the usual hour for recreation arrived. In vain did she attempt to seem cheerful and unite with them in their sports. The very thought of play made her more gloomy than ever. She felt angry with them for asking her to join in it, and walked silently away.

"How odd Gertrude is this morning!" said Harriet to her sister, as she walked out of the arbour. "I think she cannot be well."

"She says she is very well," said Charlotte; "and I don't think there is any thing the matter with her, except that she is out of temper."

"Gertrude is not often out of temper," "I'll go and ask her what's

said Harriet.

the matter."

"I'll go too," said Charlotte; and they hastened to her as she was bending her steps slowly and sorrowfully towards the house, and, in the kindest manner, asked her what was the occasion of her evident discomfort.

"I cannot play this morning," she replied, without answering their inquiries as to her uneasiness. "I cannot, indeed;" and, to avoid further questions, she turned away

66

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from them a second time, and went into the house, and up stairs into her own little bed

room.

In passing through the nursery, she saw Miss Robson there, talking with Sarah; but neither of them made any remark to her, and she was glad to get unobserved into her apartment.

I must here tell you, that the cause which had brought Miss Robson into the nursery, was to ask Sarah, who had usually more of Gertrude's company than any one else in the house, if she knew of any thing that had occurred to occasion the unpleasant change in the little girl's behaviour, which she had that morning observed.

Sarah related the circumstances of her leaving the baby in Gertrude's charge when her mistress called her down stairs; she often having done so before, when both were on the carpet, and therefore safe from harm; her being detained rather longer than she expected; and, on her return, the importunities of the little boy for sugar, inclining her to suspect that he had tasted of it in her absence. She mentioned also, as she felt it her duty to do, that, from the confusion and

quite unusual irritation in Gertrude's manner of replying, when she questioned her on the subject, she believed she had been guilty both of taking the sugar, and telling an untruth about it.

This was sad intelligence for Miss Robson, who loved all her pupils with more of a mother's affection than any other feeling; and who had in a particular manner attached herself to the orphan Gertrude; and that, not altogether so much on account of her helpless condition as being destitute of parents, as from the endearing qualities which she had perceived in the little girl herself. But sad as were the suspicions which were now excited respecting her, they did not occasion much surprise. Miss Robson was well versed in an acquaintance with the human heart, and would have expected, from what she knew of Gertrude's nature, that any deviation from the path of truth and uprightness, would be likely, in her case, to lead her still deeper into evil, by exciting a disposition to subtlety and concealment, which she perceived to be the child's most dangerous and besetting sin. It was some comfort to her to find that she could not be happy under the consciousness

of guilt. That is always a satisfaction; for, next to the falling into sin, the evil most to be dreaded is the throwing off the reproaches of conscience, and assuming a gay and cheerful demeanour, whilst something within is continually saying to us, "How couldst thou do that great wickedness, and sin against God ?"

For the whole of the day Gertrude continued in the same state of gloom and depression. In the evening Mr. Allen, who usually, before family worship, read to the little circle for about half an hour, from some biographical or historical work which he considered likely to interest and instruct his young hearers, sat down to his accustomed engagement; whilst Mrs. Allen, Miss Robson, and the young people, pursued their needlework. I shall not undertake to say whether it was accidental, or whether some hint from Miss Robson might influence his choice of a book for this evening; but so it happened, that having selected the Life of Samuel Kilpin, as that from which he was to read to them, he had not proceeded far in it before he came to this anecdote.

"When seven years old," says Mr. Kilpin, "I was left in charge of the shop; a man passed, crying, 'Little lambs, all white and clean, at one penny each! In my eagerness to get one, I lost all self-command, and, taking a penny out of the drawer, I made the purchase. My keen-eyed, wise mother, inquired how I came by the money? I evaded the question with something like a lie; in God's sight it was a lie, as I kept back the truth. The lamb was placed on the chimney-shelf, and much admired. To me, it was a source of inexpressible anguish. Continually there sounded in my ears and heart, Thou shalt not steal! thou shalt not lie!' Guilt and darkness overcame my mind; and, in sore agony of soul, I went to a hay-loft, (the place is now perfectly in my recollection,) and there prayed and pleaded, with groanings that could not be uttered, for mercy and pardon. I entreated mercy for Jesus' sake! With joy and transport I left the loft, from a believing application of the text, Thy sins, which are many, are all forgiven thee.' I went to my mother, told her what I had done, and sought forgiveness, and burnt the lamb,

her