"He does know," answered De Grey; "and the first thing I have to tell you is, that I am your fellow-prisoner. I am to stay here till you give up. This was the only condition on which Dr. Middleton would allow me to bring you food, and he will allow no more."

Everyone looked at the empty basket. But Archer, in whom half vanquished party spirit revived with the strength he had got from his breakfast, broke into exclamations in praise of De Grey's magnanimity, as he now imagined that De Grey had become one of themselves.

"And you will join us, will you? That's a noble fellow!"

"No," answered De Grey, calmly; "but I hope to persuade, or rather to convince you, that you ought to join me."

"You would have found it no hard task to have persuaded or convinced us, whichever you pleased," said Townsend, "if you had appealed to Archers fasting; but Archers feasting are quite other animals. Even Caesar himself, after breakfast, is quite another thing!" added he, pointing to Archer.

"You may speak for yourself, Mr. Townsend," replied the insulted hero, "but not for me, or for Archers in general, if you please. We unbarred the door upon the faith of De Grey's promise—THAT was not giving up. And it would have been just as difficult, I promise you, to persuade or convince me either that I should give up against my honour before breakfast as after."

This spirited speech was applauded by many, who had now forgotten the feelings of famine. Not so Fisher, whose memory was upon this occasion very distinct.

"What nonsense," and the orator paused for a synonymous expression, but none was at hand. "What nonsense and—nonsense is here! Why, don't you remember that dinner-time, and supper-time and breakfast-time will come again? So what signifies mouthing about persuading and convincing? We will not go through again what we did yesterday! Honour me no honour. I don't understand it. I'd rather be flogged at once, as I have been many's the good time for a less thing. I say, we'd better all be flogged at once, which must be the end of it sooner or later, than wait here to be without dinner, breakfast, and supper, all only because Mr. Archer won't give up because of his honour and nonsense!"

Many prudent faces amongst the Fishermen seemed to deliberate at the close of this oration, in which the arguments were brought so "home to each man's business and bosom."

"But," said De Grey, "when we yield, I hope it will not be merely to get our dinner, gentlemen. When we yield, Archer—"

"Don't address yourself to me," interrupted Archer, struggling with his pride; "you have no further occasion to try to win me. I have no power, no party, you see! And now I find that I have no friends, I don't care what becomes of myself. I suppose I'm to be given up as a ringleader. Here's this Fisher, and a party of his Fishermen, were going to tie me hand and foot, if I had not knocked him down, just as you came to the door, De Grey; and now perhaps you will join Fisher's party against me."

De Grey was going to assure him that he had no intention of joining any party, when a sudden change appeared on Archer's countenance. "Silence!" cried Archer, in an imperious tone, and there was silence. Someone was heard to whistle the beginning of a tune, that was perfectly new to everybody present, except to Archer, who immediately whistled the conclusion. "There!" cried he, looking at De Grey, with triumph; "that's a method of holding secret correspondence whilst a prisoner, which I learned from 'Richard Coeur de Lion.' I know how to make use of everything. Hallo! friend! are you there at last?" cried he, going to the ventilator.

"Yes, but we are barred out here."

"Round to the window then, and fill our bag. We'll let it down, my lad, in a trice; bar me out who can!"

Archer let down the bag with all the expedition of joy, and it was filled with all the expedition of fear. "Pull away! make haste, for Heaven's sake!" said the voice from without; "the gardener will come from dinner, else, and we shall be caught. He mounted guard all yesterday at the ventilator; and though I watched and watched till it was darker than pitch, I could not get near you. I don't know what has taken him out of the way now. Make haste, pull away!" The heavy bag was soon pulled up.

"Have you any more?" said Archer.

"Yes, plenty. Let down quick! I've got the tailor's bag full, which is three times as large as yours, and I've changed clothes with the tailor's boy; so nobody took notice of me as I came down the street."

"There's my own cousin!" exclaimed Archer, "there's a noble fellow! there's my own cousin, I acknowledge. Fill the bag, then." Several times the bag descended and ascended; and at every unlading of the crane, fresh acclamations were heard.

"I have no more!" at length the boy with the tailor's bag cried.

"Off with you, then; we've enough, and thank you."

A delightful review was now made of their treasure. Busy hands arranged and sorted the heterogeneous mass. Archer, in the height of his glory, looked on, the acknowledged master of the whole. Townsend, who, in his prosperity as in adversity, saw and enjoyed the comic foibles of his friends, pushed De Grey, who was looking on with a more good-natured and more thoughtful air. "Friend," said he, "you look like a great philosopher, and Archer a great hero."

"And you, Townsend," said Archer, "may look like a wit, if you will; but you will never be a hero."

"No, no," replied Townsend; "wits were never heroes, because they are wits. You are out of your wits, and therefore may set up for a hero."

"Laugh, and welcome. I'm not a tyrant. I don't want to restrain anybody's wit; but I cannot say I admire puns."

"Nor I, either," said the time serving Fisher, sidling up to the manager, and picking the ice off a piece of plum-cake, "nor I either; I hate puns. I can never understand Townsend's PUNS. Besides, anybody can make puns; and one doesn't want wit, either, at all times; for instance, when one is going to settle about dinner, or business of consequence. Bless us all, Archer!" continued he, with sudden familiarity; "WHAT A SIGHT OF GOOD THINGS ARE HERE! I'm sure we are much obliged to you and your cousin. I never thought he'd have come. Why, now we can hold out as long as you please. Let us see," said he, dividing the provisions upon the table; "we can hold out to-day, and all to-morrow, and part of next day, maybe. Why, now we may defy the doctor and the Greybeards. The doctor will surely give up to us; for, you see, he knows nothing of all this, and he'll think we are starving all this while; and he'd be afraid, you see, to let us starve quite, in reality, for three whole days, because of what would be said in the town. My Aunt Barbara, for one, would be AT HIM long before that time was out; and besides, you know, in that case, he'd be hanged for murder, which is quite another thing, in law, from a BARRING OUT, you know."

Archer had not given to this harangue all the attention which it deserved, for his eye was fixed upon De Grey. "What is De Grey thinking of?" he asked, impatiently.

"I am thinking," said De Grey, "that Dr. Middleton must believe that I have betrayed his confidence in me. The gardener was ordered away from his watch-post for one half-hour when I was admitted. This half-hour the gardener has made nearly a hour. I never would have come near you if I had foreseen all this. Dr. Middleton trusted me, and now he will repent of his confidence in me."

"De Grey!" cried Archer, with energy, "he shall not repent of his confidence in you—nor shall you repent of coming amongst us. You shall find that we have some honour as well as yourself, and I will take care of your honour as if it were my OWN!"

"Hey-day!" interrupted Townsend; "are heroes allowed to change sides, pray? And does the chief of the Archers stand talking sentiment to the chief of the Greybeards? In the middle of his own party too!"

"Party!" repeated Archer, disdainfully; "I have done with parties! I see what parties are made of! I have felt the want of a friend, and I am determined to make one if I can."

"That you may do," said De Grey, stretching out his hand.

"Unbar the doors! unbar the windows!" exclaimed Archer. "Away with all these things! I give up for De Grey's sake. He shall not lose his credit on my account."

"No," said De Grey, "you shall not give up for my sake."

"Well, then, I'll give up to do what is HONOURABLE," said Archer.

"Why not to do what is REASONABLE?" said De Grey.

"REASONABLE! Oh, the first thing that a man of spirit should think of is, what is HONOURABLE."

"But how will he find out WHAT IS honourable, unless he can reason?" replied De Grey.

"Oh," said Archer, "his own feelings always tell him what is honourable."

"Have not YOUR FEELINGS," asked De Grey, "changed within these few hours?"

"Yes, with circumstances," replied Archer; "but right or wrong, as long as I think it honourable to do so and so, I'm satisfied."

"But you cannot think anything honourable, or the contrary," observed De Grey, "without reasoning; and as to what you call feeling, it's only a quick sort of reasoning."

"The quicker, the better," said Archer.

"Perhaps not," said De Grey. "We are apt to reason best when we are not in quite so great a hurry."

"But," said Archer, "we have not always time enough to reason AT FIRST."

"You must, however, acknowledge," replied De Grey, smiling, "that no man but a fool thinks it honourable to be in the wrong AT LAST. Is it not, therefore, best to begin by reasoning to find out the right AT FIRST?"

