Part 3

"I thought she had had a hand in it," said Eva, when the story was finished. "She came to me in the first place and wanted to tell me something that I was never to tell—something somebody had said about me; but I told her that I always told mother everything, and that I never wanted to hear what people said about me, so she subsided. The truth of the matter is this. Dora was teasing me one day to give her my amber necklace, which I would not do."

"'You would give it to Amy Preston in a minute, if she asked you,' said she; 'you think more of that shop-girl than you do of me, though I am your cousin.'"

"'Well,' said I, half laughing, 'you see, Dora, Amy is a cheaper friend than you are. She never wants anything and you want everything.'"

"So much for that! As for the dress story, there is a little foundation for that, too. Dora asked me a few days ago if that was my old dress you were wearing."

"'Of course,' said I. 'Amy wears all my dresses and I wear hers. That is the way we show our regard for each other.'"

"'But don't you really give her dresses?' she asked."

"All the girls laughed, for every one knows how proud you are about receiving presents, Amy."

"And I said, to carry on the joke, 'To be sure I do! I buy all her clothes and books, and my father pays her school bills.'"

"You see, Amy—though you must not tell any one—papa really does pay Dora's school bills, and mamma gives her a great many things; and I thought perhaps by giving her such a hint, I would make her hold her peace, and so I did. As for the rest, it is a sheer manufacture out of whole cloth. I should think you ought to have known me better, Amy."

Amy colored scarlet. "Well, Eva, I suppose I ought, but then you see—there is such a difference—in short you are rich and I am poor, and if you were in my place, you would see how natural it is to be jealous."

"It may be natural, but I cannot think it's right," said Eva. "I don't think poor people ought to be jealous of rich people, any more than rich people ought to despise poor people. Besides, Amy, I should never think of calling you poor. But did Dora say anything else?"

"Never mind what she said," replied Amy. "I ought never to have listened to her. But it was not so much what she said as what she insinuated. However, I was a fool to mind her, for I know of old just what a mischievous thing she is. She has tried it upon me before. When I first came to school, she told me some of the girls made a fuss because I was a shop-girl, and I don't suppose there was any truth in that either."

"Not one word, I dare say. But now, Amy, promise me one thing. If ever you think I have done wrong, just come to me as I have come to you and ask me about it. If we do so, we shall never have any lasting quarrels, I am sure, and no tattler can make mischief between us. Isn't it almost time to go to school? I will wait for you and we will go together."

Amy kept Eva waiting while she went up to her own little room, and there in a short but earnest prayer, asked God's forgiveness for her jealousy and unkindness and begged Him to pour into her heart "that most excellent gift of charity, the very bond of peace and of all virtue, without which whosoever liveth is counted dead before Him."

Dora stared in wonder when she saw Amy and Eva enter the school-room in their old fashion, with their arms round each other's waists.

"So you two have made up your quarrel," she said, in recess, with her disagreeable laugh. "Well, it is a fine thing to have a forgiving temper, especially when it is so much to one's own advantage as it is to Amy's, in this case."

"There is nothing to forgive, as it happens," answered Eva, coolly. "Somebody told Amy a set of stories about me which were either entirely false or else misrepresented, but when she came to hear the truth it was all right again."

"Amy Preston, you are as mean as you can be," exclaimed Dora. "You promised not to tell."

"I did not promise not to tell," said Amy. "However, I did not tell."

"How did Eva find out then, I should like to know?"

"Because," said Eva, answering for her friend; "you came to me and told what Amy said about me. And I remember what I heard an old Scotch woman say about talebearers, that a dog which would fetch a bone would carry a bone."

Depend upon it, girls, the old Scotch woman's proverb speaks the truth. A person who will come and tell you a story about what somebody has said of you, will tell that person what you have said about them; and in neither case will the story be the exact truth. Never listen for a moment to such tales, if you can help it; and if you cannot help listening, let the words go "in at one ear and out at the other."

If, however, you think your friend has offended you, go and ask her about it kindly and frankly; and two to one the offence will vanish into thin air.

