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 In the evening, as the family, including Frank, who had
just returned from school, were seated around the table,
Mary entered, portfolio in hand. "Ellen," she said, with an
anxious flush, "have you taken a piece of paper from my
drawer?"

The young girl started, gave one searching glance into

her cousin's face, and then faltered, "No, I haven't."

"You are welcome to as much paper as you wish," she

added, misunderstanding the expression of distress; "but I
have lost one sheet on which I had made a memorandum of
books my teacher gave me. I have searched every place I
can think of, but I cannot find it; and I was so sure I put it
in my portfolio."

It was with the greatest difficulty the poor girl could

refrain from screaming aloud. She bent over her book to
hide her tears, while Mrs. Collins gazed in astonishment.

"Come to the side table, Nelly," at length exclaimed

Frank, breaking the awkward pause which ensued. "Let's
play a game of checkers. I know just how you feel," he
added, in a low voice, when they had arranged the board.

She started, and blushed violently.

"I mean when Mary asked you if you had taken her
paper. Our master at school missed his gold pencil from his
desk, and a pretty piece of work he made of it. When the
school were all seated for prayers, he spoke out in a solemn
tone and told us what he had lost, and asked whether any
of the scholars had seen it. He began at the back row, and
cast his eyes along through every desk. When he came to
me, I couldn't help it to save my life, but I turned as red as
fire, just as you did when Mary asked you. I was vexed that
I had made such a fool of myself; but when the scholars
saw how long the master's eye rested on me, they all
looked at me until, like a great booby, the tears came right
into my eyes. I choked and choked, but it was no go.
Master said no more. He thought he'd found the thief. After
school, he called me, and asked,—

"'Collins, have you anything to confess?'

"'No, sir,' I answered; and I could feel my cheeks burn

again.

"'Not about my pencil?'

"'No, sir; I never have seen it, that I know of.'

"'You may go,' he said, in an awful, stern voice."

"But hadn't you really seen it?" asked Ellen, eagerly.

"Seen it? No, indeed! Do you suppose I'd steal and lie
too?"

This was said with such a tone of honest indignation,

that the young girl's heart beat furiously; but she presently
comforted herself that he supposed her innocent.

"Two days after," Frank went on, "master found his

pencil in an old vest pocket, and he made an apology to the
school."

"I am vexed with myself," Ellen heard Mary say, "that I

did not take better care of my memorandum! I am ashamed
to ask my teacher again; it seems so careless!"

"I don't believe you like to play checkers," said Frank.

"You have made a false move twice, and I've had to take
your king."
 "I don't feel like playing to-night," she said, softly; "my
head aches so hard." And to his surprise, she rose suddenly
and left the room.

"That's polite!" exclaimed the youth, trying to conceal

his vexation, as he deliberately restored the checkers to the
box.

Ellen ran to her own room, and throwing herself on the

bed, wept as if her heart would break.

"Oh, what a dreadful day this has been!" she kept

repeating. "How little I thought when I bought that first
candy that it would ever make me do so many wicked
things! Mary and Frank will hate me when they find out I
have deceived them; and I fear God will hate me too," she
added, with a fresh burst of tears. "Oh! Will he ever forgive
me?"

CHAPTER V.
THE LIAR DETECTED.

"I DIDN'T tell you the whole of my story last night," said
Frank, as the next morning, Ellen, pale and sad, seated
herself in the window to study her lesson. "Mr. Taylor is a
real good teacher, though he is awfully strict. As soon as he
found his pencil just where he had left it, he thought, I
suppose, that he had suspected me without cause, or rather
because I was silly enough to blush upon being asked a
simple question.

"He took occasion to give the whole school a lecture on

circumstantial evidence, and proved, by some good
anecdotes, how unsafe a mode of judging it was. Why,
some men have been hanged, being judged by
circumstantial evidence; and afterwards they were found to
be innocent. When he had done, he alluded to the pencil
again, and said he had known some persons with such a
tender conscience that the simple fact of their being
questioned would cause them to show all the signs of guilt.
I guess I blushed some then; for all the scholars smiled as
they looked at me, and Mr. Taylor looked in my face and
smiled too. So you see, I knew just how to pity you last
night. But, of course, Mary is glad to give you paper and
pens, too, whenever you want them."

"Oh, how I wish he would never speak another word

about it!" thought Ellen, almost ready to cry again.

"Mary is a dear, good sister!" cried Frank, gayly,

determined, if possible, to win a smile from his cousin
before he left her.

"So she is!" was the earnest response. "She is just as

kind to me as if she were my sister, too. But I must study
my lesson now."