"To be sure," said Archer.

"And did you reason with yourself at first? And did you find out that it was right to bar Dr. Middleton out of his own schoolroom, because he desired you not to go into one of his own houses?"

"No," replied Archer; "but I should never have thought of heading a Barring Out, if he had not shown partiality; and if you had flown into a passion with me openly at once for pulling down your scenery, which would have been quite natural, and not have gone slily and forbid us the house out of revenge, there would have been none of this work."

"Why," said De Grey, "should you suspect me of such a mean action, when you have never seen or known me do anything mean, and when in this instance you have no proofs?"

"Will you give me your word and honour now, De Grey, before everybody here, that you did not do what I suspected?"

"I do assure you, upon my honour, I never, indirectly, spoke to Dr. Middleton about the playhouse."

"Then," said Archer, "I'm as glad as if I had found a thousand pounds! Now you are my friend indeed."

"And Dr. Middleton—why should you suspect him without reason any more than me?"

"As to that," said Archer, "he is your friend, and you are right to defend him; and I won't say another word against him. Will that satisfy you?"

"Not quite."

"Not quite! Then, indeed you are unreasonable!"

"No," replied De Grey; "for I don't wish you to yield out of friendship to me, any more than to honour. If you yield to reason, you will be governed by reason another time."

"Well; but then don't triumph over me, because you have the best side of the argument."

"Not I! How can I?" said De Grey; "for now you are on THE BEST SIDE as well as myself, are not you? So we may triumph together."

"You are a good friend!" said Archer; and with great eagerness he pulled down the fortifications, whilst every hand assisted. The room was restored to order in a few minutes—the shutters were thrown open, the cheerful light let in. The windows were thrown up, and the first feeling of the fresh air was delightful. The green playgound opened before them, and the hopes of exercise and liberty brightened the countenances of these voluntary prisoners.

But, alas! they were not yet at liberty. The idea of Dr. Middleton, and the dread of his vengeance, smote their hearts. When the rebels had sent an ambassador with their surrender, they stood in pale and silent suspense, waiting for their doom.

"Ah!" said Fisher, looking up at the broken panes in the windows, "the doctor will think the most of THAT—he'll never forgive us for that."

"Hush! here he comes!" His steady step was heard approaching nearer and nearer. Archer threw open the door, and Dr. Middleton entered. Fisher instantly fell on his knees.

"It is no delight to me to see people on their knees. Stand up, Mr. Fisher. I hope you are all conscious that you have done wrong?"

"Sir," said Archer, "they are conscious that they have done wrong, and so am I. I am the ringleader. Punish me as you think proper. I submit. Your punishments—your vengeance ought to fall on me alone!"

"Sir," said Dr. Middleton, calmly, "I perceive that whatever else you may have learned in the course of your education, you have not been taught the meaning of the word punishment. Punishment and vengeance do not with us mean the same thing. PUNISHMENT is pain given, with the reasonable hope of preventing those on whom it is inflicted from doing, IN FUTURE, what will hurt themselves or others. VENGEANCE never looks to the FUTURE, but is the expression of anger for an injury that is past. I feel no anger; you have done me no injury."

Here many of the little boys looked timidly up to the windows. "Yes, I see that you have broken my windows; that is a small evil."

"Oh, sir! How good! How merciful!" exclaimed those who had been most panic-struck. "He forgives us!"

"Stay," resumed Dr. Middleton; "I cannot forgive you. I shall never revenge, but it is my duty to punish. You have rebelled against the just authority which is necessary to conduct and govern you whilst you have not sufficient reason to govern and conduct yourselves. Without obedience to the laws," added he, turning to Archer, "as men, you cannot be suffered in society. You, sir, think yourself a man, I observe; and you think it the part of a man not to submit to the will of another. I have no pleasure in making others, whether men or children, submit to my WILL; but my reason and experience are superior to yours. Your parents at least think so, or they would not have intrusted me with the care of your education. As long as they do intrust you to my care, and as long as I have any hopes of making you wiser and better by punishment, I shall steadily inflict it, whenever I judge it to be necessary, and I judge it to be necessary NOW. This is a long sermon, Mr. Archer, not preached to show my own eloquence, but to convince your understanding. Now, as to your punishment!"

"Name it, sir," said Archer; "whatever it is, I will cheerfully submit to it."

"Name it yourself," said Dr. Middleton, "and show me that you now understand the nature of punishment."

Archer, proud to be treated like a reasonable creature, and sorry that he had behaved like a foolish schoolboy, was silent for some time, but at length replied, "That he would rather not name his own punishment." He repeated, however, that he trusted he should bear it well, whatever it might be.

"I shall, then," said Dr. Middleton, "deprive you, for two months, of pocket-money, as you have had too much, and have made a bad use of it."

"Sir," said Archer, "I brought five guineas with me to school. This guinea is all that I have left."

Dr. Middleton received the guinea which Archer offered him with a look of approbation, and told him that it should be applied to the repairs of the schoolroom. The rest of the boys waited in silence for the doctor's sentence against them, but not with those looks of abject fear with which boys usually expect the sentence of a schoolmaster.

"You shall return from the playground, all of you," said Dr. Middleton, "one quarter of an hour sooner, for two months to come, than the rest of your companions. A bell shall ring at the appointed time. I give you an opportunity of recovering my confidence by your punctuality."

"Oh, sir! we will come the instant, the very instant the bell rings; you shall have confidence in us," cried they, eagerly.

"I deserve your confidence, I hope," said Dr. Middleton; "for it is my first wish to make you all happy. You do not know the pain that it has cost me to deprive you of food for so many hours."

Here the boys, with one accord, ran to the place where they had deposited their last supplies. Archer delivered them up to the doctor, proud to show that they were not reduced to obedience merely by necessity.

"The reason," resumed Dr. Middleton, having now returned to the usual benignity of his manner—"the reason why I desired that none of you should go to that building," pointing out of the window, "was this:—I had been informed that a gang of gipsies had slept there the night before I spoke to you, one of whom was dangerously ill of a putrid fever. I did not choose to mention my reason to you or your friends. I have had the place cleaned, and you may return to it when you please. The gipsies were yesterday removed from the town."

"De Grey, you were in the right," whispered Archer, "and it was I that was UNJUST."

"The old woman," continued the doctor, "whom you employed to buy food, has escaped the fever, but she has not escaped a gaol, whither she was sent yesterday, for having defrauded you of your money.

"Mr. Fisher," said Dr. Middleton, "as to you, I shall not punish you; I have no hope of making you either wiser or better. Do you know this paper?"—the paper appeared to be a bill for candles and a tinder-box.

"I desired him to buy those things, sir," said Archer, colouring.

"And did you desire him not to pay for them?"

"No," said Archer, "he had half a crown on purpose to pay for them."

"I know he had, but he chose to apply it to his private use, and gave it to the gipsy to buy twelve buns for his own eating. To obtain credit for the tinder-box and candles, he made use of THIS name," said he, turning to the other side of the bill, and pointing to De Grey's name, which was written at the end of a copy of one of De Grey's exercises.

"I assure you, sir—" cried Archer.

"You need not assure me, sir," said Dr. Middleton; "I cannot suspect a boy of your temper of having any part in so base an action. When the people in the shop refused to let Mr. Fisher have the things without paying for them, he made use of De Grey's name, who was known there. Suspecting some mischief, however, from the purchase of the tinder-box, the shopkeeper informed me of the circumstance. Nothing in this whole business gave me half so much pain as I felt, for a moment, when I suspected that De Grey was concerned in it." A loud cry, in which Archer's voice was heard most distinctly, declared De Grey's innocence. Dr. Middleton looked round at their eager, honest faces, with benevolent approbation. "Archer," said he, taking him by the hand, "I am heartily glad to see that you have got the better of your party spirit. I wish you may keep such a friend as you have now beside you; one such friend is worth two such parties. As for you, Mr. Fisher, depart; you must never return hither again." In vain he solicited Archer and De Grey to intercede for him. Everybody turned away with contempt; and he sneaked out, whimpering in a doleful voice, "What shall I say to my Aunt Barbara?"



THE BRACELETS.

