ehood," said the conscientious matron.

"Yes you can, or you can let _us_ tell it," said the incorrigible. "Susy
tells me that when you were sick, two years ago, Mary Crawford came to
see you very often."

"She did, and she was a very kind nurse--Heaven bless her, even if she
_does not_ come to see us any more!" said the old lady.

"If she thought you sick, she would come again, I think," said
Josephine. "Once here, my word for it that she would not be angry, but
thank you, when she heard all that I have to tell her."

"I do not like it, my child!" said the straight-forward woman.

But what can a kind-hearted old lady do, with two young ones and one a
model of her sex, tugging at her apron-strings? In five minutes more,
without at all understanding what was to be done or why it should be
done, Aunt Betsey had given her consent to take part in what was
probably one of the first falsehoods of her life. In ten minutes more,
one of the boys who had already dressed himself for church, was on his
way to the Crawford mansion, with a sealed note in the school-girl
hand-writing of Susan, written under the dictation of Josephine, and
reading as follows:

SUNDAY, July 6th, (morning).

_Dear Miss Crawford:--_

Please pardon the liberty I take. Mother is very ill, and we should
be very grateful if you would say nothing to any one else about this
note and come over to the house _immediately_.

Very respectfully your friend,

SUSAN HALSTEAD.

No call is so irresistible as that which appeals to the sympathy of a
true woman; and no crime is so unpardonable as that which trifles with
such sympathy. Less than half an hour had elapsed, and Aunt Betsey, a
little ashamed and a good deal frightened at what had been done, had
gone up-stairs to escape the possibility of first meeting the young girl
if she should come,--when Josephine, looking impatiently out of the
window at the road leading down from the hill towards the centre of the
village, saw a young lady coming down the path at the side of the road
and approaching the gate. The figure was short and rather slight,
dressed in some light summer-material, wearing one of the light jockey
hats of the time, and sheltered from the hot morning sun by a parasol of
dimensions too large to be fashionable. There was no reason why some
other young lady should not be walking the foot-path at that time,
especially as church-hour was approaching; but Josephine