It took but one day for a letter from P— to reach the

city, and one day for an answer to be returned; so that,
when at the close of the third day, Ellen had received
neither answer nor money, her anxiety and restlessness
were almost more than she could endure. Her feverish
appearance attracted the attention of her uncle. He called
her to him to feel her pulse, ordered her to take a cup of
weak tea and go to bed.

The next morning, however, all was explained. On his

way to visit his first patient, he called at the post office and
took out a letter to his wife from her brother-in-law, Mr.
Saunders. There was something peculiar in the appearance
of the envelope, and he hastily tore it open, hoping it
enclosed a note for Ellen, which would bring back her old
gayety: for the doctor was almost as much vexed as his
wife at the sad change in their young guest.

The clerk who had noticed the postmark, and was

interested in the result, saw the doctor change color and,
after a brief glance at an enclosed paper, shut his lips firmly
together, and leave the store.

When he was in his sulky, the doctor unfolded the letter

again, when his eye fell upon a pencilled memorandum,
"Abercrombie's Mental Philosophy, page 50, etc., etc."

"The girl is a liar, too," he muttered. "Here is the sheet

Mary lost. Whew! Gibraltars, sticks of candy, lozenges, to
the amount of five dollars. No wonder the child looks pale
and has the headache. Well, what does her father say to
such a bill?" He slackened his pace and read:

"MY DEAR SISTER,—The enclosed note came

to hand yesterday morning. It was directed, as
you see, to Aunt Clarissa, who would gladly
have sent the money, and kept the knowledge
of the letter from me. But I insisted on seeing
it. I presume Ellen is not quite cured of her old
habit of deceit, and has run up this bill without
your knowledge. I enclose the amount, but wish
 you to do just as you think proper about paying
it. The sight of the miserable, poorly spelled
scrawl makes me blush for my daughter's
ignorance.

"We all are well, though Joseph grows every

day more wilful. What shall I do with the boy? It
seems hard that I must deprive myself of the
society of all my children, or see them growing
up to be a curse to themselves, and to
everybody who belongs to them.

"Your affectionate brother,

"JOSEPH
SAUNDERS."

"There is a document which will help you to solve a

mystery," remarked Dr. Collins to his wife, about the middle
of the forenoon.

"Poor child! I feared something of this," was the tearful

reply, after the lady had slowly perused both the enclosed
letters. "Oh, how my sister would have grieved over her!
The lost memorandum too! Oh, Ellen! Cannot you learn to
be frank and truthful?"

"From Mr. Saunders's note, I fear one lesson will not

suffice for him. Did you notice what he said about his boy?"

"Yes," she answered, sighing. "His father's neglect and

Aunt Clarissa's indulgence will prove his ruin."

"Well, about Ellen, I would make a serious matter of this

want of confidence. The child has been unhappy no doubt,
as she deserved to be; but I would not pay the money too
readily."

"If there was any way in which she could earn it, the
lesson would be more lasting," exclaimed Mrs. Collins,
eagerly.

After her husband left, the lady retired to her chamber,

where, upon her knees, she sought counsel of her heavenly
Father in regard to this case of discipline. By this exercise,
her own feelings were softened, so that when Ellen returned
from school, she was able to receive her with affection, a
mode of treatment which cut the penitent child to the heart.

Mrs. Collins still hoped that the young girl would confess
her fault. Little did she suspect the dreadful struggle
between conscience and pride which was going on in the
breast of her niece; but after waiting until evening, she
followed the child to her chamber, where she found her with
her head resting on her arm, the tears trickling down her
cheeks. Stooping tenderly forward, the lady said,—

"Ellen, as the child of my dear sister, I love you. It

grieves me to see you so unhappy. Cannot you tell me
frankly what has caused this sad change?"

"Don't speak so, aunt; it makes me cry more. If you

would only be cross with me, I could bear it a great deal
better; but I have been very wicked! I—I don't deserve to
have you love me!"

"I know all about it, my poor child,—your letter to Aunt

Clarissa, and all; but I would have you confess your fault."

Ellen sprang to her foot. "Has she sent me the money?"

she almost screamed. "Oh, if she has, and I can but pay
that hateful bill, I am sure I never shall be so wicked
again."

"No, Ellen; she has not answered your letter; your

father enclosed it in one to me."

The child's countenance fell again.

"I will advance you the money," rejoined her aunt, "and
will accompany you to the store to pay your bill, on one
condition,—that you promise me never to repeat this
offence. Afterwards you can earn it and repay me."

"I have been too miserable ever to do so again,"

faltered the poor girl; "and Mary's paper too; did you know
about that?"

"Yes, here it is. Now what shall I do? Cut off this
pencilled slip at the top, and lay it in Mary's portfolio, where
she will no doubt find it; or will you tell her frankly that you
took it, and was betrayed into deceiving her?"