In a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. Villars, a lady whose accurate understanding, benevolent heart, and steady temper peculiarly fitted her for the most difficult, as well as most important, of all occupations—the education of youth. This task she had undertaken; and twenty young persons were put under her care, with the perfect confidence of their parents. No young people could be happier; they were good and gay, emulous, but not envious of each other; for Mrs. Villars was impartially just; her praise they felt to be the reward of merit, and her blame they knew to be the necessary consequence of ill- conduct. To the one, therefore, they patiently submitted, and in the other consciously rejoiced. They rose with fresh cheerfulness in the morning, eager to pursue their various occupations. They returned in the evening with renewed ardour to their amusements, and retired to rest satisfied with themselves and pleased with each other.

Nothing so much contributed to preserve a spirit of emulation in this little society as a small honorary distinction, given annually, as a prize of successful application. The prize this year was peculiarly dear to each individual, as it was the picture of a friend whom they dearly loved. It was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small bracelet. It wanted neither gold, pearls nor precious stones to give it value.

The two foremost candidates for this prize were Cecilia and Leonora. Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leonora; but Leonora was only the favourite companion of Cecilia.

Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposition, more eager in the pursuit than happy in the enjoyment of her wishes. Leonora was of a contented, unaspiring temperate character; not easily roused to action, but indefatigable when once excited. Leonora was proud; Cecilia was vain. Her vanity made her more dependent upon the approbation of others, and therefore more anxious to please than Leonora; but that very vanity made her, at the same time, more apt to offend. In short, Leonora was the most anxious to avoid what was wrong; Cecilia, the most ambitious to do what was right. Few of her companions loved, but many were led by Cecilia, for she was often successful. Many loved Leonora, but none were ever governed by her, for she was too indolent to govern.

On the first day of May, about six o'clock in the evening, a great bell rang, to summon this little society into a hall, where the prize was to be decided. A number of small tables were placed in a circle in the middle of the hall. Seats for the young competitors were raised one above another, in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table, and the judges' chairs, under canopies of lilacs and laburnums, forming another semicircle, closed the amphitheatre.

Everyone put their writings, their drawings, their works of various kinds upon the tables appropriated for each. How unsteady were the last steps to these tables! How each little hand trembled as it laid down its claims! Till this moment everyone thought herself secure of success; and the heart, which exulted with hope, now palpitated with fear.

The works were examined, the preference adjudged, and the prize was declared to be the happy Cecilia's. Mrs. Villars came forward, smiling, with the bracelet in her hand. Cecilia was behind her companions, on the highest row. All the others gave way, and she was on the floor in an instant. Mrs. Villars clasped the bracelet on her arm; the clasp was heard through the whole hall, and a universal smile of congratulation followed. Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia's little hand. "And now," said she, "go and rejoice with your companions; the remainder of the day is yours."

Oh! you whose hearts are elated with success, whose bosoms beat high with joy in the moment of triumph, command yourselves. Let that triumph be moderate, that it may be lasting. Consider, that though you are good, you may be better; and, though wise, you may be weak.

As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the bracelet, all Cecilia's little companions crowded round her, and they all left the hall in an instant. She was full of spirits and vanity. She ran on. Running down the flight of steps which led to the garden, in her violent haste, Cecilia threw down the little Louisa, who had a china mandarin in her hand, which her mother had sent her that very morning, and which was all broken to pieces by her fall.

"Oh, my mandarin!" cried Louisa, bursting into tears. The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped. Louisa sat on the lowest step, fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces. Then, turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step above her. In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of the mandarin. The head, which she placed in the socket, fell from the shoulders, and rolled, bounding along the gravel walk. Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst into laughter. The crowd behind laughed, too.

At any other time they would have been more inclined to cry with Louisa; but Cecilia had just been successful, and sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice.

Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency. "Poor Louisa!" said she, looking first at her, and then reproachfully at Cecilia. Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with shame and half with vexation. "I could not help it, Leonora," said she.

"But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia."

"I didn't laugh at Louisa; and I surely may laugh, for it does nobody any harm."

"I am sure, however," replied Leonora, "I should not have laughed if I had—"

"No, to be sure, you wouldn't, because Louisa is your favourite. I can buy her another mandarin when the old peddler comes to the door, if that's all. I CAN do no more, CAN I?" said she, again turning round to her companions. "No, to be sure," said they; "that's all fair."

Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora. Leonora let go her hand; she ran on, and the crowd followed. When she got to the end of the garden, she turned round to see if Leonora had followed her, too; but was vexed to see her still sitting on the steps with Louisa. "I'm sure I can do no more than buy her another, CAN I!" said she, again appealing to her companions. "No, to be sure," said they, eager to begin their play.

How many games did these juvenile playmates begin and leave off, before Cecilia could be satisfied with any! Her thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon something else. No wonder, then, that she did not play with her usual address. She grew still more impatient. She threw down the ninepins. "Come, let us play at something else—at threading the needle," said she, holding out her hand. They all yielded to the hand which wore the bracelet. But Cecilia, dissatisfied with herself, was discontented with everybody else. Her tone grew more and more peremptory. One was too rude, another too stiff; one too slow, another too quick; in short everything went wrong, and everybody was tired of her humours.

The triumph of SUCCESS is absolute, but short. Cecilia's companions at length recollected that though she had embroidered a tulip, and painted a peach, better than they, yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better; for she was discomposed.

Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, Cecilia met Leonora, but passed on. "Cecilia!" cried Leonora.

"Well, what do you want with me?"

"Are we friends?"

"You know best," said Cecilia.

"We are, if you will let me tell Louisa that you are sorry—"

Cecilia, interrupting her, "Oh, pray let me hear no more about Louisa!"

"What! not confess that you were in the wrong? Oh, Cecilia! I had a better opinion of you."

"Your opinion is of no consequence to me now, for you don't love me."

"No; not when you are unjust, Cecilia."

"Unjust! I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess."

"No, but am not I your friend?"

"I don't desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel with me for happening to throw down little Louisa. How could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand? and when it was broken, could I do more than promise her another; was that unjust?"

"But you know, Cecilia—"

"I KNOW," ironically. "I know, Leonora, that you love Louisa better than you love me; that's the injustice!"

"If I did," replied Leonora, gravely, "it would be no injustice, if she deserved it better."

"How can you compare Louisa to me!" exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly.

Leonora made no answer; for she was really hurt at her friend's conduct. She walked on to join the rest of her companions. They were dancing in a round upon the grass. Leonora declined dancing; but they prevailed upon her to sing for them. Her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter than usual. Who sang so sweetly as Leonora? or who danced so nimbly as Louisa? Away she was flying, all spirits and gaiety, when Leonora's eyes full of tears, caught hers. Louisa silently let go her companion's hand, and, quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her. "Nothing," replied she, "that need interrupt you. Go, my dear; go and dance again."

Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry-leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry-bed when Cecilia came by. Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons; because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured her. The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten. Perhaps to tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin; but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called malice.

"What are you doing there, little one?" said Cecilia, in a sharp tone. "Are you eating your early strawberries here all alone?"

"No," said Louisa, mysteriously, "I am not eating them."

"What are you doing with them? can't you answer, then? I'm not playing with you, child!"

"Oh, as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you unless I choose it; not but what I would if you would only ask me civilly, and if you would not call me CHILD."

"Why should not I call you child?"

"Because—because—I don't know; but I wish you would stand out of my light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon all my strawberries."

"I have not touched one, you covetous little creature!"

"Indeed—indeed, Cecilia, I am not covetous. I have not eaten one of them; they are all for your friend Leonora. See how unjust you are!"

"Unjust! that's a cant word which you learnt of my friend Leonora, as you call her; but she is not my friend now."

"Not your friend now!" exclaimed Louisa; "then I am sure you must have done something VERY naughty."

"How?" cried Cecilia, catching hold of her.

"Let me go, let me go!" cried Louisa, struggling. "I won't give you one of my strawberries, for I don't like you at all!"

"You don't, don't you?" cried Cecilia, provoked, and, catching the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries over the hedge.

"Will nobody help me?" exclaimed Louisa, snatching her hat again, and running away with all her force.

"What have I done?" said Cecilia, recollecting herself; "Louisa! Louisa!" she called very loud, but Louisa would not turn back; she was running to her companions, who were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the grass, whilst Leonora, sitting in the middle, was singing to them.

"Stop! stop! and hear me!" cried Louisa, breaking through them; and, rushing up to Leonora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting for breath—"It was full—almost full of my own strawberries," said she, "the first I ever got out of my garden. They should all have been for you, Leonora; but now I have not one left. They are all gone!" said she; and she hid her face in Leonora's lap.

