spend time looking in the drawer. Put on those you took off."

There was that in Mrs. Lilly's voice and manner which made Fanny afraid to trifle any longer. She put on her shoes and stockings, and followed down stairs sulkily enough.

"Now," said she, "tell us just where you left Annie."

Short as the time was in which to do it, Fanny had made up her story, and she told it glibly enough:

"I was cutting some birch bark for Annie, and I dropped my knife, and while I was looking for it, Annie said she did not like the woods and she would go back to the house. I told her to wait a minute and I would go with her, but she began to cry and scream and say she would go alone. Then I went with her to the garden and watched her almost into the house, and then I went back to find my knife."

"That does not sound at all like Annie," said Mrs. Brandon. "She is not apt to cry because she cannot have her own way."

"I don't know anything about that," said Fanny, pertly. "I know she screamed loud enough this morning. I should have come all the way with her, only I wanted to find my knife, and I didn't see what harm could happen to her between the garden fence and the house."

"Where can she be?" said Mrs. Cassell.

"She may have gone away with Willy," replied Mrs. Lilly. "He is very fond of children, and very likely he has taken her off to see some wonderful sights in the barn."

"Willy is up in his room," said Oney. "I will call him."

But Willy could give no account of Annie. He had not seen her since they were feeding the raccoon.

"What shall we do?" said Mrs. Cassell. "Where can the child have gone? Is there any well or cistern that she can fall into?"

"Oh no. I never allow such things to be left uncovered. Fanny, are you telling the truth? Did you really come with Annie as far as the garden fence?"

"Yes, I did," answered Fanny, positively. "I stood at the fence and watched her clear to the back door."

"Were you and Annie alone at the spring, or did you have company?" asked Willy.

Fanny made a face, and did not answer.

"Why don't you answer Willy's question?" asked Mrs. Lilly. "Was Sarah Leyman with you? I presume it was Sarah that Willy meant."

"No," answered Fanny, boldly. "Sarah is very angry with me, and won't speak to me because I would not give her some money. She said, the last time I saw her, that she never meant to speak to me again."

"But where can Annie be?" asked Willy. "I will go out and look round the yard. Maybe she has gone to see the coon again."

But in vain did they search the garden and yard; no Annie was to be found. By this time the alarm grew very serious, and in the midst of it, Mr. Brandon made his appearance.

"You see I did come, after all," said he, gayly, as he entered the parlour. "I found my proofs could wait a day, so I put them in my pocket and came along. But what is the matter?" he asked, in alarm, for Mrs. Brandon burst into tears on seeing him.

"Oh, Hugh, Annie is lost!" exclaimed his wife and mother together.

"Lost!" exclaimed Mr. Brandon. "What do you mean?"

Mrs. Lilly told the story as she had heard it from Fanny, adding that they had searched the farm over, and that both Oney and Willy were still looking. Mr. Brandon stood thinking for a moment.

"Come here, Fanny," said he, sitting down and drawing her toward him. "Come here; I want to talk to you. Now, don't cry, but tell me the plain truth. How far did you go with Annie?"

"To the garden fence," replied Fanny.

"The back garden fence?"

Fanny assented.

"How did Annie get over the fence?"

"I let down the bars."

"How could you do that when there are none?" asked Mrs. Lilly.

"I don't mean that. I took down two or three rails and put them up again."

"Well, what then?"

"Then I stood and watched her into the house, and then I went back to find my knife."

"Why did Annie want to come into the house?" was the next question.

"I don't know. I suppose she was afraid to stay alone." This was an unlucky slip.

"To stay alone!" repeated Mr. Brandon. "To stay alone where?"

"She was not really alone," said Fanny, seeing what a blunder she had made; "only she was down by the spring and I was up on the bank cutting the birch bark for her to play with."

"You are sure you did not go out of sight?"

"No," answered Fanny, snappishly. "I have said so ten times already."

"You did not leave her to go away for anything but the bark?"

"Only for the shells, and we were not gone five minutes, I am sure," said Fanny, making another slip.

"'We'! Who was with you besides Annie?"

"I just wish you would let me alone," cried Fanny, bursting into a violent fit of crying. "You confuse me so I don't know what I am about."

"But who do you mean by 'we'?" persisted Mr. Brandon. "Who was with you besides Annie?"

"Nobody; and I wish she had not been there, either, the cross, hateful little thing! I won't stay here another day," continued Fanny, working herself into a passion. "I will go to Boston if I have to live in the poorhouse. I won't stay here to be called a liar."

"Nobody has called you a liar, but I very much fear that you are one," said Mr. Brandon, gravely. "Mrs. Lilly, I am sorry to say so, but this girl is not speaking the truth. I believe she either went away and left Annie alone at the spring, or else sent her home alone."

"I am afraid you are right," said Mrs. Lilly, much distressed. "Fanny, do tell the truth. Think how much depends upon it—poor Annie's life, perhaps. Did you leave Annie alone at the spring?"

"No, I tell you," snapped Fanny.

"Why did you not come home with her?" asked Mrs. Cassell. "You promised me not to leave her a moment."

"I didn't leave her alone."

"Then what did you mean by saying you were not gone ten minutes?"

"I didn't say so." And that was all that could be got out of Fanny. She would only cry, and declare that she would go home to Boston.

"We are wasting time," said Mr. Brandon, looking at his watch. "It is three o'clock now. Are there any men about the place, Mrs. Lilly?"

"No. Mr. Wye is over at B—, and Pat went away two or three days ago."

"We must have help," said Mr. Brandon. "Are you sure the farm has been thoroughly searched?"

"I believe so," answered Mrs. Lilly. "Can you think of any place where we have not looked, Oney?"

"There is the old quarry," said Oney, rather reluctantly.

"Heaven help us!" groaned Mrs. Lilly. "She would never go there, surely. Fanny, you did not go near the old quarry, did you?"

"No," said Fanny.

"Besides, it is all covered up," said Mrs. Lilly.

Oney shook her head.

"It is not covered over," said she. "I have just been down to see, and the boards are gone. If Annie had taken a fancy to go and see the sheep—"

"We must have it searched at once," said Mr. Brandon. "Willy, bring me the rake, a stout string, and the largest pole you can find."

"Let me go with you," said Oney. "Mrs. Lilly, do make them eat something, or at least drink a cup of tea. The old lady looks ready to faint, and it is enough to kill Emma."

The old quarry was a deep pit which had been dug in the search for slates. It was full of water, and was usually kept closely covered, but now, as Oney had said, the boards were gone. In fact, Sam Leyman had helped himself to them only the night before for the purpose of mending his pig-pen. Mr. Brandon made a drag of the rake and some poles, and satisfied himself that Annie was not in the water.

"Well, so far, no news is good news," he said, trying to speak cheerfully, as he entered the parlour. "We must have help at once and search the woods. I have sent Willy over to Willson's and to call the Crane boys, and they will rouse all the men in the neighbourhood."

It was now four o'clock, and there was no time to lose. Willy was a fast runner, and soon left word at Deacon Crane's and Mr. Willson's that a child was lost on the mountains, and before half an hour, four or five stout young men were on their way to Mrs. Lilly's.

As Willy came back through the edge of the woods, he met Sarah Leyman slowly descending the steep path which here led up the mountain-side.

When Sarah had seen Fanny's signal, she went back to the spruce wood where they had been talking together, and sat down to think what she should do next. She was deeply disappointed and mortified. She had made up her mind that Fanny would certainly lend her the money, for she argued, "I am sure I would do as much for her in a minute if I had the money to lend."

Building on this very uncertain foundation, she had arranged all her plans. She did not mean to tell of her intended journey at home, for she knew that neither her father nor her mother would consent, and she had very little notion of honouring or obeying her parents. She had one decent dress. She would buy herself a hat and some other things, and take the night train, which would land her at Concord early in the morning—she was too often away all night for her absence to excite any surprise—and she would ask her aunt to write from Concord as soon as she had found her. She felt sure that Aunt Caroline would take Ally if the matter were properly represented to her.

"And then," thought Sarah, "I will buy a decent calico frock and go to work at anything I can find to do, and I will save every cent till I have enough to pay Fanny, and perhaps do something for ma."

This was Sarah's plan, which she had thought over till it appeared perfectly easy and reasonable—always provided that Fanny would lend her the money.

But Fanny had absolutely refused to lend her the money, and for no better reason than that she wanted to use it herself for things which her grandmother would not buy for her. Sarah could hardly believe it even now. She had exposed her own life for Fanny, and Fanny would not deny herself an ounce of sugar-plums for her.

