the drawing-room.

The other children were leaving it. "Come, Vi," they said, "we're going
for a walk."

"Thank you, I don't wish to go this time," she answered with gravity.
"I've something to attend to."

"What a grown up way of talking you have, you little midget," laughed
Meta. Then putting her lips close to Vi's ear, "Violet Travilla," she
whispered, "don't you tell tales, or I'll never, never play with you
again as long as I live."

"My mamma says it's wicked to say that;" returned Vi, "and I don't tell
tales."

Then as Meta ran away, Violet drew near her mother's chair.

Mamma was talking, and she must not interrupt, so she waited, longing to
have the confession over, yet feeling her courage almost fail with the
delay.

Elsie saw it all, and at length seized an opportunity while the rest
were conversing among themselves, to take Vi's hand and draw her to her
side.

"I think my little girl has something to say to mother," she whispered
softly, smoothing back the clustering curls, and looking tenderly into
the tear-stained face.

Violet nodded assent; her heart was so full she could not have spoken a
word without bursting into tears and sobs.

Mamma understood, rose and led her from the room; led her to her own
dressing-room where they could be quite secure from intrusion. Then
seating herself and taking the child on her lap, "What is wrong with my
dear little daughter?" she asked.

"O, mamma, mamma, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" cried the child, bursting
into a passion of tears and sobs, putting her arms about her mother's
neck and hiding her face on her breast.

"Mamma is sorry, too, dear, sorry for anything that makes her Vi
unhappy. What is it? what can mother do to comfort you."

"Mamma I don't deserve for you to be so kind, and you'll have to punish,
'stead of comforting. But I just want to tell about my own self; you
know I can't tell tales, mamma."

"No, daughter, I do not ask, or wish it; but tell me about yourself."

"Mamma, it will make you sorry, ever so sorry."

"Yes, dear, but I must bear it for your sake."

"O mamma, I don't like to make you sorry I--I wish I hadn't, hadn't been
naughty, oh so naughty, mamma! for I played with some of your mamma's
things that you forbade us to touch, and--and one lovely plate got
broken all up."

"I am very sorry to hear that," returned the mother, "yet far more
grieved by my child's sin. But how did you get the door open and the
plates off the sh