Ellen hesitated, cast down her eyes, blushing crimson,

but presently exclaimed, "I will tell her; I feel so much
happier already, now that you know it! Oh, aunt," throwing
her arms about the lady's neck. "I do mean to try to be
good! If I thought I could ever be like Mary!—It seems so
easy for her to do right."

She drew a low stool to her aunt's feet, and there in her
own impulsive manner gave an account of her temptation
and of her sin,—how one lie led to many others until she
found herself entangled in difficulties from which she saw
no way of escape. Many tears showed how bitterly she had
suffered; but the bright flush of pleasure with which, when
she had ended, she said, "Now I have told you all, I am so
happy!" encouraged Mrs. Collins to believe that having once
learned the delight resulting from a frank confession of her
fault, she would never be guilty of the like deception again.

"Does uncle know about it?" she asked, as her aunt

tenderly parted her hair on her forehead.

"Yes; he brought me the letter. He will rejoice as

sincerely as I do that we have found our own light-hearted
Ellen, again."

"And Frank, has he heard it too?"

"Not a syllable. You shall do as you please about telling

him."

She covered her face with her hands; there was a quick
gasp, and then she said, firmly:

"Will you come with me now while I have courage?"

Frank's look of astonishment as Ellen, with burning

cheeks, repeated her sad story was, perhaps, the severest
punishment she had borne. From his cradle, he had been
taught to despise a liar as too mean and cowardly to be
endured; but when, with a burst of feeling, she ended with
the words, "You know I had never been taught how wicked
it was, till I came here," there was an instant revulsion of
feeling, and with boyish enthusiasm, he exclaimed,—

"I'm real sorry for you, Nelly, but I think you're a trump
after all to confess it now. I'm going to forget all about it
right off; and we'll all help you to be a first-rate truthful girl.
Wont we, Mary?"

"Yes, indeed!" said his sister, her lips quivering. "I love
you, dear Ellen, better than ever; for I believe you are
really penitent."
 "Just as the good father did his prodigal son," said the
humbled girl, smiling through her tears; "but do you know I
took your paper too. You never can imagine how it pained
me to tell you that lie. As soon as you spoke, I remembered
seeing something written on the sheet; but I dared not say
so; I was afraid. You see I didn't know then how much
easier it would be to tell the truth right out."

"But you'll know after this," interrupted Frank. "The only

way is if you've done wrong to get it off your mind at once."

Ellen laughed. "I haven't felt so well for a month," she

said.

"You'll be lucky though, if father doesn't give you a dose

of jalap, or castor oil to cure you of too much candy," added
the boy, merrily.

"That wouldn't be half so bad as bearing this pain all

alone;" and Ellen put her hand to her heart.

"Come with me, child," said her aunt, leading the way
to her own chamber.

CHAPTER VI.
FASHIONABLE LIES.

"IT is not very late," said Mrs. Collins, "and I want to

talk with you a little more before you go to bed."
 Ellen took her aunt's hand and pressed it against her
own cheek.

"It is right for us to confess to each other," she added,

solemnly; "but there is a duty still higher than that. The sin
against me or your cousin is nothing compared with the sin
against your heavenly Father. He has given us a terrible
instance of his displeasure against liars, in the punishment
of Ananias and Sapphira. You know they owned property
which they sold, and pretended to give all the proceeds to
the disciples. As Peter told them, they need not have sold
the property. If they chose, they had a perfect right to keep
it; and after they had sold it, they would have been justified
in retaining the money for their own use; their sin was in
pretending that they gave all they obtained from the sale
for charitable purposes, while in fact they only gave part
and kept back the rest. When the apostle asked whether
they had sold the land for so much, they said, 'Yes, for so
much,' lying not only to him, but to God. Their instant death
is an awful warning to those who depart from the truth, or
speak lies, as the Bible terms it."

Ellen shuddered. "I have always told lies," she said,

softly; "Alice does, and Joseph and Aunt Clarissa too."

"That is a grave charge, my dear."

"Well, she does. She often tells Joseph, 'I'll certainly let
your father know if you behave so, tumbling up all his clean
clothes, or meddling with my baskets!' But she never does
tell him; and we all know she never means too. Isn't that
lying? Then she tells the chamber-girl if she doesn't sweep
cleaner, she'll dismiss her right off; but the girl only laughs.
She's heard it so many times, she don't believe a word of it.
So that is lying.
 "And one day," she went on, eagerly, "a lady called, and
asked aunt to visit her; and Aunt Clarissa told her that
every day, for a week, she had been meaning to call. After
the lady had gone, Alice said,—

"'I don't see why you like that lady so.'

"'I don't like her at all,' aunt replied. 'She runs round all
the time and neglects her family.'

"'Well,' cried Alice, 'you told her you meant to go and

see her all last week.'