Sarah, as I have said, was by nature generous and loyal. She had begun by loving Fanny dearly, and by fancying that such a pretty, graceful girl must be all but perfect. And though she had found out her mistake, she had gone on loving Fanny, and in some degree trusting her. But that was all over now. Her idol was effectually shattered, and with it, as it seemed, all her fine plans for helping herself and Ally. She did not know where to look for the money which was necessary for the carrying out of her scheme. She did not know of any way in which she could earn it, or anybody she could ask to lend it to her, unless, indeed, Mrs. Lilly would help her.

This was a new idea, and Sarah turned it over in her mind as she sat on the dry, rocky ground under the spruce trees. Mrs. Lilly had never been anything but kind to her, and Sarah was not disposed to resent the old lady's having forbidden Fanny to play with her.

"I should feel just so in her place, I know," she thought. "Though, after all, I don't see that Fanny is so much better than I am, only her folks are respectable. I wish I hadn't touched the pie. It was real mean. I wonder if she did laugh at me that night I came to the meeting? I don't half believe it. I believe Fanny made up the story to scare me. She was dreadfully afraid to have me see the old lady, for fear she should find out something. I have a great mind to go and see her—not to-day, though, because she has company. What a cunning, sweet little thing Annie is! I can think of Ally being just like her if she only had a chance."

And then Sarah began thinking over what Annie had said about Celia's returning the doll, and to wonder, if she should follow Celia's example, whether it would not be a right way of beginning that "being good" which she still desired; and a verse came into her mind which she had heard long ago.

"What was that? 'If we confess our sins, he is faithful to forgive us our sins'—something like that; Aunt Sally used to say it, and I guess it is in the Bible somewhere. If only I could tell of myself and not of Fanny! I don't want to get her into trouble."

Sarah sat still for some time, now pondering Annie's simple remarks, now turning over in her mind various plans, possible and impossible, for the accomplishment of her purpose. At last she rose, and ascending the mountain for some distance, she began a busy search for certain ferns and flowering plants which grow in those higher regions.

"Mr. Brandon seemed to think so much of them," she said to herself, "I will carry him a bunch of them, and maybe I shall get a chance to speak to the old lady."

Sarah had succeeded in her search, and, with full hands, was descending the hill toward the house, when she met Willy.

"Sarah, have you seen little Annie Mercer?" was Willy's first greeting.

"Seen her? No—not since twelve or one o'clock," replied Sarah, in surprise. "Why? What do you mean? What has happened to Annie?"

"That is just what nobody knows," replied Willy. "She went up to the spring with Fanny this morning, and Fanny says she brought her back as far as the garden fence and watched her almost into the house, but she never came in, and we can't find her anywhere. Where was she when you saw her?"

"She was up at the spring with Fanny," answered Sarah. "Does Fanny say she took Annie back to the garden?"

"Yes, but we don't know what to believe, she tells so many different stories."

Sarah had a quick mind, and even while Willy was speaking, she saw all the terrible possibilities of the case.

"It is not true, Willy," said she, speaking low, but fast and clearly. "Fanny never went back with Annie. We left her alone at the spring. I never thought of any danger, and I wanted to speak to Fanny, so I told Annie to wait at the spring and I would bring her some shells. Then Fanny and I went up on the hill and talked a little while, and I found a lot of snail shells. See, here they are now. When we came back, Annie was gone. I supposed, of course, she had gone home, and yet I felt a little uneasy, so I made Fanny go home, and told her to wave her handkerchief if it was all right. She did wave it, and I thought Annie was safe. Willy, she is lost in the woods; she has gone up on the mountain."

"Why do you think she has gone up?" asked Willy.

"Lost children always do," replied Sarah. "They always go up and up. * Don't stop to talk. Run home and tell them how it was, and bid them send for old John Steeprock and his dog directly. Tell them that it was my fault, but that I never thought of any danger, and that I am going to look for Annie myself."

* This is the general belief in mountainous countries. I do not vouch for its truth.

"But you will be lost too," said Willy, divided between anger and admiration. "It is almost night, and you will lose your way, and perhaps die in the woods."

"Never mind me," returned Sarah. "I know the mountain pretty well, and sha'n't die for staying out one night in the woods. And if I should, nobody will miss me but Ally. Never mind me, but run home; only, Willy—"

Willy came back to hear.

"Tell Mrs. Lilly I stole the pie and I am sorry, and ask her, if anything happens to me, to be good to Ally."

And Sarah turned and went rapidly up the steep path.

Willy ran down toward the house and speedily entered the parlour, where Mr. Brandon was again trying to extract the truth from Fanny. Fanny now varied so far from her first story as to say that she only came with Annie to the fence and went back again.

"That is all stuff, Mr. Brandon," said Willy, unceremoniously bursting into the conversation. "Fanny never came with her an inch. She went up in the spruce woods with Sarah Leyman, and left Annie alone at the spring."

"How do you know, Willy?" asked Mrs. Lilly. "Who told you?"

"Sarah herself told me just now," replied Willy. And he repeated the conversation he had just held with Sarah, adding, "And, Grandma Lilly, she says she took that pie that day, and she is very sorry, and if anything happens to her, will you please be good to Ally?"

"Where is Sarah Leyman?" asked Mrs. Lilly.

"She has gone up on the mountain to look for Annie."

"Lord help her, what can she do?" said Mrs. Lilly. "She will only be lost herself."

"I don't know about that," said Willy; "Sarah knows the mountain pretty well. And oh, I forgot: Sarah says you must go up the mountain, because lost children always go up, and you must send for old John Steeprock and his dog directly."

"That is an excellent suggestion," said Mr. Brandon. "I did not know the old man was alive."

"He! He will live for ever, I believe," said Oney, speaking according to the common Indian belief, "unless he gets tired of it, and stops of his own accord. Suppose I jump on John Crane's horse and go after the old man myself. I can coax him round if he happens to be in one of his sulky fits."

"Do, Oney! Oh, Fanny, if you had only told us this at first, instead of lying so!" exclaimed Mrs. Lilly, wringing her hands. "Just see how much time we have lost by your wickedness!"

"I don't care. I'm sure it was not my fault that Sarah wanted to speak to me," replied Fanny. "And I should have told, only you told me not to play with Sarah. And I'm sure I couldn't help it, and I didn't mean to," cried Fanny, with a full burst of sobs. "It is all your fault, telling me not to play with her."

"Go up to your room and stay there," said Mrs. Lilly. "I wish you had never come into my house."

"I'm sure I didn't want to come," sobbed Fanny. "I wanted to go with my mother, and I always knew that you didn't know how to manage me."

Mrs. Lilly took Fanny by the man and led her to her own room. What happened there I have no means of knowing, but I very much suspect that Fanny got, as the nurses say, "something to cry for." If she did, it must be confessed that she got no more than her deserts.

In a very short time, Oney came back with John Steeprock, an old Indian of her own tribe, who had lived on the outskirts of the mountain time out of mind, and from his strength and activity seemed likely to live much longer. Steeprock listened to the story.

"Bad—bad!" said he, shaking his head. "S'pose fog come down, little girl maybe die. S'pose she full into hole—bad business!"

Mr. Brandon was about to speak, but Oney whispered to him, "Don't interrupt him; let him manage his own way. If you put him in a bad humour, you won't get any good of him. Let him go on his own way."

Old Steeprock ruminated for a minute in silence. Then he said, "You got little girl's shoe?"

Mrs. Cassell had bought a second pair of shoes for Annie, and she quickly produced them.

"Good!" said the old man, taking them in his hand. "Now we go up to the spring. You call the other boys."

The searching party were soon assembled at the spring. It was now nearly six o'clock, and a fine though cool evening. Steeprock looked about him, examined the ground carefully, and at last seemed to make up his mind.

"You let me be captain?" he asked.

"Yes, yes. Manage it your own way," said two or three of the men.

"Good!" returned the old man, evidently much gratified. "You all got guns or pistols?"

Three or four guns and revolvers were produced.

"Good!" said Steeprock, again. "Now, then, you Crane boys, go 'that' way; you Willsons, go 'that' way," indicating the direction with his finger. "If you find her alive, shoot three times; if dead, only once."

The men moved off, leaving Steeprock and Mr. Brandon by the spring. Steeprock called his dog, which was hunting about in the fallen leaves, talked to him in the Indian language, and held Annie's little shoe to his nose. The dog smelled it, wagged his tail, and began snuffing the ground, till, having found what he sought, he set off at a rapid pace up the path which Fanny and Sarah had taken.

CHAPTER X.

ON THE MOUNTAIN.

