good act which they perform
appear somewhat pharisaical, but we have no right to condemn them upon
that score _alone_, for it often proceeds from a great desire to do
good. You know we are very apt to talk of that which most occupies our
thoughts, Harry. But where did Elisha Otis's father get such notions of
charitable people?'

'That is what I was going to tell you about, mother. You know how much
Deacon Brown, gives--he heads all the subscription papers, and I heard
father say the other day that he was a great help to the church; but Mr
Otis says that he is never willing to pay people that work for him their
full price, and then they have to wait, and dun, and dun, before they
can get anything.'

'I am sorry to hear this, my son, very sorry.'

'Isn't it true mother?'

'It is true that Deacon Brown in some instances has seemed more generous
than just, and this case is very good to illustrate what I before said;
but Mr Otis makes it appear much worse than it is.'

'Then he don't cheat his workmen, mother?'

'No; but, by procrastination, thoughtlessness, or even perhaps the
desire which business men may have to make a good bargain, he may do
wrong, and so lay himself open to all these remarks. Bad qualities, you
know, shew much plainer in a good man than a bad one, and are almost
always made to appear worse than they really are. But let this be a
warning to you, my boy--remember that _good_ (not _great_) actions
seldom cover faults, but faults obscure the lustre of many good actions,
and destroy the usefulness of thousands of really good and pious
people.'

CHAPTER VII.

THE NEW BOOK.

'A present for you, Effie,' said Mr Maurice, a few days after the
foregoing conversation, 'a present from your uncle William! it is in
this nice little packet, now guess what it is.'

'O father--'

'No, but you must guess.'

'Why it's a book--say a book, Effie,' interposed Harry, 'with sights of
pictures, I dare say, and may be pretty gilt letters on the back, too.'

'Is it a book?' inquired Effie, her little eyes dancing with pleasure,
'and from uncle William, too? Oh how good he is to remember a little
girl like me!'

By this time Mr Maurice had unwound the cord and unfolded the paper, and
displayed a neat little book--what think you it was? 'Peter Parley's
Stories,' says one, 'The Love Token,' says another. No, you are both
wrong. Effie Maurice was almost a woman before these books were written.
Mrs Sherwood