"'Oh, dear!' said Aunt Clarissa. 'I only told her that, not
to offend her.'

"Alice laughed, as she said, 'I suppose that's what you

call a fashionable lie.'"

"I am both sorry and grieved," sadly remarked Mrs.

Collins, "that the children of my dear Sarah should have
been exposed to such influences. Fashionable lies, white
lies, lies of convenience; or by whatever other name they
are called, are in God's word all classed under one head,
against which this fearful penalty is pronounced: 'All liars
shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and
brimstone; which is the second death.' Among the seven
crimes which God specifies as things which he hates, he
classes the lying tongue and repeatedly avers, 'he that
speaketh lies shall not escape.'

"You will see, at once, that a child or man who is known

to speak falsely is never believed. They soon become
despised of their fellows; even when they do speak the
truth, no one is willing to take their word; and thus they not
only merit the displeasure of their Maker, and expose
themselves to his dreadful curse, but their object in telling
lies is destroyed, since their very oath is disregarded."

"Dear aunt," softly murmured Ellen, "do you think God

will forgive me? I never knew before what a dreadful sin
lying is."

"We will ask him, my dear. We know—and how blessed

is that assurance—that his word never fails."

Together they knelt, while Mrs. Collins implored the

blessing and favor of God upon her penitent niece, poor
Ellen's sobs bearing witness to the depth of her sorrow for
sin. She prayed, too, that grace from above might be given
the young girl, to assist her in keeping the resolutions she
had formed; and that at last she might become perfect
through the blood of her crucified Saviour.

The next morning Ellen arose early, and after begging a

sheet of note-paper of her cousin, sat down to write a letter
of confession to her father.

Mary was greatly pleased that the proposal came from

herself; but suggested that she should make a first copy on
the slate, where it could be corrected, and then written
neatly on the paper.

For the next hour, the young girl bent all her energies to
this task, and when, at the breakfast-table, she exhibited
her epistle to her aunt, the lady gave it her decided and
smiling approval.

The young girl felt that there was an especial meaning

in the doctor's prayer that morning, and also in the
tenderness with which he afterward patted her head, as he
said,—
 "God bless you, my dear girl, and help you to be a
blessing to others."

With her heart swelling with gratitude for this

unexpected kindness, Ellen took her books from her satchel
and began to study her lesson.

Frank presently approached and said, gayly, "How

bright and happy you look to-day! I began to be afraid,
yesterday, that I shouldn't like you. I thought you were
dumpish and moping; but now I think I shall like you first-
rate, almost as much as I do Mary."

"Please remember, my son," remarked his mother, with

a smile, "that you are not now under oath to tell all the
truth."

The boy laughed aloud; but Ellen looked puzzled.

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

"Well, Frank knows, which is enough for this morning.

Some other time I will explain my meaning to you. You
have but little more than an hour for your lessons."

"I hate sums!" she exclaimed, presently. "And I don't

see how four-sixteenths and two-eights, and ever so many
more fractions, are to be reduced to a common
denominator."

"Let me help you!" cried Frank. "I'll make it as clear as

noon-day, as our master says."

"Oh, I do see! I understand now," she cried, gayly

clapping her hands, after his patient and repeated
explanation. "I see how they're done. They're just as easy
—"
 "As 'tis for puss to lick her tail, when you once know
how," said Frank, with mock gravity. "Now you can do them
on the run."

"You had better run, then," suggested his mother, "and

leave her to herself."

"I'll go and post Ellen's letter."

"Ellen Saunders, perfect recitation," repeated the

teacher as the class were leaving their seats.

The young girl smiled and looked so pleased that the

lady, who had heretofore considered her a dull scholar,
detained her a moment for a few questions.

"Did you do the answers by yourself?"

"Yes, ma'am," was the unhesitating, self-complacent

reply. "They were very easy at last."

She was turning away, when with a sudden start she

said, eagerly, "My Cousin Frank helped me do the first one
and explained the rule, else I don't think I could have done
them at all."

The lady smiled approvingly, and Ellen, turning to go

too her seat, met the kind glance of Mary, and felt a thrill of
pleasure such as she had not experienced for many a day.

In the evening they were scarcely seated around the

cheerful fire, before Ellen began,—

"What did you mean, Aunt Collins, about it not being

right to tell all the truth?"
 "That's a strange doctrine for you to advance, my dear,"
said the doctor, glancing archly at his wife.

"I think I did not say exactly that, Ellen," answered the
lady. "Though we ought always to speak the truth, if we
speak at all; yet we are not bound to tell all we know, upon
any subject. For instance; if a lady should call here whom
you thought extremely disagreeable, and very homely; and
Frank should ask you what you thought of her, it would be
enough for you to say, you did not admire her. That would
be the truth, but not all the truth."

