whispered Susy to Grace.

"Every one tried to amuse me while I was sick, but there was always a thorn in my pillow."

"A thorn?" said Prudy.

"Not a real thorn, dear. I mean I had told a wrong story, and I couldn't feel happy."

Here Susy turned away her head and looked out of the window, though she saw nothing there but grandpa coming in from the garden with a watering-pot.

"Whenever father looked at me, I felt just as if he was thinking, 'Margaret doesn't tell the truth;' and when mother spoke my name quick, I was afraid she was going to say something about the hatchet."

"I got well, only I limped a little. Then it was almost time to think of making presents for the Christmas tree. I didn't like to have Christmas come while I was feeling so. People are so good that day, I thought. That is the time when every body loves you, and spends money for you. I wanted to confess, and feel _clean_; but then I had told that lie over so many times that I thought I _couldn't_ take it back."

"I talked it over with myself a great while though, and at last said I, 'I _will_; I'll do it!' First, I asked G.o.d to forgive me and help me, and when I had got as far as that, the thing was half done, children."

"I went into the parlor where your grandfather was--he wasn't deaf then. I thought I should choke; but I caught hold of one of the b.u.t.tons on his coat, and spoke as fast as I could."

"'O father,' said I, 'I've told more than a hundred thousand lies. I _did_ take that hatchet! Will you forgive me?'"

"Did he?" asked Susy.

"Forgive! I guess he did! My dear child, it was just what he had been waiting to do! And, O, I can tell you he talked to me in such a way about the awful sin of lying, that I never, never forgot it, and shan't, if I live to be a hundred years old."

"My father had forgiven me: I was sure G.o.d had forgiven me too; and after that, I felt as if I could look people in the face once more, and I had a splendid time Christmas.--I believe that's about all the _story_ there is to it, children."

"Well," said Grace, "I'm much obliged to you, auntie; I think it's just as nice as a fairy story--don't you, Susy?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," replied Susy, looking confused. "See here, auntie, I've lost your gold ring!"

"My ring?" said aunt Madge. "I forgot that I let you take it."

"Don't you know I asked you for it when you stood by the table making bread? and it slipped off my finger this afternoon into the water barrel!"

"Why, Susy!"

"And I was a coward, and didn't dare tell you, auntie. I thought maybe you'd forget I had it, and some time when you asked for it, I was going to say, 'Hadn't you better take a pair of tongs and see if it isn't in the water barrel?'"

"O, Susy!" said aunt Madge.

"She isn't any worse than me, auntie," said Grace. "Ma asked me how the mud came on my handkerchief, and I said Prudy wiped my boots with it. And so she did, auntie, but I told her to; and wasn't I such a coward for laying it off on little Prudy? I am ashamed--you may believe I am."

"I am glad you have told me the whole truth now," replied aunt Madge, "though it does make me feel sad, too, for it's too much like my hatchet story. O, do remember from this time, children, and never, never, _dare_ be _cowards_ again!"

Just then grandpa Parlin came to the door with a sad face, saying,--

"Margaret, please come up stairs, and see if you can soothe poor little Harry by singing. He is so restless that neither Maria nor I can do any thing with him."

This baby, Horace's brother, was sick all the time now, and once in a while Margaret's sweet voice would charm him to sleep when every thing else failed.

CHAPTER X

MORE STORIES

"I move we have some more stories," said Horace the next evening, as they were sitting in the twilight. "It's your turn, Gracie."

"Well, I don't know but I'd as soon tell a story as not," replied Grace, pushing back her curls; "I reckon Pincher wants to hear one, he begins to wag his tail. I can't make up any thing as I go along, but I can tell a sober, true story."

"Certain true, black and blue?" asked Prudy, who always _would_ have something to say, whether she knew what she was talking about or not.

"Didn't I ever tell you about our school-dog out West, aunt Madge? You see it was so queer. I don't know where in the world he came from. He had one of his eyes put out, and was 'most blind out of the other, and only a stump of a tail, and didn't know how to get his living like other dogs."

"O dear, it was so funny he should take it into his head to come to school, now wasn't it, auntie? He knew Miss All'n just as well as could be, and used to go with the rest of the scholars to meet her every morning; and when she patted him on the head, and said 'Good old doggie,' it did seem like he'd fly out of his wits."

"Then when she rang the bell he trotted in just as proud, hanging down his head as meek as could be. He thought she rang the bell for him as much as any of the rest of the scholars. His seat was right by the stove on the floor--it _wasn't_ a seat, I mean; and he just lay there the whole living time, and slept and snored--you see he was so old, auntie! But then we all loved him, we just loved him so! O dear me, it's as much as I can do to keep from crying, and I don't know how _any body_ could help it!"

"What was I talking about--O, he used to walk round under the seats just as sly sometimes, and put his nose into the dinner baskets. I tell you he liked cake, that dog did, and he liked meat and mince pie.

You see he could _smell_, for his nose was as good as ever it was, and the girls used to cry sometimes when he picked out the nice things."

"But then we just loved him so, you know, auntie! Why, we thought he was just as good as any body. He never bit nor growled, that dog didn't, not a mite. There wasn't one of us but he loved,--'specially Miss All'n."

"Now wasn't it too bad Mrs. Snell made such a fuss? She didn't love that dog one speck,--I don't know as she ever saw him,--and she didn't care whether he was dead or alive. I just know she didn't."

"I'll tell you how it was. Sometimes he got locked up all night. He'd be asleep, you know, by the stove, or else under the seats, and Miss All'n would forget, and suppose he was gone with the rest of the scholars."

"Well, he was a darling old dog, if he _did_ chew up the books! I just about know he got hungry in the night, or he never would have thought of it. How did _he_ know it was wrong? he didn't know one letter from another. He spoiled Jenny Snell's spelling-book, I know, and lots of readers and things; but what if he did, auntie, now what of it?"

"I ain't crying any thing about that, I wouldn't have you to think!

But you see Mrs. Snell made a great fuss, and went to her husband and told him he ought to be shot."

"That Mr. Snell ought to be shot?"

"Now, Susy, I shouldn't think you'd feel like laughing or making fun.--The dog, of _course_; and they sent for the city marshal. You know Mr. Garvin, Horace?"

"Yes, the man that scowls so, with the scar on his nose, and a horse-whip in his hand."

"Miss All'n cried. She lifted up the lid of her desk, and hid her head, but we all knew she was crying. You see we had such a time about it. We thought he was going to carry the dog off to some place, and take care of him like he was his master, or may be shut him up, or something that way; but, do you believe, he just _shot_ that dog right in the yard!"

"How dreadful!"

"Yes, auntie, I reckon it was! We all cried like we should kill ourselves, and put our fingers in our ears; for we heard the man when he fired the gun,--I mean we heard the gun when the man fired it,--and _then_ it was of no use; but we stopped our ears, and Miss All'n hid her face, and cried--and cried--and cried!"

"O dear me, it did seem like we didn't any of us want to go to school any more, if we couldn't see our old dog coming to meet us, and rub his head against our dresses. And it was just as lonesome,--now it was _so_, auntie."

"Poor old doggie!" sighed aunt Madge.