She stole away into her favourite spot in the garden, and, throwing herself on the ground, she wept long and bitterly. She thought of her mother’s warning and of her own boasted strength! How her mother would feel if she knew of her child’s disgrace and sin! She shrunk from the thought. She would rather die, almost, than to have her know of it; and yet—God knew it all! Jesus, whom she had professed to love, saw all her sin and knew how she had forgotten him,—how she had disgraced her Christian character. What had her influence been?
She groaned aloud. She could not pray. She sprang from the ground, and walked up and down the path, wringing her hands in anguish.
She heard footsteps approaching and some one calling her name. She did not answer: she looked about for some place of escape, but there was none; and in an instant Florence was by her side. Her arms were round her neck and she was kissing her most passionately.
“Don’t feel so badly, my darling,” she said. “They will never find us out in the world!”
Carrie said nothing: she leaned on her friend’s shoulder and cried bitterly.
Florence caressed her again and again, and repeated her assurances of their security from discovery. All this seemed to afford the weeping girl no comfort.
“It isn’t that,” at last she whispered; “but—my lie!—and I a professed Christian, too!”
She shuddered. “I despise myself,” she exclaimed; “and I know you must despise me too.”
Florence only pressed her closer to her heart. “I despise you?” she cried,—“when it was all my fault, from beginning to end? Carrie, never say such a thing again!”
Somewhat comforted by Florence’s tenderness, Carrie returned to the house.