But again, I say, never listen to talebearers, for "the words of a talebearer are as wounds."

"Where no wood is, there the fire goeth out: so where there is no talebearer the strife ceaseth."—(Prov. xxvi. 20.)

ESTHER'S BAD DAY,

OR,

"I COULDN'T HELP IT."

IT was a good while after six and a very bright sunny spring morning, yet Esther was not yet out of bed, when somebody knocked at her door.

"O dear!" said she, in a sleepy, pettish tone, "I wish people would only let me alone a minute. Come in!"

The last words were spoken aloud, and a very pretty girl, some years older than Esther, opened the door. She was partly dressed and had her comb and brush in her hand.

"Why, Etty, not up yet!" she exclaimed. "I thought you would be nearly dressed. I came to ask if I might finish my dressing by your glass, for papa wants the painters to begin on my room as soon as they come."

"Of course you can," replied Etty, not very graciously, however. "What time is it?"

"About half-past six. You ought to be up, Etty."

"Oh, there is plenty of time."

"I don't know. Time slips away very fast in the morning."

Eleanor went back to her roam to look for something she wanted. When she came back, Etty had scrambled up to the end of the bed next the window, and, still in her night-gown, and with her hair hanging over her shoulders, was reading a story-book, which she had drawn from under her pillow. In the book, perhaps, might be found the cause of her morning sleepiness. When a little girl reads in bed till her candle burns out, she is apt to be rather heavy-headed next morning.

"You will be late for breakfast," said Eleanor. "I fear I shall be late myself, I have been so hindered; but, Etty, I am sure you will be behindhand."

"O no, I sha'n't. I can dress in ten minutes, easily."

"You cannot dress properly in ten minutes," said Eleanor, busily tying up her hair; "and, Etty, there is something else besides dressing to be done before you go down-stairs."

Etty shrugged her shoulders impatiently but made no answer.

Eleanor went on with her dressing, and said no more till she had finished. Then turning to, Etty, who was still reading, she said, seriously:

"Now, Etty, you have only fifteen minutes left. You may get ready for breakfast, perhaps, if you lose no more time."

"Do let me be, Eleanor!" answered Etty, angrily. "I know what I am about! I wish you would go away and mind your own business!"

"Very well," said Eleanor, and quietly gathering up her dressing things she left the room without another word.

Etty looked at the clock and then at her book.

"I will only read to the end of this paragraph," said she. "That will not take long, and I can easily get ready after that."

But it is not always easy to stop at the end of a paragraph, and Etty read on till she was startled by hearing the church clock strike seven, followed by the energetic ringing of the breakfast-bell at the foot of the stairs.

"O dear!" exclaimed Etty, throwing down her book and scrambling out of bed. "Now I shall be late again; that will be the third time this week, and uncle will be angry. It is all Eleanor's fault. She ought to have made me got up."

Etty hastened to dress, but as usually happens at such times, she found that the more she hurried, the less she got on. She broke her boot-lacing and could not find another. She had been in such a hurry to get to her story-book the night before, that she had neglected to braid up her hair, and it was all hanging in what nurses call "witch-knots," and the more she pulled at it, the worse it snarled.

"Now where is that ribbon! I am sure it was here last night. I suppose Eleanor has put it out of place. O dear, I do wish people would keep out of my room and let my things alone!" snapped Etty, tumbling over the things on the dressing-table.

"There, now!" As she spoke, she overturned a tall bottle of cologne, which, with its pretty bronze holder, had been one of her birthday presents. She had often been told never to set the bottle down out of the holder, but she had a trick of leaning it against the side of the glass.

The tall bottle fell on a pretty hand-mirror with a carved frame, and both were broken to pieces. At this new calamity, Etty burst into tears, and throwing her brush to the farther end of the room, she flung herself down on the floor and cried so as to be heard all over the house.

The family were becoming tolerably well used to Etty's "tantrums," and as they were at prayers, nobody moved till the prayer was finished.

"Please, aunt, may I go and see what ails Etty?" said Stella. She was Etty's younger sister, but as she slept with Eleanor, she had not seen Etty that morning.