AND where was Annie all this time? Hurrying along toward the top of the great mountain as fast as her weary little legs could carry her, often stumbling and falling, now and then sitting down to rest and get her breath and cry for "grandma" and "Fanny," and then drying her tears and setting off again.

Annie had waited at the spring for what seemed a very long time, though in reality it was not more than twenty minutes. She had never been alone in the woods before. Indeed, she had never been in the woods at all, and she began to be a little scared at the loneliness, and at the kind of murmuring, whispering silence which prevailed around her.

She thought at first that she would go home, and then she reflected that perhaps grandma would not like it if she came home alone. She was not quite sure that she could climb the fence, and Sarah had said something, she did not know exactly what, about a bull. Then an odd fancy came into her silly little head. Mary Patterson, who was an English girl, had told her about the gypsies and how they stole children. What if that dark, wild-looking girl with the curly hair should be a gypsy, who had coaxed Fanny into the woods to do her some mischief?

"But I won't believe any such nonsense," said Annie, stoutly. "Fanny knew her before, and she was real good to me. I dare say she is looking for snail shells all the time. I wonder if there would be any harm in my going a little way up the path to see if they are coming?"

Annie hesitated a minute or two, and then she concluded to venture. She went a little way and then a little farther, and then she saw a very pretty sight—no less than a family of young squirrels at play on a fallen tree. She watched them for a few minutes, and then ventured a little nearer and a little nearer. Then she saw a beautiful flower, and thought she would get it for Uncle Hugh. She did so, and then all at once bethinking herself that the girls might come back and miss her, she turned round and hurried back toward the spring.

She walked on and on, wondering that she did not come to the place, and that she saw so many things which she had not noticed before. Meantime, the path, such as it was, grew narrower and rougher, till all at once Annie found herself at a spring, indeed, but not the one she had left nor at all like it. This spring boiled up in a little pool at the foot of a precipice so high that Annie could hardly see the top, and the rocks seemed just ready to fall on her head. In fact, many of them had already fallen, and lay round in wild confusion, while the earth between them was soft and boggy, so that Annie had wet her boots through and through before she was aware.

In the midst of the rocks and in the water lay a good many bones bleached and scattered. Annie did not know enough to perceive that they were the bones of a sheep or calf. She had a kind of horror of dry bones, and would never touch or go near one if she could help it, and she turned and hurried away out of sight of the place. She had the sense to see that this was not the spring she had left, and she thought she must return to that as quickly as possible.

So she turned and ran back again, taking, as she supposed, the same path, but she only involved herself in fresh difficulties. And at last, thoroughly bewildered, she sat down to rest and to think what she had better do. She looked round. The place was so entirely strange that it might almost have been in another world from that which the little girl had inhabited hitherto. Great black evergreen trees grew all around her, and the ground beneath was brown and slippery from the fallen spruce and hemlock needles. Great rocks peeped through the soil, or lay scattered upon it, as if they had at some time fallen from the sky.

Everything was very still, but as Annie listened she heard at a great distance, as it seemed, a strange wild scream and then another. It was the cry of the eagles which lived on the upper part of the mountain, but Annie did not know that. Gradually, as she sat there, the knowledge grew upon her that she did not know where she was, that she was lost—lost on the great mountain, where Sarah had warned her not to go on any account, where, as she knew, more than one person had been lost and never found again. Perhaps the bones were those of people who had strayed away before her, who had died all alone in the woods and had never even been buried.

That was a silly fancy, but Annie was only a very little girl, and older and wiser people have lost their heads on being lost in the woods. She burst into tears and called aloud for grandma and Uncle Hugh, but stopped suddenly, for somebody or something in the woods seemed mocking her, repeating the words over and over again, fainter and fainter every time. It was only the mountain echo, but Annie did not know anything about echoes. She was frightened at the sound; and starting to her feet, she ran away as fast as she could, which was not very fast, for the ground began to be very steep and rugged.

By this time, Annie was quite beside herself. She remembered that they had come up hill all the way to Mrs. Lilly's, and that grandma had told her before leaving home that morning that Mrs. Lilly lived on the mountain, and she reasoned in her confused little mind that if she could only climb high enough, she should find the old red house and grandma. So she climbed on, often falling and hurting herself, now getting on easily a little way, now stopping to rest. And once finding a bed of soft green moss, she lay down and slept for two or three hours, the deep, heavy sleep of exhaustion.

When she awoke, it was nearly dark in the woods, for the sun was below the mountain-top, though he still shone on the other side. Annie felt weak and exhausted, but her sleep had refreshed her, and after she remembered where she was and how she came there, she rose and struggled on.

At last she could go no farther, and it was well she could not, for she was now come into a very dangerous part of the mountain, where there were many deep holes and cracks, some of them partly filled with water. If she had fallen into one of them, she would probably never be found again either dead or alive, for the place had an ill name, and few even of the boldest hunters ever came near it.

Annie sat down on the ground in dumb despair, too wretched even to cry, too hopeless to make another effort. She sat on the ground, with her elbows on her knees and her hands supporting her chin, and thought about herself and her condition almost as if she had been another person. She was lost on the mountain like the poor hunter she had heard of; and, like him, she would most likely never be found again. She would die there in that lonely place and never go home, never see the new baby sister who had come since she left home, and never, never see papa and mamma any more.

She thought of her little cousin Grace Belden—how she had died in her crib in the safe, warm nursery, with mamma holding her hands and talking to her about heaven and the Lord Jesus. There would be nobody to hold her hand and talk to her when she was dying, nor to dress her body in soft white cashmere and lay it tenderly in the little white coffin, as they had done with Grace—nobody to take her to the church and read the funeral service, and sing a funeral hymn so softly and sweetly, as Mrs. Terry and her daughters had done for Grace. Perhaps the robins would cover her body with leaves, as they had done with the babes in the wood, and the angels would come and carry her away to heaven. She did not think she should be afraid of them if they looked like the picture which hung in mamma's room at home.

But oh, she did want to see mamma once more. She rose and tried to walk, but she sat down directly. One of her boots had come off, and she had so hurt her foot on the sharp stones that it bled. Besides, her head was dizzy, and a mist came over her eyes when she stood up. No; she must just sit still where she was, and perhaps somebody would come.

She had lighted on a place where she could sit down and lean her back against a rock. She had not climbed directly up, but rather in a slanting direction along the side of the mountain. Still, she had climbed very high—higher than any one would believe who did not know how fast and how far lost children will travel.

The wind blew cool, and Annie was thinly dressed, for it had been a warm day, and nobody had expected her to be out in the evening. The cold and fatigue made her drowsy, and she was almost asleep, when she suddenly started to her feet. Had she dreamed it? Was it one of the voices which had mocked her in the woods and whispered in the tops of the trees, or had some one called her name? She listened intently. Yes, it was so.

"Annie! Annie Mercer!" rung out in a clear voice. "Annie, are you here?"

"Yes, oh yes!" called Annie, in a joyful tone. "Oh, do come!"

"I am coming. Keep still where you are. Don't stir!" called the voice again.

Annie stood like a statue, hardly breathing. She heard steps among the dry leaves, and in another moment, Sarah Leyman burst through the bushes and caught the child in her arms.

"You blessed, dear little thing, I have found you at last!" exclaimed Sarah, kissing Annie as if she would eat her up. "But how in the world did you ever come here? Were you scared at the spring?"

"I was very naughty," said Annie, penitently. "I ought to have minded, but I didn't. And I went up the hill to find you, and there I saw some squirrels. And I tried to go back, and then I came to a place where it was all wet, and there were bones," said Annie, in a terrified whisper. "I thought they were the bones of people who had been lost; were they?"

"Oh no," said Sarah; "they were the bones of some animal which had fallen off the rocks. Well, what then?"

"Then I knew that I was lost, and I tried to find my way, and I couldn't, and when I came up here I couldn't get any further, and so I sat down."

"And a very good thing you did," said Sarah. "But who would have thought of your getting so far?"

"How did you find me?" asked Annie.

"That's more than I can tell you, Annie. I followed your track pretty well to the green spring, and then it was pretty much all chance or something else—I don't know what. I could see that you had started to go up the hill, and I kept on after you, till by and by I found the place where you lay down and left your hat. See, here it is. Then I knew I was right so far, and I don't know why, but I felt sure you had come up here." And Sarah kissed Annie once more.

"It was very good in you to come and find me," said Annie, returning the kiss. "I thought I should die all alone, and nobody would know where I was, nor bury me, nor anything," she continued, piteously. "And when I called, something kept mocking me, and whispering in the trees overhead."

"That was only the echo and the wind in the trees," replied Sarah. "It could not hurt you."

"I didn't know that," said Annie; "it made me afraid. Won't you take me home to grandma?"

