"May I go up and see Lucy?" asked Milly.
Gaining permission, she ran after Lena to tell her where she was going, and to ask if she would come with her.
"There is no good both going, and I want to finish my book." But not much of the book was read that evening, when, out of sight of every one, Lena sat down and tried to arrange her thoughts. What had she done? Though no one was by to see her, her cheeks flushed with shame at her conduct. What cowardice and meanness had she not been guilty of! Oh, if she had only spoken out at the beginning, all this misery and wickedness would have been saved. "It was not too late yet," conscience whispered. Then the thought of what her father would say when he heard that she had deceived them. If it was only Mama, I should not mind, so ran her thoughts; but I dare not tell Papa, he would be so angry. Oh, if only Aunt Mary were here I could tell her everything, forgetting, or rather pushing away the remembrance, of One nearer and dearer than any earthly friend, who never turns a cold or deaf ear to any of His children, and who ever has the gentlest and most loving answer for His repentant little ones. How, over and over again, we dread the anger of some earthly friend, forgetting that some day we must face the just anger of an offended God if we continue in our hardness and sin. As Lena sat thus thinking, we may be very sure that excuses, and what she called good reasons for keeping silence, were not long in making their appearance. Lucy had been forgiven, and nothing more would be said on the subject. Why should she open out such a painful thing again? She had not told a falsehood; if Papa had asked her, she would have acknowledged doing it. He had only asked her if she had been in her mother's room that afternoon, and she had spoken the truth when she said "No." Then what would Aunt Mary feel if she heard that she, her pet and darling, had got into trouble and disgrace? No, this must never be, and so on and on went the struggle between right and wrong, ending, alas! in Lena's leaving it to be settled some other time. "I could not do it to-night, I will the first opportunity;" and somehow, when an opportunity offered itself, it was not a right one—Lena would wait for a better. So day followed day, and still the secret was locked up in Lena's bosom, and it seemed probable that it never would be told. Nothing was ever said about the feather, and to all appearance no one remembered anything about it. Still Lena was not happy. How could she be, with such a weight at her heart? Aunt Mary had striven to train her niece not for this life alone; and the good seed that had been sown in love and faith was not dead, and the better thoughts would make themselves heard. Lena was not callous or hardened; no, she was very miserable, poor child, as all of us must be who carry about with us an unconfessed and unforgiven sin. As day after day she kneeled, as she had ever done in prayer, and listened to, or read God's Word, her heart grew heavier, and sometimes the longing to tell all was so strong that she would start up to go, then her courage would fail, and she was afraid of what they would say; and the remembrance of her father's words, both to herself and Lucy, would come back, and she would shrink from the task, thinking, "I will be very good and obedient, and make up for not telling by good conduct." At times she would forget all about it, and be the bright, lively Lena we first knew; but some word or deed would be sure to recall her secret, and she would have the same struggle over again.
Her mother was sure that something was amiss, and would watch her troubled, anxious face with loving eyes, fearing that her child was either ill or unhappy. Could it be, she would wonder, that she was fretting at the loss of Aunt Mary? and at this thought she would be, if that were possible, when she was always kind and loving to her children, more so than usual to Lena. Strange to say, that when this was the case, it made Lena only stronger in her determination not to tell, for she would think, "She would not be so kind to me if she knew how naughty I had been." So day after day passed and her secret was still untold.
"Where is Lena?" asked Mrs. Graham, coming into the garden, where Milly and Lucy were busy working at their own especial little garden.
"On the lawn, Mama. She wanted to finish a book Gertrude lent her. Shall I call her?"
"No, dear, I will go to her," and she moved away.
Throwing down the rake with which she had been working, Milly followed. "Mama," she began, when she was out of ear-shot of Lucy; "I don't think Lena is very happy here."
"I am afraid, dear, that she is not well," answered her mother.
"She is so much quieter, and she is not half so fond of running about and romping as she used to be."