"No, my dear, I will go myself," said Mrs. Grey.

Stella said no more, but she looked very uncomfortable, not to say distressed.

"You need not look so unhappy, my dear Stella," said Eleanor. "You don't think mamma will be unkind to Etty, do you?"

"No," said Stella, "aunt is never unkind to any one; but Etty does go on so when she gets one of her bad days. Aunt is not used to her, and I am afraid she will be very much displeased."

When Mrs. Grey went up-stairs, she found Etty still lying on the floor, crying and sobbing.

"What is the matter now?" asked Mrs. Grey. "Why are you not ready for breakfast?"

"O dear, I wish I was dead! I wish I was dead!" sobbed Etty.

"Etty, if I ever hear you say that again, I shall punish you!" said Mrs. Grey. "Stop crying directly, and tell me what all this is about. How came this bottle broken, and the mirror, too? And here is the cologne running all over the bureau. What have you been about?"

"It is all Eleanor's fault," sobbed Etty, getting up from the floor. "She came in here to dress, and she has put all my things out of place so that I cannot find anything; and looking for my hair ribbon, I knocked down the bottle and broke it and—" Etty was going to wish herself dead again, but she stopped just in time.

"Is not this your ribbon?" asked Mrs. Grey, taking up one which was hanging on the glass in plain sight.

"I don't care, I could not find it," Etty was beginning, but her aunt stopped her.

"I do not want to hear any more now. Dress yourself and come down-stairs as quickly as you can?"

Esther and Stella Grey were orphan children, who had come to live with their uncle and aunt. Mr. and Mrs. Grey had adopted the children as their own, and treated them kindly in every respect.

Stella was very happy in her new home—happier in fact than she had ever been before. She was a quiet little thing, very gentle and good; but not at all pretty, and not particularly bright.

Etty, on the contrary, was both pretty and intelligent; but she was far from being as pleasant a child to live with as her sister. Esther had always been the favorite with her mother, who was not by any means a sensible woman. Ever since she could remember she had been petted and indulged, and talked about before her face as "a very peculiar nervous child," "a child requiring very delicate management," till she had learned to think that she was really something remarkable; whereas she was only a passionate little girl, whose health had been injured by over indulgence, and whose disposition had been almost spoiled by her being permitted to tyrannize over her younger sister as much as she pleased, and to indulge in such fits of passion as we have seen, on the least provocation.

Mrs. Grey soon found out that she had undertaken a very troublesome task; but she was a kind good woman and used to children, and she was determined to do the best she could by the poor spoiled child.

When Etty came down at last, she found breakfast over. Her uncle was reading the paper, Eleanor was washing the breakfast dishes, and Stella dusting the room.

"Come, Etty, eat your breakfast," said her aunt, kindly, but decidedly. "Eleanor wants to put away the table."

Etty took her seat with a very dissatisfied face. "Everything is as cold as it can be!" said she, pettishly. "And I can't bear fish-balls."

"Well, there are plenty of nice potatoes, and bread and butter."

"I hate—" Etty was beginning, but Mr. Grey stopped her.

"Eat your breakfast and say no more about it, Esther!" said he, sharply. For he had nerves as well as his niece, and her whining grated upon them sadly. "You have made quite disturbance enough for one morning."

Etty shrugged her shoulders and made up a face, but she was afraid of her uncle and said nothing more. She drank two cups of coffee and was just about pouring out a third, when her aunt stopped her.

"No more, Etty! Two of those cups are quite enough for any little girl."

Etty rose from the table with a flounce, and gave the coffee pot a push which sent it off the table. Stella was close by and caught it, but not in time to save Etty's dress from a deluge.

"There now, see what you made me do, you awkward little toad!" exclaimed Etty, angrily, giving her sister a push. "I wish you were a thousand miles off, Stella Grey. You are always getting me into trouble."

Stella, who was used to her sister's hasty speeches, did not reply; but Eleanor answered for her. She was very fond of Stella, and did not like to hear her falsely accused. "Why, Etty, Stella did not touch you. She caught the pot and risked her own hands to save you from being scalded. You ought to be ashamed to speak so to your sister!"