"Gone! gone where?" said everyone, at once running up to her.

"Cecilia! Cecilia!" said she, sobbing.

"Cecilia," repeated Leonora, "what of Cecilia?"

"Yes, it was—it was."

"Come with me," said Leonora, unwilling to have her friend exposed. "Come, and I will get you some more strawberries."

"Oh, I don't mind the strawberries, indeed; but I wanted to have had the pleasure of giving them to you."

Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too late.

"What, Cecilia! Cecilia, who won the prize! It could not surely be Cecilia," whispered every busy tongue.

At this instant the bell summoned them in. "There she is! There she is!" cried they, pointing to an arbour, where Cecilia was standing ashamed and alone; and, as they passed her, some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, others whispered and huddled mysteriously together, as if to avoid her. Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual.

"Leonora!" said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed.

"Oh, Cecilia! who would have thought that you had a bad heart?" Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears.

"Oh, no, indeed, she has not a bad heart!" cried Louisa, running up to her and throwing her arms around her neck. "She's very sorry; are not you, Cecilia? But don't cry any more, for I forgive you, with all my heart—and I love you now, though I said I did not when I was in a passion."

"Oh, you sweet-tempered girl! how I love you!" said Cecilia, kissing her.

"Well, then, if you do, come along with me, and dry your eyes, for they are so red!"

"Go, my dear, and I'll come presently."

"Then I will keep a place for you, next to me; but you must make haste, or you will have to come in when we have all sat down to supper, and then you will be so stared at! So don't stay, now."

Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of sight. "And is Louisa," said she, to herself, "the only one who would stop to pity me? Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be mine. She little thought how it would end!"

Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon the ground; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf which she had raised in the morning, and which, in the pride and gaiety of her heart, she had called her throne.

At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity of the evening, and, passing by the arbour where Cecilia lay, she started. Cecilia rose hastily.

"Who is there?" said Mrs. Villars.

"It is I, madam."

"And who is I?"

"Cecilia."

"Why, what keeps you here, my dear? Where are your companions? This is, perhaps, one of the happiest days of your life."

"Oh, no, madam," said Cecilia, hardly able to repress her tears.

"Why, my dear, what is the matter?" Cecilia hesitated. "Speak, my dear. You know that when I ask you to tell me anything as your friend, I never punish you as your governess; therefore you need not be afraid to tell me what is the matter."

"No, madam, I am not afraid, but ashamed. You asked me why I was not with my companions. Why, madam, because they have all left me, and—"

"And what, my dear?"

"And I see that they all dislike me; and yet I don't know why they should, for I take as much pains to please as any of them. All my masters seem satisfied with me; and you yourself, madam, were pleased this very morning to give me this bracelet; and I am sure you would not have given it to anyone who did not deserve it."

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Villars. "You well deserve it for your application—for your successful application. The prize was for the most assiduous, not for the most amiable."

"Then, if it had been for the most amiable, it would not have been for me?"

Mrs. Villars, smiling,—"Why, what do you think yourself, Cecilia? You are better able to judge than I am. I can determine whether or no you apply to what I give you to learn; whether you attend to what I desire you to do, and avoid what I desire you not to do. I know that I like you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as a companion, unless I were your companion. Therefore I must judge of what I should do, by seeing what others do in the same circumstances."

"Oh, pray don't, madam! for then you would not love me either. And yet I think you would love me; for I hope that I am as ready to oblige, and as good-natured as—"

"Yes, Cecilia, I don't doubt but that you would be very good natured to me; but I'm afraid that I should not like you unless you were good- tempered, too."

"But, madam, by good-natured I mean good-tempered—it's all the same thing."

"No, indeed, I understand by them two very different things. You are good-natured, Cecilia; for you are desirous to oblige and serve your companions—to gain them praise, and save them from blame—to give them pleasure, and relieve them from pain; but Leonora is good-tempered, for she can bear with their foibles, and acknowledge her own. Without disputing about the right, she sometimes yields to those who are in the wrong. In short, her temper is perfectly good; for it can bear and forbear."

"I wish that mine could!" said Cecilia, sighing.

"It may," replied Mrs. Villars; "but it is not wishes alone which can improve us in anything. Turn the same exertion and perseverance which have won you the prize to-day to this object, and you will meet with the same success; perhaps not on the first, the second, or the third attempt; but depend upon it that you will at last. Every new effort will weaken your bad habits, and strengthen your good ones. But you must not expect to succeed all at once. I repeat it to you, for habit must be counteracted by habit. It would be as extravagant in us to expect that all our faults could be destroyed by one punishment, were it ever so severe, as it was in the Roman emperor we were reading of a few days ago, to wish that all the heads of his enemies were upon one neck, that he might cut them off at one blow."

Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and they began to walk home. Such was the nature of Cecilia's mind, that when any object was forcibly impressed on her imagination, it caused a temporary suspension of her reasoning faculties. Hope was too strong a stimulus for her spirits; and when fear did take possession of her mind, it was attended with total debility. Her vanity was now as much mortified as in the morning it had been elated. She walked on with Mrs. Villars in silence, until they came under the shade of the elm-tree walk, and there, fixing her eyes upon Mrs. Villars, she stopped short.

"Do you think, madam," said she, with hesitation—"do you think, madam, that I have a bad heart?"

"A bad heart,—my dear! why, what put that into your head?"

"Leonora said that I had, madam, and I felt ashamed when she said so."

"But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether your heart be good or bad? However, in the first place, tell me what you mean by a bad heart."

"Indeed I do not know what is meant by it, madam; but it is something which everybody hates."

"And why do they hate it?"

"Because they think that it will hurt them, ma'am, I believe: and that those who have bad hearts take delight in doing mischief; and that they never do anybody any good but for their own ends."

"Then the best definition," said Mrs. Villars, "which you can give me of a bad heart is, that it is some constant propensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the sake of doing wrong."

"Yes, madam; but that is not all either. There is still something else meant; something which I cannot express—which, indeed, I never distinctly understood; but of which, therefore, I was the more afraid."

"Well, then, to begin with what you do understand, tell me, Cecilia, do you really think it possible to be wicked merely for the love of wickedness? No human being becomes wicked all at once. A man begins by doing wrong because it is, or because he thinks it, for his interest. If he continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame and lose his love of virtue. But how can you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong sense of shame, and such an eager desire to improve, imagine that you have a bad heart?"

"Indeed, madam, I never did, until everybody told me so, and then I began to be frightened about it. This very evening, madam, when I was in a passion, I threw little Louisa's strawberries away, which, I am sure, I was very sorry for afterwards; and Leonora and everybody cried out that I had a bad heart—but I am sure I was only in a passion."

"Very likely. And when you are in a passion, as you call it, Cecilia, you see that you are tempted to do harm to others. If they do not feel angry themselves, they do not sympathize with you. They do not perceive the motive which actuates you; and then they say that you have a bad heart. I daresay, however, when your passion is over, and when you recollect yourself, you are very sorry for what you have done and said; are not you?"

"Yes, indeed, madam—very sorry."

"Then make that sorry of use to you, Cecilia, and fix it steadily in your thoughts, as you hope to be good and happy, that if you suffer yourself to yield to your passion upon every occasion, anger and its consequences will become familiar to your mind; and, in the same proportion, your sense of shame will be weakened, till what you began with doing from sudden impulse you will end with doing from habit and choice: then you would, indeed, according to our definition, have a bad heart."

"Oh, madam! I hope—I am sure I never shall."

"No, indeed, Cecilia; I do, indeed, believe that you never will; on the contrary, I think that you have a very good disposition, and what is of infinitely more consequence to you, an active desire of improvement. Show me that you have as much perseverance as you have candour, and I shall not despair of your becoming everything that I could wish."

Here Cecilia's countenance brightened, and she ran up the steps in almost as high spirits as she ran down them in the morning.

"Good-night to you, Cecilia," said Mrs. Villars, as she was crossing the hall. "Good-night to you, madam," said Cecilia; and she ran upstairs to bed. She could not go to sleep; but she lay awake, reflecting upon the events of the preceding day, and forming resolutions for the future, at the same time that she had resolved, and resolved without effect, she wished to give her mind some more powerful motive. Ambition she knew to be its most powerful incentive. "Have I not," said she to herself, "already won the prize of application, and cannot the same application procure me a much higher prize? Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been promised to the most amiable, it would not have been given to me. Perhaps it would not yesterday, perhaps it might not to-morrow; but that is no reason that I should despair of ever deserving it.".