"Oh, I see!" exclaimed Ellen, her eyes flashing with

merriment. "I need not say, as Aunt Clarissa sometimes
does, 'What a sallow complexion!' or, 'What a very homely
nose!' or 'How wretchedly her dress fitted!' Though I might
think it all the time."

"Or, I need not say," cried Frank, with mock gravity,

"'Ellen, how red your lips are!' or, 'How your eyes sparkle!'
or, 'What a pretty white hand you have!' Though I might
think it all the time; but if I said so, it might make you vain,
you know."

"In a court of justice," said Dr. Collins, "a person is put

upon oath, that is, he promises before God, in whose
presence he stands, to speak the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth. In that case, if Frank were asked
what he thought of the personal appearance of his cousin,
he might be obliged to repeat what he has just said,
however painful such testimony would be."

The doctor glanced so comically at his niece when he

said this, that, notwithstanding her blushes, she burst into a
hearty laugh.
 "Did you know, Ellen," inquired Mary, after a pause,
"that a person can tell a lie, and yet not speak a word?"

"Oh, no, indeed! I thought a person must speak in order

to lie. I'm sure I—"

She hesitated, colored, and stopped, while Mary, to

relieve her, went on quickly,—

"Yes; mother explained that to me a long time ago."

"First tell me, Ellen," said her aunt, "what is a lie?"

The young girl shook her head, while Frank, in rather a

condescending tone, explained,—

"That which is not true, of course."

"I beg pardon, my son," suggested the doctor, smiling.

"Suppose, for instance, Mrs. Holmes, whom I left very ill,
should die suddenly, without my knowledge. Your mother
asks, 'Is Mrs. Holmes living?' I say, 'Yes;' and I say it
honestly, believing it to be true; and yet it may not be true
after all. Still I do not tell a lie."

"What is a lie, then, sir?"

"A lie is an intention to deceive. The words are spoken,

or the motions made, for the purpose of deceiving. If, as
Mary says, not a word is spoken, by a nod of assent, or a
shake of the head, you may give and intend to give a false
impression, and thus be guilty of lying."

"Do you remember, father," asked Mary, "how dreadfully

Abby Jones's brother was whipped at school, because she
nodded her head to assure the teacher that he took her
dinner out of the pail?"
 "Yes; they had quarrelled, and she had threatened to be
revenged on him. So when the teacher, who had forbidden
such thefts, repeatedly questioned her as to her brother's
fault, and whether he did it, she, by a nod, gave her
testimony against him."

"Oh, what an ugly girl!" exclaimed Ellen, warmly.

"But you are not under oath, and therefore, not obliged
to say all you think of her conduct," whispered Frank, with a
laugh.

"I hope I never shall tell another lie as long as I live,"

was the earnest rejoinder. "I wish somebody would talk to
Alice, and explain to her how wicked it is."

CHAPTER VII.
SCHOOL LIES.

"FATHER," asked Alice Saunders, on the evening of her

return from school for a short vacation, "when is Ellen
coming home? It seems very odd to be without her."

"I cannot tell, my dear; probably not for a long time.

Your aunt writes a very favorable account of her
improvement. Among other things she says, 'I can trust her
word most implicitly.'"
 There was the slightest shade of contempt upon Alice's
placid face, as she answered, "That is high praise from Aunt
Collins."

Poor Alice!—Poor in all the heart's rich treasures,

though beautiful in person, and fairy like in figure. In the
fashionable boarding school where she had passed six
months, she had been taught many things; but a strict
adherence to truth was not among her accomplishments.
She had acquired a more correct pronunciation of the
French language; could dance with singular grace; could
enter a room filled with company with the ease and polish
of a lady of thirty; could write an acceptance or regret to a
party with taste and elegance, and without any special
violation of the rules of rhetoric,—but, alas! In all that
pertained to the true, stern discipline of mind, or that
regarded her moral culture, she was, if possible, more
ignorant than ever.

Thrown into the society of half a hundred young misses,

whose only aim seemed to be to outshine each other in
dress or fashion; with teachers whose main ambition
seemed to be to give, with a smattering of many kinds of
knowledge, that superior ease and grace of manners which
the papers ascribed to the pupils of Mrs. Lerow; every
sentiment of virtue, or the stern principles of right, seemed
to be blunted, while nothing really valuable was acquired.

One thing Alice, in common with most of her

companions, had learned; and that was to sneer at, or hold
in contempt, those persons who had a higher standard of
morals than her own. The Bible, too, although her mother's
favorite book, was considered old-fashioned and rigid,
containing a code of laws which were to the present
generation a kind of dead letter and of no manner of
importance.
 The Sabbath and the sanctuary she had learned to
regard as golden opportunities to display the rich,
fashionably made dress with which, at the suggestion of
Mrs. Lerow, her father so abundantly supplied her.