"Never mind," whispered Stella. "Don't say anything to her, you only make her worse."

"Etty," said Mr. Grey, "go up and change your dress, and don't come down again till you are in a good humor. Let me hear no crying, or slamming of doors, either," he added, sharply. "We have had quite enough for once. I begin to wish that child had never come into the house," he said to Mrs. Grey, as Etty left the room, followed presently by Stella. "She destroys the whole comfort of the family."

"She is certainly very troublesome," replied Mrs. Grey, sighing. "However, we must have patience. I really think she is improving. She has not had one of these bad days in some time."

"Since when?" asked Mr. Grey.

"Since last week," answered his wife, smiling. "She used to have them every other day when she first came. But I begin to think with you that we shall have to be more decided with her. However, we will try to get on quietly to-day, so that the pleasure of the excursion may not be spoiled for poor Stella."

Meantime Stella was up-stairs coaxing Etty to stop crying and change her dress so as to be ready for their lessons at nine o'clock.

"Come, Etty, do," she urged. "You will not be ready when Miss Beach comes, and then you will have a bad mark again. Do put on your other dress."

"I won't!" said Etty, passionately. "I wish I was dead! They would never dare to treat me so if my own mother was alive, but because I am an orphan they think they can abuse me as they please."

"Oh, Etty, how can you say so? I think they are so kind."

"They may be kind enough to you, but they are not kind to me," retorted Etty. "You know they are not, but you don't care what becomes of me. If you had loved mamma, you would not be so contented here. But you never did. I do really believe you are glad she is dead, because you know she always loved me the best."

Stella could bear a good deal from Etty, but this was too much. She burst into tears, and ran out of the room.

Etty, having succeeded in hurting somebody's feelings, began to feel better herself. She knew that she had uttered a wicked falsehood, but she did not mind what she said at such times. She grew quite cheerful over the wound she had inflicted on her unoffending sister, and by the time Miss Beach rang the bell, she was ready to come down-stairs singing and as pleasant as possible, her face making a great contrast to poor Stella's red eyes and trembling lips.

But cheerfulness which is built on the suffering of others is not likely to be very lasting, and a new cause of trouble soon appeared. Notwithstanding, Etty's so-called talents, she was backward in her lessons; and reading till twelve o'clock the night before did not tend to make her head clear. She found her sums in arithmetic unusually puzzling, and made so many mistakes in her Latin rules that she had to study them over again. She could not make sense of her reading lesson, and declared there was no meaning in it, and she was all the more cross that Stella's Latin lesson was unusually good. By the end of the school hours, she was once more in a thoroughly bad humor.

"Well, are the lessons finished?" asked Mrs. Grey, entering the school-room at twelve o'clock. "Come then, girls, hurry and dress yourselves, that you may be ready when the carriage comes."

"Where are we going, aunt?" asked Stella.

"Wait patiently, and you will see," replied Mrs. Grey, smiling. "Only be sure you are ready by one o'clock, for there will be no time to lose in waiting. Put on your gray skirts, and dresses that can be easily washed. Your ginghams will be the best."

"I shall not wear my gingham dress—so!" said Etty, as they went up-stairs. "I shall wear my new muslin."

"I am afraid aunt will not like it," replied Stella. "She said anything that would wash."

"Well, and won't the muslins wash, stupid?"

"Yes, I suppose so, but you would hardly want to have your new dress done up so soon. I shall put on the gingham."

"I declare, I won't go with you, if you do, Stella Grey," said Etty, stamping her foot.

"You will not look fit to be seen."

But Stella was learning to have her own way, when she knew she was in the right. She said no more but went to her room and dressed herself as her aunt had directed.

Etty, meantime, was fretting and fuming over her toilet as usual, because she could not make up her mind what to wear. She would not wear the gingham—that was all about it. The muslin was pretty enough for anything, but Etty had forgotten to sew on certain hooks and eyes without which the sash could not be worn, and the dress without the sash could not be thought of.