Sarah's face darkened. She compressed her lips and looked round her. It was now dark, and though the moon was risen, she gave them but little light.

"Why, there's the trouble, Annie," said she. "I don't see how we are to get home to-night."

"But I must go home," said the little girl, her wide blue eyes full of terror. "I can't stay out in the woods all night. Oh, please, please, do take me home to grandma!" wailed the poor child, in piteous tones. "It is so dreadful up here, and I want to go to my own little bed."

Sarah sat down and took Annie on her lap, holding her fast, for the poor child was so horrified at the thought of staying out all night that she had started to run away.

"Annie dear, listen to me," said she, kindly but firmly. "Stop crying, and sit still and try to listen and understand."

Annie was a docile little thing, and she had always been taught to mind. She stopped struggling, sat still, and presently checked her sobs and looked up in Sarah's face.

"I am good now," said she. "Won't you take me home?"

"I want to tell you about it," said Sarah, still holding her. "I should like to take you home and to go home myself. I don't want to stay out in the woods any more than you do. But you see it is quite dark, only the moon shines a little. There are a great many dangerous holes and precipices round here. And if we should try to go down the mountain in the dark, we should most likely fall and be killed, and then we should never see grandma any more. I don't see but we must stay here till morning, and then we will go down."

"But we haven't any beds nor any supper," objected Annie. "And I am so hungry, I don't know what to do."

Sarah put her hand into her pocket and brought out two ginger cakes which she had brought from home.

"Here is some supper for you," said she; "and as for beds, we must do the best we can. Sit still here and eat your cakes, and I will see what I can do. There! Don't be frightened; I am not going away," she said, in a soothing tone, as Annie threw her arms around her neck and clung to her. "I wouldn't leave you for anything."

Somewhat reassured and very hungry, Annie sat down and ate her cakes, while Sarah looked about among the rocks, where she presently found a little nook well enough suited to her purpose—a kind of recess or cave formed by two great slabs of stone, leaning one against the other.

"This will do," said she to herself; "now for a bed."

She dared not go far away to seek materials, but she broke off all the evergreen boughs within reach, and arranged them into a couch, spreading her own apron over them.

"There! That is the best that I can do," said she, returning to Annie's side. "It is no great thing of a bed, but it is better than nothing. Now let me loosen your clothes, and you shall lie down and sleep like a little kitten, and I will watch by you. Don't be afraid. I don't think anything will come near us."

"And will you hear me say my prayers?" asked Annie. "Grandma always does, or mamma when I am at home. Oh dear! What would mamma say if she could see where I am?"

"I am very glad she does not," was Sarah's thought. But she only said, "Yes, dear, I will hear you say your prayers."

Annie knelt down and repeated her simple prayer, ending, as usual, with, "God bless papa and mamma, grandmamma and all my friends, and dear little baby sister;" to which she added, "And bless Sarah because she came to find me, and please keep us safe, and let somebody come and find us pretty soon."

"Now lie down and let me cover you up warm," said Sarah, after a little silence. "I will sit down here close by you."

She laid Annie down as she spoke, and heaped the branches under her head, so as to make a pillow. Then she laid the child's jacket over her and put more branches over her feet.

"Thank you," said Annie. "May I say my evening hymn now?"

"Yes, do. Say all the hymns you know. I love to hear them. Are you warm?"

"Not very," said Annie.

Sarah took off her woollen frock and laid it over the child, and then sat down by her.

"Now listen, Annie," said she, impressively, laying her hand on the child's arm. "When you wake up, whether it is night or morning, don't you stir. You may speak to me, but if I don't answer, don't you move. Lie still, and somebody will come and find you. Will you remember?"

"Yes," answered Annie; "I will do just as you tell me."

"That is a good girl. Now, say your hymns and try to go to sleep."

Annie began to repeat her hymn, but presently her voice died away and she was silent.

Sarah hoped she was asleep, but presently she roused up again:

"Sarah!"

"Well, dear, here I am."

"I forgot to say my Bible verse—the verse I learn every morning, you know."

"Well, say it now."

"'I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety,'" repeated Annie, reverently. "I don't think we ought to be afraid, Sarah. I think he will take care of us."

"Annie," said Sarah, "suppose you had been very naughty indeed. Do you think he would take care of you or care anything about you then?"

"Why, yes," answered Annie, simply, "because he does take care of all the wicked people all the time. They couldn't live if he didn't."

A great wonder rose in Sarah's mind. Had her heavenly Father really been taking care of her all this time, as Aunt Sally used to say he would? She thought of all the risks she had run in her wild rambles, of her encounter with the bull. Had he really taken care of her? Was it his hand which had guided her to Annie? "And suppose we have been very wicked and are sorry and want to be good, what must we do?" she asked.

"We must be very sorry and ask him to forgive us and make us better, and we must try never to do so again," she answered.

"And will he forgive us and help us if we do so?"

"Yes, it says so in the Bible. I don't remember the words."

"Never mind," said Sarah. "Go to sleep like a good girl, and remember what I said to you about lying still."

"I will," said Annie. "Please kiss me goodnight."

The two children—for Sarah was not much more—kissed each other tenderly. Then Annie lay down to sleep, and Sarah sat by her, shivering with the cold, her bare arms exposed to the wind. At last she crept close to Annie's side, within the shelter of the rock; and leaning against the side of the little cave, she fell into an uneasy slumber.

On the Mountain.

"If you find her, you shall have more dollars
than ever you saw in your life."

CHAPTER XI.

THE SEARCH.

JOHN STEEPROCK'S dog guided his master and Mr. Brandon straight to the green spring, but there he seemed puzzled. He smelt about, ran here and there, and finally came back to his master, as if baffled in the search. Steeprock patted him, talked to him in his own language, and again showed him the little shoe, and the dog again set off up the side of the mountain, but at a slower pace and as if still somewhat uncertain.

"What ails him?" asked Mr. Brandon.

"Somebody else been here—been here only a little while ago. Don't you be scared, Hugh. Dog know heap."

"So I see," replied Hugh. "John, if you find her, you shall have more dollars than ever you saw in your life."

"Dollars very good," said the Indian, philosophically—"good to buy tobacco and powder, and clothes," he added, after some consideration. "But s'pose you no got one dollar in the world, me find nice little girl all the same. You light um lantern."

"What do you think the chances are?" asked Hugh as he stopped to light the lantern.

"Don't know," was answered rather gruffly. "Tell better when we get through."

"Perhaps the others will find her first."

"They no find her," said Steeprock. "They good boys—want to do something; so me tell them run, go where they do no harm," he added, in a tone of benevolent condescension. "You and me, we get um out of the way, and then go find her. Me old man, but know something yet."

"I should think so," said Hugh, laughing despite his anxiety. "How old are you?"

"Don't know, exactly," replied the Indian. "You know when the great war was when King George's men fight the Yankees at Bennington?"

"Yes," said Hugh.

"Well, then me tall boy, about like John Crane. Then I went on the war-path with my father, the first time I ever take scalps."

"Why, you must be over a hundred years old," said Hugh, in surprise. "Is that possible?"

"Very old man—just as I tell you. That day I took two scalps—got 'em now. When I die, I leave 'em to you, Hugh," said John, with a benevolent air and tone, as of one who bestows a valuable curiosity. "You good boy. I always like you. Waugh!" exclaimed John, interrupting himself with the Indian's startling and inexpressible exclamation of surprise as he held his light to the ground.

"What now?" asked Hugh.

"Another girl gone up here—not long ago, either. That make the dog so puzzled and uneasy."

"Another girl!" exclaimed Hugh, in astonishment. "How do you know?"

"How I know anything? How you know what words mean when you read um book? See um track plain as writing. Gone up about two hours ago."

"It must be Sarah Leyman," said Hugh. "Willy said she had gone to look for Annie."

"Maybe so. That Leyman girl all same as Indian. Waugh!" exclaimed Steeprock again as the dog came running back to them with something in his mouth. It was Annie's little boot.

"All right," said Steeprock, showing it to Hugh. "She been right up here, and the other after her."

"Then she must be near, dead or alive," said Hugh.

The Indian shook his head gravely.

"Maybe so—maybe not. Lost children travel very fast. Maybe she gone clear up above the trees. Come on." And he resumed his walk, climbing the more difficult path so fast that Hugh, though an experienced woodsman, had some trouble in keeping up with him.

Sarah had slept about two hours, when she was awakened by the cold. She put her hand on Annie. The child felt warm and was breathing softly. She rose with some difficulty, for she was stiff with the cold and from the cramped position in which she had been sitting. The moon had now risen high enough to throw a good deal of light on the place where they were, and Sarah could see to move about a little. She walked to and fro on the narrow level platform in front of Annie's shelter, to warm herself, and then began to pull more evergreen boughs and to lay them over Annie.