In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design of proposing to her companions that they should give a prize, the first of the ensuing month (the lst of June), to the most amiable. Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and her companions adopted it with the greatest alacrity.

"Let the prize," said they, "be a bracelet of our own hair;" and instantly their shining scissors were produced, and each contributed a lock of their hair. They formed the most beautiful gradation of colours, from the palest auburn to the brightest black. Who was to have the honour of plaiting them? was now the question. Caroline begged that she might, as she could plait very neatly, she said. Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she could do it much better; and a dispute would have inevitably ensued, if Cecilia, recollecting herself just as her colour rose to scarlet, had not yielded—yielded, with no very good grace indeed, but as well as could be expected for the first time. For it is habit which confers ease; and without ease, even in moral actions, there can be no grace.

The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline, finished round the edge with silver twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest silver letters, this motto, "TO THE MOST AMIABLE." The moment it was completed, everybody begged to try it on. It fastened with little silver clasps, and as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it was too large for the youngest. Of this they bitterly complained, and unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them.

"How foolish!" exclaimed Cecilia; "don't you perceive that if any of you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the clips a little further from the edge, but if we get it, we can't make it larger?"

"Very true," said they; "but you need not to have called us foolish, Cecilia."

It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these that Cecilia offended. A slight difference in the manner makes a very material one in the effect. Cecilia lost more love by general petulance than she could gain by the greatest particular exertions.

How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect—how far she became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given— shall be told in the History of the First of June.

——-

The First of June was now arrived, and all the young competitors were in a state of the most anxious suspense. Leonora and Cecilia continued to be the foremost candidates. Their quarrel had never been finally adjusted, and their different pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a reconciliation. Cecilia, though she was capable of acknowledging any of her faults in public before all her companions, could not humble herself in private to Leonora. Leonora was her equal; they were her inferiors, and submission is much easier to a vain mind, where it appears to be voluntary, than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or candour. So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth, that she even delayed making any apology, or coming to any explanation with Leonora, until success should once more give her the palm.

"If I win the bracelet, to-day," said she to herself, "I will solicit the return of Leonora's friendship; it will be more valuable to me than even the bracelet, and at such a time, and asked in such a manner, she surely cannot refuse it to me." Animated with this hope of a double triumph, Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity. By constant attention and exertion she had considerably abated the violence of her temper, and changed the course of her habits. Her powers of pleasing were now excited, instead of her abilities to excel; and, if her talents appeared less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to be more amiable. So great an influence upon our manners and conduct have the objects of our ambition.

Cecilia was now, if possible, more than ever desirous of doing what was right, but she had not yet acquired sufficient fear of doing wrong. This was the fundamental error of her mind; it arose in a great measure from her early education. Her mother died when she was very young; and though her father had supplied her place in the best and kindest manner, he had insensibly infused into his daughter's mind a portion of that enterprising, independent spirit which he justly deemed essential to the character of her brother. This brother was some years older than Cecilia, but he had always been the favourite companion of her youth. What her father's precepts inculcated, his example enforced; and even Cecilia's virtues consequently became such as were more estimable in a man than desirable in a female. All small objects and small errors she had been taught to disregard as trifles; and her impatient disposition was perpetually leading her into more material faults; yet her candour in confessing these, she had been suffered to believe, was sufficient reparation and atonement.

Leonora, on the contrary, who had been educated by her mother in a manner more suited to her sex, had a character and virtues more peculiar to a female. Her judgment had been early cultivated, and her good sense employed in the regulation of her conduct. She had been habituated to that restraint, which, as a woman, she was to expect in life, and early accustomed to yield. Compliance in her seemed natural and graceful; yet notwithstanding the gentleness of her temper, she was in reality more independent than Cecilia. She had more reliance upon her own judgment, and more satisfaction in her own approbation. The uniform kindness of her manner, the consistency and equality of her character, had fixed the esteem and passive love of her companions.

By passive love we mean that species of affection which makes us unwilling to offend rather than anxious to oblige, which is more a habit than an emotion of the mind. For Cecilia her companions felt active love, for she was active in showing her love to them.

Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, after feeling particular instances of kindness, without reflection on the past conduct or general character. It exceeds the merits of its object, and is connected with a feeling of generosity, rather than with a sense of justice.

Without determining which species of love is the most flattering to others, we can easily decide which is the most agreeable feeling to our minds. We give our hearts more credit for being generous than for being just; and we feel more self-complacency when we give our love voluntarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which we cannot withhold. Though Cecilia's companions might not know all this in theory, they proved it in practice; for they loved her in a much higher proportion to her merits than they loved Leonora.

Each of the young judges were to signify their choice by putting a red or a white shell into a vase prepared for the purpose. Cecilia's colour was red, Leonora's white.

In the morning nothing was to be seen but these shells; nothing talked of but the long expected event of the evening. Cecilia, following Leonora's example, had made it a point of honour not to inquire of any individual her vote, previously to their final determination.

They were both sitting together in Louisa's room. Louisa was recovering from the measles. Everyone during her illness had been desirous of attending her; but Leonora and Cecilia were the only two that were permitted to see her, as they alone had had the distemper. They were both assiduous in their care of Louisa, but Leonora's want of exertion to overcome any disagreeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her of presence of mind, and prevented her from being so constantly useful as Cecilia. Cecilia, on the contrary, often made too much noise and bustle with her officious assistance, and was too anxious to invent amusements and procure comforts for Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes away the power of enjoying them.

As she was sitting at the window in the morning, exerting herself to entertain Louisa, she heard the voice of an old peddler who often used to come to the house. Downstairs they ran immediately, to ask Mrs. Villars' permission to bring him into the hall. Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran to proclaim the news to her companions. Then, first returning into the hall, she found the peddler just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his shoulders.

"What would you be pleased to want, miss?" said the peddler; "I've all kinds of tweezer-cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts," continued he, opening all the glittering drawers successively.

"Oh!" said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of lockets which tempted her most, "these are not the things which I want. Have you any china figures? any mandarins?"

"Alack-a-day, miss, I had a great stock of that same chinaware; but now I'm quite out of them kind of things; but I believe," said he, rummaging one of the deepest drawers, "I believe I have one left, and here it is."

"Oh, that is the very thing! what's its price?"

"Only three shillings, ma'am." Cecilia paid the money, and was just going to carry off the mandarin, when the peddler took out of his great- coat pocket a neat mahogany case. It was about a foot long, and fastened at each end by two little clasps. It had besides, a small lock in the middle.

"What is that?" said Cecilia, eagerly.

"It's only a china figure, miss, which I am going to carry to an elderly lady, who lives nigh hand, and who is mighty fond of such things."

"Could you let me look at it?"

"And welcome, miss," said he, and opened the case.

"Oh, goodness! how beautiful!" exclaimed Cecilia.

It was a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, and carrying a basket of flowers in her hand. Cecilia contemplated it with delight. "How I should like to give this to Louisa!" said she to herself; and, at last, breaking silence, "Did you promise it to the old lady?"

"Oh, no, miss, I didn't promise it—she never saw it; and if so be that you'd like to take it, I'd make no more words about it."

"And how much does it cost?"

"Why, miss, as to that, I'll let you have it for half-a-guinea."

Cecilia immediately produced the box in which she kept her treasure, and, emptying it upon the table, she began to count the shillings. Alas! there were but six shillings. "How provoking!" said she; "then I can't have it. Where's the mandarin? Oh, I have it," said she, taking it up, and looking at it with the utmost disgust. "Is this the same that I had before?"

"Yes, miss, the very same," replied the peddler, who, during this time, had been examining the little box out of which Cecilia had taken her money—it was of silver. "Why, ma'am," said he, "since you've taken such a fancy to the piece, if you've a mind to make up the remainder of the money, I will take this here little box, if you care to part with it."

Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora to Cecilia. "No," said Cecilia hastily, blushing a little, and stretching out her hand to receive it.

"Oh, miss!" said he, returning it carelessly, "I hope there's no offence. I meant but to serve you, that's all. Such a rare piece of china-work has no cause to go a-begging," added he. Then, putting the Flora deliberately into the case, and turning the key with a jerk, he let it drop into his pocket; when, lifting up his box by the leather straps, he was preparing to depart.