Finally she pitched upon the most unsuitable thing of all—a black barege, her very best summer dress, which she had not yet worn. She was just fastening it, when her aunt called to her from the stairs: "Be sure you put on your thickest boots, Etty!"

"Those thick leather boots with this thin dress—how they will look!" said Etty. "I am sure my cloth boots will be thick enough this dry day. It has not rained for a week."

Etty had lost so much time in making up her mind that she was not ready when the carriage came to the door.

"Come, children, we have no time to lose!" called out Mr. Grey. "Are you ready?"

"I am ready," said Stella, entering Etty's room. "Shall I help you, Etty? But what made you put on that dress?"

"Because I don't want to look like a charity school-girl, as you do!" was Etty's snappish reply. "Every one will think you are a servant!"

"No, indeed! I am not half fine enough for a servant," said Stella, shrewdly. "But come, Etty; do hurry. What hat are you going to wear? Let me get it for you."

"Do go along and leave me alone!" said Etty, crossly. "You are trying to hinder me on purpose to get me found fault with."

"Come, children," again called Mr. Grey. "We cannot wait for you any longer."

Stella ran down-stairs to say that Etty would be ready in a minute.

When all were in the carriage, Etty came down. In the bustle of getting settled and driving off, Mrs. Grey did not notice her dress, and it was not till they had gone several squares that she observed how Etty had disobeyed her orders.

"Why, Etty!" she exclaimed. "What made you put on that dress, of all others? You will have it utterly spoiled."

"There is no help for it now," said Mr. Grey. "If Etty spoils her dress, she must take the consequences. She will not have another new one at her disposal to spoil this summer."

Etty flounced and frowned, but said nothing till they came to the steamboat, which was just ready to leave the dock. Then a new trouble came up. She declared that she could not and would not go on board the boat—that she knew she should be drowned, and that Stella should not go either.

"Very well," said Mr. Grey. "Then, get into the carriage and go home, but Stella shall go, if she chooses. Come, make up your mind one way or the other; but do not stand there making yourself ridiculous any longer."

This was new treatment to Etty, who was used to being soothed, and petted, and admired for her weak nerves and delicate sensibilities. But she had no notion of being left behind, and finally went on board the boat, just the moment before the plank was taken away.

The party were to proceed to a rocky point some miles off, spend the afternoon in exploring it, and return in the evening, when the steamboat would call for them. The place was beautiful and the weather lovely—the luncheon was very nice.

And all might have been pleasant only for Etty.

She spoiled every one's comfort. She would go nowhere where the rest wanted to go: she persisted in being afraid where there was no danger, and in being foolhardy in dangerous places, and she cried five different times in three hours. Her dress was torn in a dozen different places before the day was over, and her thin boots cut to pieces so that she could hardly walk, and the stones hurt her at every stop.

"Now I am going to rest a while and then we will go and see the cave," said Mr. Grey, when they had finished their lunch; "but none of you must venture on the rocks without me. They are dangerous in many places."

Stella was searching for shells on the sandy beach, near the place where they had lunched, when Etty joined her.

"I am going up there to get some of those wild-flowers, instead of poking about here," said she, pointing to some flowering shrubs which grew at a little distance, "and I want you to go with me."

"Uncle said we must not go on the rocks without him, you know," said Stella.

"He did not say on these rocks: he said on the rocks by the cave."

"He said on the rocks," persisted Stella; "and I know we ought not to go."

"Of course you won't go if I want you to," said Etty. "It is enough for you to know that I wish to do anything to set you against it. I don't care, I shall go alone."

"Please don't," pleaded Stella, but Etty was already on the rocks.

In a few minutes Mr. Grey, who was taking a little nap, was startled by a cry of distress.

There stood Etty on a narrow ledge, over a deep pool, clinging to a small, slender bush, and screaming with all her might; while Stella, with a pale face but steady step; was walking along the dangerous path towards her sister.

"Stop, Stella, I command you!" called Mr. Grey. "Etty, keep still and be quiet. I will see what can be done."