"I must keep awake if I can," she said to herself. "If I sleep, I shall be chilled to death, and then what will become of the child? I don't care so much about myself. I know Mrs. Lilly would find some way to befriend Ally, and perhaps she would be all the better without me."

As she spoke these words half aloud, she brushed Annie's face with one of the branches she was laying over her. Annie opened her eyes.

"What are you doing, Mary?" she said, in a sleepy tone.

"Getting some more clothes to lay over you," replied Sarah. "Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, I am as warm as toast, but the bed feels so hard and lumpy." Then waking more fully and realizing where she was, she broke out into a pitiful little wail: "Oh, Sarah, I thought I was at home in my own nursery, and mamma was just saying, 'Annie, don't let Pick lie on the clean pillow.' Oh dear! I shall never see mamma nor Pick any more."

Sarah could not speak, but she put her arms round Annie and kissed her and held her in a close embrace.

"Am I naughty to cry?" asked Annie, presently.

"No, dear, you are not naughty, but I wouldn't cry if I could help it. You will only make yourself sick, and I am sure mamma would not like that. Tell me all about Pick. Is he your dog?"

"No; he is my cat, and I have had him—oh, such a long time!"

Sarah asked various questions about Pick, and Annie was gradually diverted from her grief to talk of his beauty and accomplishments.

"You haven't any brothers and sisters, have you?" asked Sarah.

"No; only little baby sister that I haven't seen yet. Grace Belden used to live at our house and be my sister, but she is dead now. She died in the winter before I came here. People die everywhere, don't they, Sarah?"

"Yes, dear, and they live everywhere too," answered Sarah.

"Grace never went up on the mountain," continued Annie, pursuing the current of her own thoughts. "She never went into any dangerous places, and she had mamma and Mary to take care of her."

"And yet she died, you see," said Sarah. "And people have been in much more dangerous places than this, and yet they have lived."

"Have they?" asked Annie. "What sort of places?"

"Shipwrecks and earthquakes and battles and fires," said Sarah. "I read the other day of a baby which was carried off by a tiger, and yet it was saved."

"My papa has been in a great many battles, and he never was even wounded," said Annie. "Do you think we shall ever get away from here, Sarah?"

"Oh yes," returned Sarah, hopefully. "Everybody will be looking for you by this time. But you must mind what I tell you, and not stir from this place, whatever happens."

"I will mind," said Annie. "But won't you be here, Sarah?"

"Yes, but I might be asleep or something," answered Sarah.

She began to realize their position more clearly than she had done before. They were a long way from any frequented part of the mountain. It was very cold, and she was thinly dressed, even if she had not given up her frock to Annie, and she thought it not unlikely that she might be chilled to death by morning.

"Annie," said she, "do you know any more Bible verses?"

"Oh yes, a great many."

"Say them for me, will you? They will help to pass away the time."

Annie repeated her texts reverently. Sarah listened with fixed attention.

"Say that again," said she, as Annie repeated, "'Come unto me, all ye that labour.' Who said that?"

"The Lord Jesus," answered Annie; "and oh, Sarah, I know some more pretty verses, about a lost sheep. They were in my lesson last Sunday." And Annie repeated the parable beginning, "'What man of you, having an hundred sheep—'"

"Grandma said that meant the Lord Jesus," said Annie. "She said his people were his sheep; and when one of them strays away and gets lost, he goes and finds him and brings him back. 'We' are lost in the wilderness, you know, Sarah."

"I know 'I' am," said Sarah, sadly.

"And so I think he will send some one to find us. Is it almost morning?"

"Not yet, but it will be pretty soon. I guess you had better lie down again. I am afraid you will catch cold."

"I 'am' cold," said Annie, shivering. "Are you?"

"Lie down, and I will lie down by you; then we can keep each other warm."

Annie was soon asleep again, but Sarah could not sleep. She was too cold and anxious; and besides that, her head was full of new ideas. Was God really her Father? Had he taken care of her all these years that she had gone on never thinking of him or caring to please him? Did he really love her, and was she one of those lost sheep the Lord had come to find?

She began to think over all she had heard about him. It was not much. As she had truly told Fanny, her father would not permit good books to come into his house. All she knew of the sacred volume she had learned by reading it in the district school, and she had never been to school very regularly. Yet she could remember a good many things, after all. There was the verse Deacon Crane had talked about at the meeting that night.

Suppose she should confess her sins then and there, would He indeed forgive them and take them all away, as the deacon had said? Yes, it was all true. She felt quite sure that it was true. She hid her face in her hands for a long time; and when she again raised it, her bright black eyes were wet with tears, and her face wore an expression of peaceful awe.

She drew the covering closer over Annie, and lay down as near as possible to her side, repeating Annie's verse, "'I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep.'"

She had hardly lost herself five minutes when something roused her. She sat up and listened intently. Yes, some animal was coming up the mountain-side directly toward them. She could hear the patter of its feet on the dry leaves, and her heart beat fast and thick. Could it be a wolf or a panther? It was not unlikely, for there were plenty of them on the other side of the mountain, she knew. She could now hear the sound distinctly, and see the movement of the branches below. Oh for a club or a stout stick! She snatched up a stone—the only weapon she could find—and threw herself directly before Annie, but she dropped it the next moment as the supposed wolf pushed his way through the bushes and sprung upon her neck, licking her face and hands and yelping with delight.

Hugh and Steeprock were still some distance below, and had stopped an instant to take breath, when Fox came dashing down toward them. He ran to his master, jumped upon him, and then ran back the way he had come. The Indian uttered a yell which resounded far and wide; and springing forward as if his great age had been no more than five-and-twenty, he bounded up the mountain-side at a pace which left Hugh far behind.

Hugh followed as quickly as he could, and stood at his side. The old man was bending down, and beckoned him to approach.

There lay Annie, fast asleep on her bed of leaves, and across the entrance of the little cave lay Sarah, looking as if she were in the sleep that knows no waking in this world.

"Are they dead?" Hugh managed somehow to ask.

"Not the little one," replied Steeprock. "She fast asleep. You got bottle in your pocket?"

Hugh produced his travelling-flask, and with some difficulty forced some of the spirit it contained between Sarah's lips. She gasped, sighed, and opened her eyes.

"Where is Annie?" was her first question.

"Here, safe and sound. Annie dear, wake up. Here is Uncle Hugh come for you."

"Uncle Hugh!" said Annie, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "How did you come here?"

"I came after you, my little lost lamb," said Mr. Brandon, taking Annie in his arms, "but I see somebody was before me. My dear girl, what has become of your frock?"

"I put it over Annie," said Sarah, blushing crimson, and shrinking into the farthest corner of the cave, as she suddenly remembered that she was half undressed. "I was so afraid she would freeze to death." And pulling out her dress from among the green branches, she slipped it on with all speed.

"Ugh! S'pose you freeze yourself," said Steeprock. "What you say now, Hugh? Didn't I tell you another girl gone up here? Old Indian no fool, eh?"

"No, indeed! But who could guess that they could both reach this place without being killed?"

"God took care of us, I guess," said Annie, who was now quite cool and collected. "But how did you know where we were?"

"It was this good old man who found you, my dear," said Hugh, turning to Steeprock, who was composedly filling his pipe by way of improving the time. "But I am afraid all our finding would have been in vain, only for Sarah. My dear girl, how shall we ever thank you?"

"You needn't thank me at all," replied Sarah, rather gruffly. "Annie never would have been lost only for me. It was all my fault, leaving her alone in the first place."

"No, it wasn't your fault, either," said Annie, rather petulantly. "I ought to have minded, and stayed at the spring when you went to get the snail shells for me. Did you find any?"

"Yes, here they are in my pocket," said Sarah, laughing rather hysterically. "I will get you something prettier some day."

"And you made my bed and put your own frock over me, and heard me say my prayers, and all," continued Annie. "I think you are the 'bestest' girl in the world."

"Pretty nice girl!" said Steeprock, approvingly. "Once I had a daughter just so big. You pretty nice girl too. S'pose you got kiss for old Indian?"

Annie put up her face to be kissed, though. She felt considerable awe of the old man.

"Now we go home," continued Steeprock. "You take the baby, and I take this one."

"I'm not a baby," said Annie, indignantly. "I am seven years old, and I can read and write."

"Oh no; you great big woman," said the Indian, soothingly. "All the same; you let Hugh carry you."