On the evening of her arrival at home, her father gazed

at her with pride, and expressed his satisfaction at her
evident improvement in the warmest terms; which opinion
Alice took calmly, as praise to which she was justly entitled.

The next day, however, when he took advantage of her

return to invite a few acquaintances to dine, he was pained
and humiliated by her pertness and affectation. There was
such an effort to show off before the young gentlemen of
the party the knowledge she had so recently acquired,—
such art, in even the tossing of her head, or the languishing
expression of her eyes, that, fearing she would disgust his
friends as she had disgusted him, he suddenly gave Aunt
Clarissa a hint to move from the dining hall to the parlors.

But when a young man invited her to sing, he was more

displeased than ever; she had been, she said, so much
occupied in her studies; she had practised so little; her
music was not yet unpacked; and her voice was affected by
a cold.

Her manner of saying all this made it too evident that

she wished to be urged; but her father, who, though talking
with one of the guests, was attentive to all that was
passing, abruptly interfered, saying,—

"Well, my daughter, it is of very little consequence

whether you sing now; Madame—, the celebrated singer, is
in town, and we shall, no doubt, all have a chance to hear
some really fine music."
 On returning to his house the next day for dinner, he
heard Alice talking over the stairs to a servant.

"What did she say?"

"She left her card, miss, and was sorry you were not
in."

The peculiar smile on the servant's countenance

arrested Mr. Saunders's attention.

"What is it?" he asked his daughter, in a grave tone.

"Miss Huntington called; and as I was not dressed for

company, I sent word 'not at home.'"

"Margaret," said the gentleman, turning to the servant,

"the next time you obey an order which obliges you to tell a
falsehood, I wish you to come to me for your wages. I will
have no one in my house who will carry a message like
that."

"Thank you, sir, and my mother will thank you, too,"

answered Margaret, blushing with pleasure.

"Alice," sternly remarked Mr. Saunders when he had

followed her to a parlor upstairs. "Where have you learned
to deceive, and to teach your servants to deceive?"

She blushed a little, but said, directly,—

"Oh, papa! It is the most common thing in the world—I

mean in genteel society—to send word you are not at
home; it is understood to mean that you are engaged."

"Then why not say so? Why put lies into your servants'
mouths? Don't you see that if you teach them to lie for you,
they will soon learn to lie to you?"

"You use such dreadful words, papa, you quite frighten

me; I'm sure I never thought I was doing the least harm."

"I use the right words, Alice. I am cut to the heart to

see that, after all the money I have paid for your education,
you should be so devoid of the first principles of honor."

He sighed deeply, as he walked to the window, revolving

in his mind a plan to send her also, to her Aunt Collins; but,
recalled to the present by the dinner-bell, he added,—

"I wish you to understand, Alice, that I will not allow

such a system of deception in my house. Margaret has
already been notified that one more occasion like that I
witnessed, and she leaves her place."

This was plain talk in plain words; and Alice put up her
lip with an ugly pout. She did not appear at dinner until her
father and aunt were nearly through the first course, and
then rendered herself so disagreeable that Joseph called
out,—

"Pa, I wish you'd have company every day; Alice acts

better when gentlemen are here to see her do so." And he
rolled his eyes so exactly in imitation of her action the
previous day, that Aunt Clarissa and even her father
laughed aloud.

During the weeks which followed, there was scarcely a

day passed without proving to Mr. Saunders the entire
recklessness of his daughter in regard to the truth. One day
he came home and entered the back parlor while she was
entertaining a friend in the front one with reminiscences of
school life. They were so much engaged they did not notice
his entrance, but amid shouts of mirth went on with their
conversation.

"But did not Mrs. Lerow require you to study very

hard?" asked the visitor.

"Oh, no, indeed!" was the laughing reply. "We had our
exercises, of course; but we generally contrived to copy
them from one another. Why, half the last term I had my
answers written on a paper I held inside my handkerchief;
at last the class-teacher mistrusted something from my
always being so correct, and asked me up and down
whether I had committed the lesson. I told her, of course, I
had. It was only a white lie, you know, and everybody tells
white lies."

"You remind me of an old lady who visited us last

week," rejoined the young girl. "She heard me telling a
story at the table, and then repeating it to some callers in
the evening. I suppose I did not remember to use exactly
the same words, and—do you think she had the
impertinence to tell me I had been guilty of falsehood! I
excused myself, saying, as you did, 'Everybody tells little
lies, or white lies, in these days.'

