“Why, my mother said, when she had finished talking to me, that she couldn’t kiss the little mouth that had let such a dreadful thing as a lie come through it, till it was all clean again,—and the only way to clean it was to wash it out. So she really did wash my mouth out thoroughly with Castile soap and water, and all the time she made me feel that it was not so much for a punishment, as really to make my mouth clean after the lie.
“Grandma seldom punished us, but somehow we always felt the consequences of our naughty deeds. And as I said, I think I never told another story.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
MAMMA’S BANK.
“How funny it is to think of your telling a lie!” exclaimed Cricket. “I never heard about that before. Tell us another one.”
“Do you remember, Margaret,” asked auntie of mamma, “how we put our money in the bank?”
“Indeed, I do,” laughed mamma. “What disappointed children we were!”
“What was that?” the children asked, eagerly.
“It isn’t much of a story, I think, only it was funny. I was about six and Jean was eight, weren’t we? Some friend of my mother’s came to visit her for a few days, and brought her little daughter with her. Do you remember that little Cecilia, Jean?”
“I should think I did! I remember her distinctly, although we never saw her again. She was such a prim little thing, with long, light curls—such cork-screw curls! She wore a silk dress, and didn’t like to do anything but sit in the parlour and keep herself trim.”
“But we children admired her immensely,” said mamma. “We thought that her name was beautiful—Cecilia. She said her mother found it in a book. We loved to race about and romp as much as you children do, but she didn’t know how to play anything. She was a little older than we were, and would tell us long stories about her home. One thing impressed us especially. She asked us if we had any money in the bank, and we said, ‘None at all,’ in much surprise at the question.