Annie was very willing to be carried, and the party set out to return. The proverb that "to go down the hill is easy" is not always true, by any means. The descent in the present instance was both difficult and dangerous. They could only go very slowly and carefully, and Sarah, who was much exhausted, fell more than once.

"You fire your pistol," said Steeprock, at last. "Maybe someone hear and come to meet us. This girl can't walk much farther. She clear worn out."

"Never mind me," said Sarah, sitting down wearily. "I can stay here very well. Just carry Annie home, and leave me here."

"That would not do at all," said Mr. Brandon. He fired three shots as he spoke—the signal which had been agreed upon.

An answering shout told that he had been heard, and presently three or four of the young men came up. A volley of shots now rang through the woods, proclaiming to all within hearing that the lost child was found. Two of the Crane boys made a "lady chair" with their hands, and Sarah was persuaded to let herself be carried down to the red house. She began to feel very tired and confused, and nearly fell from her seat more than once.

Mrs. Cassell and Mrs. Lilly were called out by the shouts, and met the party in the garden.

"It was all my fault, grandma," called out Annie as soon as she saw Mrs. Cassell. "Sarah thinks it was hers, but it wasn't. And she found me 'way up in the mountain, and made me a nice little bed."

"It was even so," said Mr. Brandon. "Sarah found her first, and her care and good sense saved the child's life."

"Bless you, my dear!" said Mrs. Lilly, taking Sarah in her arms and kissing her. "But how cold you are! You are shivering all over. You must go right to bed and have some hot soup. Oney has it all ready on the stove."

"I guess I had better go home," said Sarah, wearily. "I shall make you too much trouble."

"You don't stir a foot this night," said Mrs. Lilly, positively. "You must go to bed directly."

Sarah was in no condition to resist Mrs. Lilly's strenuous kindness, even if she had wished to do so. A deathly faintness was stealing over her; and when she was undressed by Oney and put into bed, her head sank on the pillow as if it would never rise again. She wanted nothing but to lie still. But Oney, whose experienced eye knew the symptoms of dangerous exhaustion, would not let her sleep till she had taken several spoonfuls of strong hot soup.

At last, all was still. The neighbours who had helped in the search were dismissed with thanks. Old Steeprock camped down on the kitchen floor, with his dog beside him, preferring that accommodation to Willy's bed, which the boy offered him. Annie was already asleep in her grandmother's arms, and all was quiet about the old red house.

CHAPTER XII.

REPENTANCE.

THE next day Annie did not get up, but in the course of a week, she was playing about as lively as ever. But Sarah still lay on her sick-bed, and it seemed doubtful whether she would ever rise from it again. The chill she had received on the mountain resulted in an attack of acute rheumatism, which chained her hand and foot, and was accompanied by a severe cough.

It was well for her that she was at Mrs. Lilly's instead of at home. Mrs. Lilly put her into the best bedroom down stairs, and she and Oney waited on her night and day, while Mrs. Cassell and Mrs. Brandon made her up a set of nice underclothes, and nobody thought anything too much to do for the girl who had risked her own life to save little Annie. Sarah's mother came to see her, and would fain have established herself at the red house altogether, but she was nothing of a nurse, and it seemed as if she could not come near Sarah without hurting her. Besides, as Oney said, she needed twice as much waiting on as Sarah herself. And so Mrs. Lilly, who was not a woman to be imposed upon, soon gave her to understand that Sarah did not need her, and that she had better go home and take care of her own house and family.

Mrs. Leyman departed, shaking off the dust from her feet, and declaring that she would never enter the house again, whatever happened. They had got Sarah away from her, she said, and now they might take care of her till they were tired of it. They were a set of Pharisees, anyhow, who never would do anything for poor folks except in their own way; and if Sarah was going to join them and turn against her, she (Mrs. Leyman) would have no more to do with her.

For three or four weeks Sarah lay very sick, and Dr. Perkins came every day to see her. She was wonderfully patient and grateful for all that was done for her, and Mrs. Lilly said it was surprising to see the wild girl so tamed. One day, when Sarah was able to talk a little, she called the old lady to her bedside.

"Mrs. Lilly," said she, "do you think I shall ever get well?"

"I don't know, my dear," answered Mrs. Lilly, frankly. "I hope so, but nobody can say for certain."

"Did Willy tell you what I told him that day—I mean about the pie and the gingerbread?" asked Sarah.

"Yes; he told me that you got them, and that you were sorry. Did you ever take anything else?"

"No," replied Sarah; "only I have sometimes picked an apple when I was going through the orchard. I got the pie more in fun than for anything else."

"So I supposed," said Mrs. Lilly. "Did Fanny know about it?"

"I don't want to say anything about Fanny," replied Sarah. Then, after a pause: "Mrs. Lilly, did you and Oney really make fun of me for coming to the meeting that night, and say you should think I would be ashamed to come looking so?"

"Of course not," answered Mrs. Lilly. "I was very glad to see you there, as I told you at the time. Who could have told you such a story?"

"Never mind," said Sarah. "Somebody did, and I was just fool enough to believe it. It almost killed me, I can tell you. I made up my mind that night that I would try to be good, and I was going to ask you to give me a Bible or Testament, and then Fanny—" Sarah stopped short and looked very much vexed.

"Go on," said Mrs. Lilly, quietly. "'And then Fanny—'"

"I didn't mean to tell," said Sarah, "but it is out now. Well, Fanny told me how you made fun of me for coming, and said you meant to shut me up in the asylum. That almost broke my heart, for I always thought you were so good—like Aunt Sally. And when I heard that, it made me feel as if there was nothing real or true in heaven or earth, and I might as well do one thing as another."

"Poor child! I don't wonder. But now tell me, Sarah—for it is very important that I should know the true story—did Fanny have anything to do with stealing the pie?"

"Well, I suppose I may as well, though I never meant to say a word about it," said Sarah. And she went on to give the whole history of that unlucky Sunday afternoon.

"I felt sorry enough afterward," she concluded, "and I wanted to tell you so, and to make it up somehow, but Fanny seemed afraid to have me say a word, and I thought it would be mean to get her into a scrape after I had eaten my share of the pie. I sent you the raspberries, though, to make up. And afterward, when the bull chased us—I don't know whether you heard about that—"

"Yes, Willy told me."

"Well, then I wanted to tell you again, but Fanny wouldn't consent. She said afterward that you were very angry with me for letting the bull out of his pasture, but indeed I didn't do it."

"He did not get out of the pasture," said Mrs. Lilly. "He was in his stable, and I don't know to this day how he got loose. I always supposed it was some of Pat's carelessness, and never thought of blaming you."

"Well, there is no use in going over it all," said Sarah, wearily. "Only that night when I was up on the mountain with Annie, I heard her say her little prayers and verses before she went to sleep. And she told me some things in her innocent way that encouraged me, and I made up my mind that if I got down alive, I would try to be a Christian like Aunt Sally. And I want you to tell me how, for I don't know any more about it than a wild Indian or a heathen."

"I am sure I will tell you all I know, my dear child," said Mrs. Lilly, much affected. "The way is very plain and easy, as the Scripture says, 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved'—believe that he came to save all of us, and you in particular; that he died to redeem you, and that he now lives in heaven to intercede for you."

"Do you mean that he really cares about 'me'—me in particular?" asked Sarah, with eyes full of wonder.

"I mean just that, Sarah. You are one of the lost sheep that, he came to seek and to save. If you will but believe on him, your sins will be forgiven and washed away, and God will give you the Holy Spirit to dwell in your heart and help you to do right."

"It seems too good to be true," said Sarah. "Is it in the Bible? Read it to me, please, will you?"

Mrs. Lilly brought her old Bible and read, and Sarah lay and listened till a look of sweet peace and contentment stole over her face. But presently she grew troubled again.

"I have been so wicked," said she. "I never really knew before how bad I have been. It doesn't seem as if he could ever forgive 'me'."

"'Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow,'" repeated Mrs. Lilly. "Scarlet is the hardest colour to get out. The paper-makers say so, and they have to use the red rags to make that reddish blotting-paper that you have seen. When God forgives us, he washes away our sins and makes our souls clean and white again. And so he will do by you, if you ask him to do it for his dear Son's sake."

"I am sure I 'am' sorry," murmured Sarah. "Mrs. Lilly, please ask him for me."

Mrs. Lilly prayed with Sarah, and Sarah joined in the prayer with her whole heart.

"Now you have talked enough for once," said Mrs. Lilly, after a little silence. "Another time we will take the subject up again."

"I want to say one thing more," said Sarah, eagerly—"only one thing, because I may not be able to talk another time. Please sit down and let me tell you, and then my mind will be quite easy."