"Oh, stay one minute!" said Cecilia, in whose mind there had passed a very warm conflict during the peddler's harangue. "Louisa would so like this Flora," said she, arguing with herself. "Besides, it would be so generous in me to give it to her instead of that ugly mandarin; that would be doing only common justice, for I promised it to her, and she expects it. Though, when I come to look at this mandarin, it is not even so good as hers was. The gilding is all rubbed off, so that I absolutely must buy this for her. Oh, yes! I will, and she will be so delighted! and then everybody will say it is the prettiest thing they ever saw, and the broken mandarin will be forgotten for ever."

Here Cecilia's hand moved, and she was just going to decide: "Oh, but stop," said she to herself, "consider—Leonora gave me this box, and it is a keepsake. However, we have now quarrelled, and I dare say that she would not mind my parting with it. I'm sure that I should not care if she was to give away my keepsake, the smelling-bottle, or the ring which I gave her. Then what does it signify? Besides, is it not my own? and have I not a right to do what I please with it?"

At this moment, so critical for Cecilia, a party of her companions opened the door. She knew that they came as purchasers, and she dreaded her Flora's becoming the prize of some higher bidder. "Here," said she, hastily putting the box into the peddler's hand, without looking at it; "take it, and give me the Flora." Her hand trembled, though she snatched it impatiently. She ran by, without seeming to mind any of her companions.

Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the hopes of future gratification, or the prospect of certain concealment and impunity, remember that, unless they are totally depraved, they bear in their own hearts a monitor, who will prevent their enjoying what they ill obtained.

In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her companions, to display her present, in hopes that the applause of others would restore her own self- complacency; in vain she saw the Flora pass in due pomp from hand to hand, each vying with the other in extolling the beauty of the gift and the generosity of the giver. Cecilia was still displeased with herself, with them, and even with their praise. From Louisa's gratitude, however, she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately she ran upstairs to her room.

In the meantime, Leonora had gone into the hall to buy a bodkin; she had just broken hers. In giving her change, the peddler took out of his pocket, with some halfpence, the very box which Cecilia had sold to him. Leonora did not in the least suspect the truth, for her mind was above suspicion; and besides, she had the utmost confidence in Cecilia.

"I should like to have that box," said she, "for it is like one of which I was very fond."

The peddler named the price, and Leonora took the box. She intended to give it to little Louisa. On going to her room she found her asleep, and she sat softly down by her bedside. Louisa opened her eyes.

"I hope I didn't disturb you," said Leonora.

"Oh, no. I didn't hear you come in; but what have you got there?"

"Only a little box; would you like to have it? I bought on purpose for you, as I thought perhaps it would please you, because it's like that which I gave Cecilia."

"Oh, yes! that out of which she used to give me Barbary drops. I am very much obliged to you; I always thought that exceedingly pretty, and this, indeed, is as like it as possible. I can't unscrew it; will you try?"

Leonora unscrewed it. "Goodness!" exclaimed Louisa, "this must be Cecilia's box. Look, don't you see a great L at the bottom of it?"

Leonora's colour changed. "Yes," she replied calmly, "I see that; but it is no proof that it is Cecilia's. You know that I bought this box just now of the peddler."

"That may be," said Louisa; "but I remember scratching that L with my own needle, and Cecilia scolded me for it, too. Do go and ask her if she has lost her box—do," repeated Louisa, pulling her by the ruffle, as she did not seem to listen.

Leonora, indeed, did not hear, for she was lost in thought. She was comparing circumstances, which had before escaped her attention. She recollected that Cecilia had passed her as she came into the hall, without seeming to see her, but had blushed as she passed. She remembered that the peddler appeared unwilling to part with the box, and was going to put it again in his pocket with the halfpence. "And why should he keep it in his pocket, and not show it with his other things?" Combining all these circumstances, Leonora had no longer any doubt of the truth, for though she had honourable confidence in her friends, she had too much penetration to be implicitly credulous.

"Louisa," she began, but at this instant she heard a step, which, by its quickness, she knew to be Cecilia's, coming along the passage. "If you love me, Louisa," said Leonora, "say nothing about the box."

"Nay, but why not? I daresay she had lost it."

"No, my dear, I'm afraid she has not." Louisa looked surprised. "But I have reasons for desiring you not to say anything about it."

"Well, then, I won't, indeed."

Cecilia opened the door, came forward smiling, as if secure of a good reception, and taking the Flora out of the case, she placed it on the mantlepiece, opposite to Louisa's bed. "Dear, how beautiful!" cried Louisa, starting up.

"Yes," said Cecilia, "and guess who it's for."

"For me, perhaps!" said the ingenuous Louisa.

"Yes, take it, and keep it, for my sake. You know that I broke your mandarin."

"Oh, but this is a great deal prettier and larger than that."

"Yes, I know it is; and I meant that it should be so. I should only have done what I was bound to do if I had only given you a mandarin."

"Well," replied Louisa, "and that would have been enough, surely; but what a beautiful crown of roses! and then that basket of flowers! they almost look as if I could smell them. Dear Cecilia, I'm very much obliged to you; but I won't take it by way of payment for the mandarin you broke; for I'm sure you could not help that, and, besides, I should have broken it myself by this time. You shall give it to me entirely; and as your keepsake, I'll keep it as long as I live."

Louisa stopped short and coloured; the word keepsake recalled the box to her mind, and all the train of ideas which the Flora had banished. "But," said she, looking up wistfully in Cecilia's face, and holding the Flora doubtfully, "did you—"

Leonora, who was just quitting the room, turned her head back, and gave Louisa a look, which silenced her.

Cecilia was so infatuated with her vanity, that she neither perceived Leonora's sign nor Louisa's confusion, but continued showing off her present, by placing it in various situations, till at length she put it into the case, and laying it down with an affected carelessness upon the bed, "I must go now, Louisa. Good-bye," said she, running up and kissing her; "but I'll come again presently," then, clapping the door after her she went. But as soon as the formentation of her spirits subsided, the sense of shame, which had been scarcely felt when mixed with so many other sensations, rose uppermost in her mind. "What!" said she to herself, "is it possible that I have sold what I promised to keep for ever? and what Leonora gave me? and I have concealed it too, and have been making a parade of my generosity. Oh! what would Leonora, what would Louisa—what would everybody think of me, if the truth were known?"

Humiliated and grieved by these reflections, Cecilia began to search in her own mind for some consoling idea. She began to compare her conduct with that of others of her own age; and at length, fixing her comparison upon her brother George, as the companion of whom, from her infancy, she had been habitually the most emulous, she recollected that an almost similar circumstance had once happened to him, and that he had not only escaped disgrace, but had acquired glory, by an intrepid confession of his fault. Her father's word to her brother, on the occasion, she also perfectly recollected.

"Come to me, George," he said holding out his hand, "you are a generous, brave boy: they who dare to confess their faults will make great and good men."

These were his words; but Cecilia, in repeating them to herself, forgot to lay that emphasis on the word MEN, which would have placed it in contradistinction to the word WOMEN. She willingly believed that the observation extended equally to both sexes, and flattered herself that she should exceed her brother in merit if she owned a fault, which she thought that it would be so much more difficult to confess. "Yes, but," said she, stopping herself, "how can I confess it? This very evening, in a few hours, the prize will be decided. Leonora or I shall win it. I have now as good a chance as Leonora, perhaps a better; and must I give up all my hopes—all that I have been labouring for this month past? Oh, I never can! If it were but to-morrow, or yesterday, or any day but this, I would not hesitate; but now I am almost certain of the prize, and if I win it—well, why then I will—I think I will tell all—yes I will; I am determined," said Cecilia.

Here a bell summoned them to dinner. Leonora sat opposite to her, and she was not a little surprised to see Cecilia look so gay and unconstrained. "Surely," said she to herself, "if Cecilia had done that which I suspect, she would not, she could not, look as she does." But Leonora little knew the cause of her gaiety. Cecilia was never in higher spirits, or better pleased with herself, than when she had resolved upon a sacrifice or a confession.

"Must not this evening be given to the most amiable? Whose, then, will it be?" All eyes glanced first at Cecilia, and then at Leonora. Cecilia smiled; Leonora blushed. "I see that it is not yet decided," said Mrs. Villars; and immediately they ran upstairs, amidst confused whisperings.