"'No, my dear,' she said, 'not everybody; I could name

several, and among them, some you would call the most
polished ladies in the city, who would not, for their right
hand, tell a lie, white or black. Truth—simple, unvarnished
truth—is their motto, and a beautiful motto it is, such as I
wish every young and every old lady would abide by.'

"'But you must own,' I said, 'that almost all fashionable

people tell what is called white lies?'

"'I acknowledge that it is far too common,' she went on.

'We are becoming corrupt and unprincipled as a nation; but
I will give you one instance where a white lie, and a very
innocent one, as the young lady called it, was the means of
breaking off a match between two persons who before that
had been sincerely attached to each other.'

"The story is an affecting one; and if you like, I'll repeat

it to you."

"Do," returned Alice; "I have a curiosity to hear it."

"'You remember,' she went on, 'that pale, intellectual

lady you saw riding with me last week?'

"I had noticed her particularly, for she was very

beautiful, though so sickly; and I told her so.

"'She was a gay belle ten years ago; no party was

thought perfect without her presence. She was amiable,
too, and very accomplished; that is, she sang well, danced
divinely, as her admirers used to tell her, talked French as
fluently as her native tongue; but she had a habit of telling
white lies, which threw a blight over her fair prospects, and
in the end destroyed her peace.

"'Mr. Stanton, the gentleman who had won her from a

score of admirers, really believed her to be an angel. The
possibility of her violating or falsifying her word had
probably never occurred to him; for he had that high sense
of honor which would have led him to forfeit his life rather
than be guilty of an act of deception.

"'A French singer of rather questionable reputation just

about that time came to the city, and attracted great
crowds to her concerts. Miss Hill had a great desire to hear
her; but, after listening to her friend's arguments against
encouraging a person of such character, she declared
nothing would tempt her to go. This was her first lie, for she
meant to join a party the next evening; but how to deceive
her lover was the question.

"'The next morning, with the help of a friend, the plan

was made. She was to go early before the hour when he
usually made his appearance, call for her chaperone in a
carriage, leaving word with the servant that she had gone
to pass the evening with a sick friend, and would not be at
home till late. In order to make this excuse more plausible,
Miss Hill wrote her lover an affectionate letter, regretting
the necessity that deprived her of the pleasure of his
company for the evening, adding, "I know that you would
say duty is paramount in this case."

"'The carriage was at the door at the moment, and,

giving extra charges to the girl to say nothing that could
betray her, she hastened away to the brilliant scene.

"'Soon after, Mr. Stanton made his appearance with a

carriage to take her to the E—House, where some valued
friends had just arrived. He was exceedingly disappointed,
as he had promised them, he would call with her. He read
her note, and asked the girl in what street the sick friend
lived.

"'"I don't know, exactly," she stammered at this

unexpected question; "but it was somewhere out of town,
for now I remember she took night clothes, and said if the
lady was not better, she should be away a day or two."

"'"It is very unfortunate for me," he said, speaking to

himself; "I would go anywhere for her, if you could learn
where she is."

"'"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the girl. "Her father has gone,

too, and nobody else in the house knows anything about it."
 "'"This is strange!" he said, stepping into the carriage
and giving orders to be driven back to the hotel. "I wonder
she did not mention the name of the sick lady. Probably it is
some near relative, as her father has accompanied her."

"'The evening was passed with his friends, and at a late

hour, he was about to take his leave when a mutual friend
entered.

"'He laughed heartily as he shook hands with Mr.

Stanton, saying,—

"'"I have been playing the agreeable all the evening to

Miss Hill, and merit your warmest thanks."

"'"Where, where did you see her?" was the eager

inquiry.

"'"At Madame R—'s concert, of course. All the world was

there to-night. To tell the truth, I was somewhat surprised
to see Miss Hill, knowing, as I did, your opinion of her
concerts; but she appeared to have no scruples."

"'Mr. Stanton turned very pale at this reply, but in a

moment controlled himself, and said, "Are you sure Miss
Emily Hill was at Madame R—'s concert?"

"'"As sure as I am that I stand here," seriously replied

the gentleman, perceiving this was no time for a joke. "I
was in the same slip with her and Mrs. Jones who was her
chaperone, and after the concert, waited upon her to their
carriage. She excused your absence by saying you had a
previous engagement which prevented your accompanying
her."

"'"Enough," faltered Mr. Stanton; and rising soon after,

he took a hasty leave of his friends.'"
 CHAPTER VIII.
THE LIAR ABANDONED.

"'THE night which followed was spent by Mr. Stanton in

pacing the floor of his chamber; and the first dawn of the
morning found him resolved upon an immediate termination
of his connection with Miss Hill. He could not take to his
heart one in whom he had no longer the least confidence.
But the rupturing of this bond, which he had heretofore
considered almost as sacred as marriage, made his noble
heart sink within him.

"'At an early hour he called at Mr. Hill's. The servant was

all smiles, and informed him that her mistress found her
friend better, and returned late the previous evening.
Stifling a groan at this new proof of duplicity, he asked her
to inform Miss Hill that he wished to see her. She presently
made her appearance, and, though rather startled at his
pallor, exclaimed, gayly,—

"'"Wasn't I fortunate in being relieved so soon? I was

able to return last evening."

"'"Emily," he said, in a tone which cut her to the heart,

"I know all. It is unnecessary for you to burden your
conscience with another falsehood. I know the story of a
sick friend, of duty to her, is all a falsification. You passed
the evening at Mrs. R—'s concert."
 "'She sank back in a chair, blushing violently, while he,
with great effort controlling himself, went on,—

"'"I loved you, Emily; but that love was based on a false
estimate of your character. I believed you as pure in morals
as you are beautiful in person. Yesterday, only yesterday, I
would have taken your word against all the world; but now
the illusion has passed away. We must part, Emily. You have
ruined my happiness. If it were not for the recollection of
my mother, you would have ruined my faith in your sex."

"'Miss Hill gasped for breath.

"'"I must be dreaming!" she exclaimed. "Surely, this

cannot be true! You do not, cannot, mean to give me up
just for one little white lie?"

"'"One white lie," he repeated, "has been enough to ruin

my hopes of happiness forever: but you have done far more
than that. You have proved yourself to be wholly lost to that
rectitude which must be a ruling principle with my wife; you
have not only told me, who trusted you so implicitly, many
deliberate falsehoods, but you have taught your servant,
also, to deceive me; even now you met me with a lie—call it
white or black, as you please—on your lips."

"'He paused, overwhelmed with emotion.

"'"Try me! Try me!" she repeated, in agony. "I will never
be guilty of even the smallest variation from the truth."

"'"It is too late—too late, now!" he murmured, hoarsely,

pressing her cold hand. "But oh, Emily, remember hereafter
how I have loved you; and when your lips would utter that
which is false, call to mind a lonely wanderer, whom your
crime has exiled from his country and home!"
 "'They parted, and have never met since. Remember,'
added the lady, 'all his suffering, all her years of sorrow,
since that eventful morning, came from what she then
considered an innocent deception.'"

"And what is she now?" I asked, when I had wiped away

my tears.

"'She is a penitent Christian woman,' she answered.

'From that time, I do not believe she has ever deviated from
the truth; but oh, what a fearful lesson is hers! I have seen
her shudder when gay, thoughtless young ladies utter words
which are totally false. I have told you this story, hoping
you may profit by her experience.'"

The young girls were both startled when Mr. Saunders

advanced slowly from the back parlor.

"I have heard your story," he said to the visitor. "I knew
both Mr. Stanton and Miss Hill. The breaking off of their
engagement occasioned much talk at the time. I never
understood the cause till now, when I think him perfectly
justified in the course he pursued. I hope, Alice, Miss Hill's
experience will prove a most useful lesson to you. Lies show
a mind and heart so degraded and mean that no beauty of
person or polish of manner can, for any length of time, hide
the deformity."

As I have before said, Mr. Saunders was most liberal in

gratifying the wants of his children. He liked to see his
house handsomely furnished, his table set with abundance
and elegance, and his children dressed tastefully, even
richly. When Alice came from school, he gave Aunt Clarissa
a handsome sum of money, and requested her to replenish
his daughter's wardrobe.
 Wishing to outshine her companions in dress, the young
miss begged for one or two articles which even Aunt
Clarissa considered extravagant. Alice, however, was vain,
and having been told how becoming they were to her
particular style of beauty, determined in some way to obtain
them. One was a richly embroidered velvet mantilla, not at
all suitable for a girl in her teens, the other a love of a Paris
bonnet, as she termed it, made of blue velvet and lace, with
an exquisite white feather tipped with blue. The bonnet the
milliner pronounced low at fifteen dollars, while the price of
the mantilla was forty.

"I will have them charged," she said to herself, "and

then save all my pocket-money until they're paid for."

The next Sabbath, the young girl, arrayed in a new

lustrous silk, together with her bonnet and mantilla,
appeared before her father to accompany him to church.

"Why, Alice! I scarcely recognized you," he said, starting

back, actually dazzled by the beauty of her appearance.
"Well," he added, after a moment, during which he
surveyed her from head to foot with a most comical
expression, "you certainly are decked out. I never saw your
mother dressed so extravagantly in my life. Where did you
get this, and this?" Touching with his finger the bonnet and
mantilla.

"At Miles's, papa. They look rich; but they were very
cheap."

"Well, I hope they are paid for. You know I don't allow a
bill anywhere."

He spoke decidedly, aroused by a sudden suspicion.