Mrs. Lilly sat down again, wisely thinking it better to let Sarah free her mind, and Sarah went over her plan for seeing her Aunt Caroline and persuading her to take Ally.

"Was that what you wanted Fanny to give you the money for?" asked Mrs. Lilly.

"Yes, but I never asked her to give it to me. I only wanted to borrow it till I could earn something. But won't you write to Aunt Caroline yourself, and tell her the story and ask her to take Ally and bring her up? She may have her all to herself, and I won't even come near her if Aunt Caroline doesn't want me to. Ally is real clever and good, though she isn't pretty, and I am sure Aunt Caroline would like her and do well by her. Won't you ask her, please?"

"I will write this very day," said Mrs. Lilly. "I think your plan is an excellent one. But now you must rest, and try to sleep before the doctor comes, or he will scold us all round for letting you talk so much."

Mrs. Lilly wrote that day, as she had promised, and read the letter to Sarah, but she added a postscript which she did not think it necessary to show.

The result was that Aunt Caroline came over to see the state of things for herself. She made acquaintance with the girls and talked matters over with Mrs. Lilly, and finally she carried Ally home to live with her, taking the precaution to have her legally bound till she came of age.

Mr. Leyman demurred at first, but certain little matters in the line of stealing lumber and iron from the quarries having come to Squire Holden's ears, it was hinted to Mr. Leyman that unless he consented to do what was deemed best for his children, the place would speedily be made too hot to hold him. Mr. Leyman sold his place not long afterward, and he and his wife, accompanied by Miss Clarke, went off to Utah, regretted by nobody in Hillsborough.

And where was Fanny all this time? Fanny was more unhappy and more ashamed than she had ever been before in all her life. She had made up her mind that as Annie was found, and, as she expressed it, no great harm was done, after all, things would go on just as usual.

She had come down to the breakfast table next morning prepared to be very amiable, and even expecting to be something of a heroine for her share in the adventure. She was astounded when Mrs. Lilly ordered her back to her room with an admonition not to leave it again till she had permission, which, she added, would not be very soon. In vain Fanny cried and protested that she didn't mean to and she couldn't help it. Mrs. Lilly was deaf to all such excuses. She saw that Fanny needed a severe lesson, and she meant that it should not be wanting.

For a whole week Fanny stayed in her room, with nobody to speak to, and no other recreation than a very short walk every day with her grandmother or Oney. When she was at last permitted to come down stairs, she found that her troubles were by no means at an end. Nobody took any notice of her. Nobody asked her any questions or listened when she spoke, her grandmother only saying,—

"I don't want to hear anything from you, Fanny. You have told so many lies that nobody can believe a word you say, and so I prefer that you should say nothing."

Fanny was not allowed to go out of sight of the door, and she was made in every way to feel that nobody trusted her. At first she tried to harden herself and think that she did not care, and then that she was terribly abused, but all did not answer. She was very miserable, and began to wish in earnest to be a good girl. The first sign of improvement was seen in her beginning to wait upon Sarah, who was now able to sit up and to use her hands a little, though she could not walk or even bear her weight at all. Fanny had begun by keeping entirely out of her way, and putting on a very injured look whenever Sarah's name was mentioned before her. But now she began to do little offices for the invalid—to bring her fresh water and set flowers on the table by her side, at first without speaking a word. One day she rather timidly asked Sarah if she should read for her.

"Oh yes, please," said Sarah, eagerly. "My eyes are so soon tired, and it hurts me to hold the book."

"I will read to you every day if you want me to," said Fanny. "I love to read aloud."

"I am sure I shall be glad to have you," said Sarah. "Fanny, are you angry with me now?"

"No," replied Fanny, sadly, "but I did not know whether you would care to have me talk to you. Nobody does, nowadays."

Sarah did not exactly know what to say, so she bent forward and kissed Fanny. Fanny returned the kiss and burst into tears.

"Don't cry," said Sarah, tenderly.

"I can't help it," sobbed Fanny, "I am so very unhappy. But I won't bother you with my crying. I have made trouble enough already."

"Fanny," said Sarah, detaining her as Fanny was about to go away, "why don't you tell Grandma Lilly all about it, and ask her to forgive you? I am sure she would if you asked her. She did me."

"You were not half so bad as I have been," said Fanny. "Oh, Sarah, I was so mean to you. I told you grandma made fun of you, and it wasn't true. And all the time I used to play with you, I felt so above you."

"I know you did," answered Sarah. "I never could understand why; though, of course, your folks were rich and respectable, and all that, but that was no merit of yours. But never mind now. Come, Fanny, tell grandma all about it. I am sure you will feel better, and that she will forgive you, and it will be all right again."

Fanny shook her head sadly. "I don't feel as if it would ever be right again," said she. "Don't you want a hot brick for your feet?"

"Yes, please. They are cold nearly all the time."

The next day Oney was going over to R—, and Fanny timidly asked if she might send for some worsted.

"Yes, if you choose," said Mrs. Lilly. "Why do you want it?"

"I want to crochet some thick, warm slippers for Sarah. She says her feet are cold all the time."

"Very well," said Mrs. Lilly, evidently pleased. "Tell Oney what you want, and she will buy it for you."

"I would rather buy it with my own money, please," said Fanny.

"Oh, very well. If you want to make Sarah a pretty present, I have no objection, my dear."

It was the first time Mrs. Lilly had said "my dear" since that unlucky day, and the words brought the tears into Fanny's eyes. She had begun to feel the value of that kindness and affection which she had always accepted as her just due.

"I am sure I should like to do something for somebody," said she.

"You can do a great deal for everybody, Fanny, but then you must begin in the right way."

Oney bought the worsted, and Fanny began the slippers. She was rather apt to grow tired of work and throw it aside when it was half done, but she persevered with the slippers, and Sarah was delighted with them.

"I never saw anything so pretty, and how soft and warm they are!" said she. "If I had some wool, I would try making a pair for Grandma Lilly. I know how to crochet a little."

Now, Fanny had decided in her own mind to use the rest of the wool for a pair of slippers for herself. But as Sarah said this, a thought came into her mind, and she acted on it immediately.

"You may have this wool if you want it, Sarah; then the present will be partly yours and partly mine."

"Oh, thank you," said Sarah. "But suppose you make one and I the other?"

"Well, just as you like," answered Fanny. And this was almost the first time in her life that she had ever sacrificed her own pleasure or convenience to another person.

"Fanny," said Sarah as she laid down her work to rest her hands—"Fanny, have you made it right with Grandma Lilly yet?"

"No," returned Fanny, sighing. "I don't see that things are any nearer to coming round than ever."

"Things don't 'come' round, Fanny. You have got to cut them round or roll them round, or something."

"Maybe so. But, you see, the trouble is, I don't know how to begin. Grandma don't believe a word I say, and no wonder," said Fanny, sighing. "I have been such a liar all my life. I don't know how to believe myself when I say I am sorry. I hate myself, and I wish I was somebody else. However, I believe I will tell her. Things can't be much worse than they are."

"Do," said Sarah. "Tell her to-night when you are going to the schoolhouse:" for it was Thursday night, and some sort of religious service was always held in the schoolhouse on that evening.

Fanny was as good as her word. That night, coming home from the Corners, she confessed everything without reserve, telling her grandmother of many acts of disobedience which she had never suspected.

"I don't know whether you will believe me or not, grandma," she concluded, "but indeed I am telling the truth now."

"I believe you, Fanny," said Mrs. Lilly.

"I shouldn't blame you if you didn't," continued Fanny, "I have told so many lies. Grandma," she added, in a low, frightened voice, "I told lies to God when I said my prayers. I said I was sorry when I wasn't, and when I meant all the time to do the very same things again. Do you think he will ever forgive me?"

"Certainly, my child. He will not only forgive you, but will help you to do better another time. Now, Fanny, can you tell me what has been the root of all your troubles?—What has made you disobey me so many times?"

"I wanted my own way," said Fanny, after a little consideration.

"Exactly; and when you had done so very wrong that Sunday, and Sarah wanted to come and confess, as I know she did, why did you hinder her? Why did you take so much pains to prevent her from going to the meetings and from coming to talk to me, as she intended doing?"

"I thought you would find out all about me and punish me. I wanted you to think I was a good girl when I wasn't."

"Then, my dear, it has been your love of self which has been at the bottom of all the mischief. Don't you see that it is so?"

"I know it," said Fanny, promptly. "It has always been just so. I never could bear to give up to anybody or do anything for anybody unless it was something that I liked myself, and yet I thought people ought always to give up to me. And everybody did give up to me at home, till Arthur came. Mamma used to say it made children deceitful to be contradicted."