Cecilia's voice could be distinguished far above the rest. "How can she be so happy!" said Leonora to herself. "Oh Cecilia, there was a time when you could not have neglected me so! when we were always together the best of friends and companions; our wishes, tastes, and pleasures the same! Surely she did once love me," said Leonora; "but now she is quite changed. She has even sold my keepsake; and she would rather win a bracelet of hair from girls whom she did not always think so much superior to Leonora, than have my esteem, my confidence, and my friendship for her whole life—yes, for her whole life, for I am sure she will be an amiable woman. Oh, that this bracelet had never been thought of, or that I were certain of her winning it; for I am sure that I do not wish to win it from her. I would rather—a thousand times rather—that we were as we used to be than have all the glory in the world. And how pleasing Cecilia can be when she wishes to please!—how candid she is!— how much she can improve herself! Let me be just, though she has offended me; she is wonderfully improved within this last month. For one fault, and THAT against myself, shall I forget all her merits?"

As Leonora said these last words, she could but just hear the voices of her companions. They had left her alone in the gallery. She knocked softly at Louisa's door. "Come in," said Louisa; "I'm not asleep. Oh," said she, starting up with the Flora in her hand, the instant that the door was opened; "I'm so glad you are come, Leonora, for I did so long to hear what you all were making such a noise about. Have you forgot that the bracelet—"

"Oh, yes! is this the evening?" inquired Leonora.

"Well, here's my white shell for you," said Louisa. "I've kept it in my pocket this fortnight; and though Cecilia did give me this Flora, I still love you a great deal better."

"I thank you, Louisa," said Leonora, gratefully. "I will take your shell, and I shall value it as long as I live; but here is a red one, and if you wish to show me that you love me, you will give this to Cecilia. I know that she is particularly anxious for your preference, and I am sure that she deserves it."

"Yes, if I could I would choose both of you," said Louisa, "but you know I can only choose which I like the best."

"If you mean, my dear Louisa," said Leonora, "that you like me the best, I am very much obliged to you, for, indeed, I wish you to love me; but it is enough for me to know it in private. I should not feel the least more pleasure at hearing it in public, or in having it made known to all my companions, especially at a time when it would give poor Cecilia a great deal of pain."

"But why should it give her pain?" asked Louisa; "I don't like her for being jealous of you."

"Nay, Louisa, surely you don't think Cecilia jealous? She only tries to excel, and to please; she is more anxious to succeed than I am, it is true, because she has a great deal more activity, and perhaps more ambition. And it would really mortify her to lose this prize—you know that she proposed it herself. It has been her object for this month past, and I am sure she has taken great pains to obtain it."

"But, dear Leonora, why should you lose it?"

"Indeed, my dear, it would be no loss to me; and, if it were, I would willingly suffer it for Cecilia; for, though we seem not to be such good friends as we used to be, I love her very much, and she will love me again—I'm sure she will; when she no longer fears me as a rival, she will again love me as a friend."

Here Leonora heard a number of her companions running along the gallery. They all knocked hastily at the door, calling "Leonora! Leonora! will you never come? Cecilia has been with us this half-hour."

Leonora smiled. "Well, Louisa," said she, smiling, "will you promise me?"

"Oh, I am sure, by the way they speak to you, that they won't give you the prize!" said the little Louisa, and the tears started into her eyes. "They love me, though, for all that," said Leonora; "and as for the prize, you know whom I wish to have it."

"Leonora! Leonora!" called her impatient companions; "don't you hear us? What are you about?"

"Oh, she never will take any trouble about anything," said one of the party; "let's go away."

"Oh, go, go! make haste!" cried Louisa; "don't stay; they are so angry."

"Remember, then, that you have promised me," said Leonora, and she left the room.

During all this time, Cecilia had been in the garden with her companions. The ambition which she had felt to win the first prize—the prize of superior talents and superior application—was not to be compared to the absolute anxiety which she now expressed to win this simple testimony of the love and approbation of her equals and rivals.

To employ her exuberant activity, Cecilia had been dragging branches of lilacs and laburnums, roses and sweet briar, to ornament the bower in which her fate was to be decided. It was excessively hot, but her mind was engaged, and she was indefatigable. She stood still at last to admire her works. Her companions all joined in loud applause. They were not a little prejudiced in her favour by the great eagerness which she expressed to win their prize, and by the great importance which she seemed to affix to the preference of each individual. At last, "Where is Leonora?" cried one of them; and immediately, as we have seen, they ran to call her.

Cecilia was left alone. Overcome with heat and too violent exertion, she had hardly strength to support herself; each moment appeared to her intolerably long. She was in a state of the utmost suspense, and all her courage failed her. Even hope forsook her; and hope is a cordial which leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled.

"The time is now come," said Cecilia; "in a few moments all will be decided. In a few moments—goodness! How much do I hazard? If I should not win the prize, how shall I confess what I have done? How shall I beg Leonora to forgive me? I, who hoped to restore my friendship to her as an honour! They are gone to seek for her. The moment she appears I shall be forgotten. What—what shall I do?" said Cecilia, covering her face with her hands.

Such was Cecilia's situation when Leonora, accompanied by her companions, opened the hall door. They most of them ran forwards to Cecilia. As Leonora came into the bower, she held out her hand to Cecilia. "We are not rivals, but friends, I hope," said she. Cecilia clasped her hand; but she was in too great agitation to speak.

The table was now set in the arbour—the vase was now placed in the middle. "Well!" said Cecilia, eagerly, "who begins?" Caroline, one of her friends, came forward first, and then all the others successively. Cecilia's emotion was hardly conceivable. "Now they are all in! Count them, Caroline!"

"One, two, three, four; the numbers are both equal." There was a dead silence. "No, they are not," exclaimed Cecilia, pressing forward, and putting a shell into a vase. "I have not given mine, and I give it to Leonora." Then, snatching the bracelet, "It is yours, Leonora," said she; "take it, and give me back your friendship." The whole assembly gave one universal clap and a general shout of applause.

"I cannot be surprised at this from you, Cecilia," said Leonora; "and do you then still love me as you used to do?"

"Oh, Leonora, stop! don't praise me; I don't deserve this," said she, turning to her loudly applauding companions. "You will soon despise me. Oh, Leonora, you will never forgive me! I have deceived you; I have sold—"

At this instant, Mrs. Villars appeared. The crowd divided. She had heard all that passed, from her window. "I applaud your generosity, Cecilia," said she, "but I am to tell you that, in this instance it is unsuccessful. You have not it in your power to give the prize to Leonora. It is yours. I have another vote to give to you. You have forgotten Louisa."

"Louisa!" exclaimed Cecilia; "but surely, ma'am, Louisa loves Leonora better than she does me."

"She commissioned me, however," said Mrs. Villars, "to give you a red shell; and you will find it in this box."

Cecilia started, and turned as pale as death; it was the fatal box!

Mrs. Villars produced another box. She opened it; it contained the Flora. "And Louisa also desired me," said she, "to return to you this Flora." She put it into Cecilia's hand. Cecilia trembled so that she could not hold it. Leonora caught it.

"Oh, madam! Oh, Leonora!" exclaimed Cecilia; "now I have no hope left. I intended—I was just going to tell—"

"Dear Cecilia," said Leonora, "you need not tell it me; I know it already; and I forgive you with all my heart."

"Yes, I can prove to you," said Mrs. Villars, "that Leonora has forgiven you. It is she who has given you the prize; it was she who persuaded Louisa to give you her vote. I went to see her a little while ago; and perceiving, by her countenance, that something was the matter, I pressed her to tell me what it was.

"'Why, madam,' said she, 'Leonora has made me promise to give my shell to Cecilia. Now I don't love Cecilia half so well as I do Leonora. Besides, I would not have Cecilia think I vote for her because she gave me a Flora.' Whilst Louisa was speaking," continued Mrs. Villars, "I saw this silver box lying on the bed. I took it up, and asked if it was not yours, and how she came by it. 'Indeed, madam,' said Louisa, 'I could have been almost certain that it was Cecilia's; but Leonora gave it me, and she said that she bought it of the peddler this morning. If anybody else had told me so, I could not have believed them, because I remember the box so well; but I can't help believing Leonora.' But did not you ask Cecilia about it? said I. 'No, madam,' replied Louisa; 'for Leonora forbade me. I guessed her reason.' Well, said I, give me the box, and I will carry your shell in it to Cecilia. 'Then, madam,' said she, 'if I must give it her, pray do take the Flora, and return it to her first, that she may not think it is for that I do it.'"

"Oh, generous Louisa!" exclaimed Cecilia; "but, indeed, Leonora, I cannot take your shell."

"Then, dear Cecilia, accept of mine instead of it! you cannot refuse it; I only follow your example. As for the bracelet," added Leonora, taking Cecilia's hand, "I assure you I don't wish for it, and you do, and you deserve it."

"No," said Cecilia, "indeed, I do not deserve it. Next to you, surely Louisa deserves it best."

"Louisa! oh, yes, Louisa," exclaimed everybody with one voice.

"Yes," said Mrs. Villars, "and let Cecilia carry the bracelet to her; she deserves that reward. For one fault I cannot forget all your merits, Cecilia, nor, I am sure, will your companions."

"Then, surely, not your best friend," said Leonora, kissing her.

Everybody present was moved. They looked up to Leonora with respectful and affectionate admiration.

"Oh, Leonora, how I love you! and how I wish to be like you!" exclaimed Cecilia—"to be as good, as generous!"

"Rather wish, Cecilia," interrupted Mrs. Villars, "to be as just; to be as strictly honourable, and as invariably consistent. Remember, that many of our sex are capable of great efforts—of making what they call great sacrifices to virtue or to friendship; but few treat their friends with habitual gentleness, or uniformly conduct themselves with prudence and good sense."



THE LITTLE MERCHANTS.



CHAPTER I.

Chi di gallina nasce, convien che rozole. As the old cock crows, so crows the young.

Those who have visited Italy give us an agreeable picture of the cheerful industry of the children of all ages in the celebrated city of Naples. Their manner of living and their numerous employments are exactly described in the following "Extract from a Traveller's Journal." *

* Varieties of Literature, vol. i. p. 299.

"The children are busied in various ways. A great number of them bring fish for sale to town from Santa Lucia; others are very often seen about the arsenals, or wherever carpenters are at work, employed in gathering up the chips and pieces of wood; or by the sea-side, picking up sticks, and whatever else has drifted ashore, which, when their basket is full, they carry away.

"Children of two or three years old, who can scarcely crawl along upon the ground, in company with boys of five or six, are employed in this pretty trade. Hence they proceed with their baskets into the heart of the city, where in several places they form a sort of little market, sitting round with their stock of wood before them. Labourers, and the lower order of citizens, buy it of them to burn in the tripods for warming themselves, or to use in their scanty kitchens.

"Other children carry about for sale the water of the sulphurous wells, which, particularly in the spring season, is drunk in great abundance. Others again endeavour to turn a few pence by buying a small matter of fruit, of pressed honey, cakes, and comfits, and then, like little peddlers, offer and sell them to other children, always for no more profit than that they may have their share of them free of expense.

"It is really curious to see how an urchin, whose whole stock and property consist in a board and a knife, will carry about a water-melon, or a half roasted gourd, collect a troup of children round him, set down his board, and proceed to divide the fruit into small pieces among them.

"The buyers keep a sharp look out to see that they have enough for their little piece of copper; and the Lilliputian tradesmen act with no less caution as the exigencies of the case may require, to prevent his being cheated out of a morsel."

The advantages of truth and honesty, and the value of a character for integrity, are very early felt amongst these little merchants in their daily intercourse with each other. The fair dealer is always sooner or later seen to prosper. The most cunning cheat is at last detected and disgraced.

Numerous instances of the truth of this common observation were remarked by many Neapolitan children, especially by those who were acquainted with the characters and history of Piedro and Francisco, two boys originally equal in birth, fortune and capacity, but different in their education, and consequently in their habits and conduct. Francisco was the son of an honest gardener, who, from the time he could speak, taught him to love to speak the truth, showed him that liars are never believed—that cheats and thieves cannot be trusted, and that the shortest way to obtain a good character is to deserve it.

Youth and white paper, as the proverb says, take all impressions. The boy profited much by his father's precepts, and more by his example; he always heard his father speak the truth, and saw that he dealt fairly with everybody. In all his childish traffic, Francisco, imitating his parents, was scrupulously honest, and therefore all his companions trusted him—"As honest as Francisco," became a sort of proverb amongst them.

"As honest as Francisco," repeated Piedro's father, when he one day heard this saying. "Let them say so; I say, 'As sharp as Piedro'; and let us see which will go through the world best." With the idea of making his son SHARP he made him cunning. He taught him, that to make a GOOD BARGAIN was to deceive as to the value and price of whatever he wanted to dispose of; to get as much money as possible from customers by taking advantage of their ignorance or of their confidence. He often repeated his favourite proverb—"The buyer has need of a hundred eyes; the seller has need but of one." * And he took frequent opportunities of explaining the meaning of this maxim to his son. He was a fisherman; and as his gains depended more upon fortune than upon prudence, he trusted habitually to his good luck. After being idle for a whole day, he would cast his line or his nets, and if he was lucky enough to catch a fine fish, he would go and show it in triumph to his neighbour the gardener.

* Chi compra ha bisogna di cent' occhi; chi vende n'ha assai di uno.

"You are obliged to work all day long for your daily bread," he would say. "Look here; I work but five minutes, and I have not only daily bread, but daily fish."

Upon these occasions, our fisherman always forgot, or neglected to count, the hours and days which were wasted in waiting for a fair wind to put to sea, or angling in vain on the shore.

Little Piedro, who used to bask in the sun upon the sea-shore beside his father, and to lounge or sleep away his time in a fishing-boat, acquired habits of idleness, which seemed to his father of little consequence whilst he was BUT A CHILD.

"What will you do with Piedro as he grows up, neighbour?" said the gardener. "He is smart and quick enough, but he is always in mischief. Scarcely a day has passed for this fortnight but I have caught him amongst my grapes. I track his footsteps all over my vineyard."

"HE IS BUT A CHILD yet, and knows no better," replied the fisherman.

"But if you don't teach him better now he is a child, how will he know when he is a man?" said the gardener.

"A mighty noise about a bunch of grapes, truly!" cried the fisherman: "a few grapes more or less in your vineyard, what does it signify?"

"I speak for your son's sake, and not for the sake of my grapes," said the gardener; "and I tell you again, the boy will not do well in the world, neighbour, if you don't look after him in time."

"He'll do well enough in the world, you will find," answered the fisherman, carelessly. "Whenever he casts my nets, they never come up empty. 'It is better to be lucky than wise.'" *

* E meglio esser fortunato che savio.

This was a proverb which Piedro had frequently heard from his father, and to which he most willingly trusted, because it gave him less trouble to fancy himself fortunate than to make himself wise.

"Come here, child," said his father to him, when he returned home after the preceding conversation with the gardener; "how old are you, my boy?— twelve years old, is not it?"

"As old as Francisco, and older by six months," said Piedro.

"And smarter and more knowing by six years," said his father. "Here, take these fish to Naples, and let us see how you'll sell them for me. Venture a small fish, as the proverb says, to catch a great one. * I was too late with them at the market yesterday, but nobody will know but what they are just fresh out of the water, unless you go and tell them."

* Butta una sardella per pigliar un luccio.

"Not I; trust me for that; I'm not such a fool," replied Piedro, laughing; "I leave that to Francisco. Do you know, I saw him the other day miss selling a melon for his father by turning the bruised side to the customer, who was just laying down the money for it, and who was a raw servant-boy, moreover—one who would never have guessed there were two sides to a melon, if he had not, as you say, father, been told of it?"

"Off with you to market. You are a droll chap," said his father, "and will sell my fish cleverly, I'll be bound. As to the rest, let every man take care of his own grapes. You understand me, Piedro?"

"Perfectly," said the boy, who perceived that his father was indifferent as to his honesty, provided he sold fish at the highest price possible. He proceeded to the market, and he offered his fish with assiduity to every person whom he thought likely to buy it, especially to those upon whom he thought he could impose. He positively asserted to all who looked at his fish, that they were just fresh out of the water. Good judges of men and fish knew that he said what was false, and passed him by with neglect; but it was at last what he called GOOD LUCK to meet with the very same young raw servant-boy who would have bought the bruised melon from Francisco. He made up to him directly, crying, "Fish! Fine fresh fish! fresh fish!"