"Do you think that excuses you now, Fanny?" asked Mrs. Lilly, thinking, however, that the tree had borne such fruit as might have been expected.

"No, grandma, but you don't know how hard it is for me to give up the least little thing that I want. It seems as if I couldn't. That day on the mountain, Sarah didn't want to leave Annie alone. After we started to go away, she wanted to come back, and I wouldn't let her, because I wanted to know what she had to say. And, after all, I would not lend her the money."

"There was nothing wrong in that," observed Mrs. Lilly. "It would not have been proper for you to lend such a large sum without asking me. Sarah herself sees that now."

Fanny shook her head. "That was not the reason," said she. "I was ready enough to spend the money in other ways—to buy candy and 'dime novels,' such as I knew you wouldn't want me to have. And then I told so many lies about Annie. She might have been found directly and Sarah might have been well this minute. Do you think Sarah will ever be well again?"

"I don't know, my dear. Her state is very discouraging. I do not see that she gains the use of her feet in the least. But, Fanny, how is it to be with you hereafter? Do you mean to go on in the same way, living for self and nothing else?"

"Not if I can help it, grandma. I have tried not to be selfish lately, and I have asked God to help me, too, but it is hard work."

"Yes, I dare say—much harder than if you had been trained to give up for others when you were young."

"I don't want you to blame mamma, grandma," said Fanny, flushing a little. "It wasn't her fault at all. I am sure she meant to do just right."

"We won't blame anybody, dear," said Mrs. Lilly, not displeased by this little outbreak. "We will only try to do better in future. I will give you a verse, Fanny, which I think may help you: 'Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me.' Do you know who said that?"

"The Lord Jesus."

"Yes, and he says again: 'Whosoever doth not bear his cross, and come after me, cannot be my disciple.' You must try as much as you can to deny 'yourself'—to put yourself out of the question and live for other people. You must think about yourself as little as possible, and never lose a chance of putting yourself aside when you can do good or even give pleasure by it."

"It doesn't seem as though it was in me to do that," said Fanny, shaking her head. "Grandma, I should just like to be made new, to be made over altogether."

"Well, dear, that is just what your heavenly Father is ready to do for you—to 'create a clean heart and renew a right spirit' within you, as the Psalm says. If you ask him, he will so change your heart and disposition that you will love to do his will. You will love him, and because you love him, you will want to be like him and to make your whole life one sacrifice to him. I do not say that you will not do wrong a great many times, but whenever you do, you will be sorry and not rest till God has forgiven you. If you persevere in this course, you will grow more and more like him every day. Your life will be a blessing to all around you and the beginning of eternal happiness to yourself."

All the rest of the summer Sarah sat helpless in her arm-chair, unable to stand for a moment. One bright day in September, Mrs. Cassell came up to see Mrs. Lilly and consult her about a plan for the sick girl's benefit. Mrs. Cassell had a friend at the head of a great institution where some wonderful cures had been performed on rheumatic patients. Doctor Henry was to be at Mrs. Cassell's house on a certain day, and Mrs. Cassell proposed to bring him up to examine Sarah and see if anything could be done for her. Mrs. Lilly consented, but thought Sarah had better not know anything about the matter, and to this Mrs. Cassell agreed. Mrs. Lilly herself was not at all hopeful about Sarah, and she did not think it best to excite the child's own hopes of recovery.

Doctor Henry came at the appointed day, and examined Sarah very carefully before pronouncing an opinion. He thought she might be cured, but she would need a long course of treatment and great care.

"I should like to take her home with me and see what can be done," said the doctor. "Has she any friends?"

"Plenty," said Mrs. Lilly. "If you will undertake the case, I will pay her expenses. My children do not need my help, and I have more money than I know what to do with."

"With your permission, Mrs. Lilly, that is our part of the business," said Mrs. Cassell, smiling. "My son-in-law has written to me to spare no expense."

"Well, we won't quarrel about it," said Mrs. Lilly. "When would you like to have her go, doctor?"

"I shall be here again in two weeks, and will take her home with me," answered the doctor.

And so it was settled. Sarah was to return with the doctor, and Oney was to go with her and see her settled. Sarah did not know whether to be pleased or sorry. She had been happier since her illness than ever before in her life, and she dreaded to leave Mrs. Lilly and Fanny, whom she loved more than ever. But then she was very anxious to get well and be able to earn her own living as well as to do something for Ally, now happily domesticated with Aunt Caroline.

"I can't make up my mind whether I like it or not," she said, in answer to Oney's question. "I am glad it has been all settled for me; for if I had to choose, I should not know what to say."

"Well, it is all settled, you see, so you needn't say anything at all," remarked Oney. "Fanny, if you sew so steadily all day, you will have a headache again. Run out to the barn and hunt up some fresh eggs, that is a good girl."

"How she has worked making my things!" remarked Sarah, after Fanny had left the room. "She used to say that she hated sewing. It seems a shame that every one should be working so hard for me, and I can't do anything."

"It has been a very good thing for Fanny, though," said Oney, "and has given me more hopes of her than anything else. I believe she will turn out a good girl yet, and that is more than I would have said of her six months ago—or of you, either, for that matter," added Oney to herself.

Sarah went away to "The Cure," and, contrary to her expectation, she found herself very happy there. Every one was kind to her, and after she once began to amend, her health improved rapidly.

A lady who was staying in the house undertook to teach her in the things she so much wanted to know. And very happy was Sarah when she succeeded in writing a letter to Fanny without one misspelled word.

But Sarah found something else beside her health at the Spring. She found her business and place in life. As she grew better and able to go about the house, she showed a remarkable aptitude for nursing and waiting on the sick. Doctor Henry, who saw most things that went on around him, one day called Sarah into his office.

"You are almost well now," said he, after he had asked her several questions about her health. "What are you going to do with yourself?"

"I must go to work at something," answered Sarah. "There is no use in my living on Grandma Lilly any more. I don't know enough to teach, so I suppose I must go out to work."

"The world is running over with teachers," remarked the doctor, "and there are plenty of other things to be done."

And then he proceeded to open his plan, which was that Sarah should be regularly educated for a nurse. "You seem to have a natural talent for that sort of thing, and it is a pity it should be wasted. I have been surprised to see how handily you adapt yourself to the work. Have you ever had any experience?"

"Only what I have gained in waiting on Ally," said Sarah.

"However you learned it, you certainly have it," said the doctor. "A skilful nurse is sure to have plenty of practice, and that of a profitable kind, and there is no place in which a good woman can make herself more useful. To be sure, it is hard work."

"Everything worth doing is hard work sometimes," remarked Sarah, "but I think doing nothing is the hardest work of all."

"Very true," said Doctor Henry. "Well, take time to think and pray over it, and write to your friends. If you decide to undertake the profession, I will find a place in the house for you, and will see that you have all needful instruction."

Sarah did think and pray over the matter, and finally concluded to accept the doctor's offer.

"Well, I must say I did wonder at your choice of a profession when I heard of it," said Fanny, on one of their meetings at the red house, which Sarah still called home, and whither she always came to spend her vacations. "I think I should rather do almost anything else. And you know, Sarah, grandma and Mrs. Cassell both offered to educate you for a teacher. How did it happen that you decided to take up nursing for a business?"

"I can't pretend to tell you all about it," replied Sarah, "only when I began to go about, I wanted something to do, and I began to wait on a sick lady whose room was next mine. So one thing led to another, and I seemed just to have found my place. I did not so much choose it as it chose me. Besides, I like to be a person of consequence," she added, smiling. "Teachers go begging nowadays, but people come begging for nurses. There are twice too many of the one and not half enough of the other."

"So it seems. I wonder how many letters you have had since you came here? Grandma says you work a great deal too hard."

"I don't mean to work so hard another year," said Sarah. "I am going to rest and study and have a nice time with Ally, and in order to do that, I must lay up some money. And now, Fanny, what do you mean to be?"

"To be Fanny, I guess," returned Fanny, smiling. "I shall never be anything great or grand in the world. I shall just go on filling up the chinks and rounding the corners, threading needles for other folks to sew with, and carrying bricks for other people's houses. I used to think that I should like to go into a convent or a sisterhood, but I can tell you I find there are plenty of ways to be useful in every-day life, and that one can be just as self-denying and work just as hard in a gypsy hat as in a cambric cap or a black serge veil."

"Annie has found her vocation, too, with all those little brothers and sisters of hers," said Sarah. "You don't know what a grave, motherly little thing she is, though her face isn't a day older than when she was lost on the mountain."

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Table of Contents

- ON THE MOUNTAIN;

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE