"Ellen, as the child of my dear sister, I love you. It grieves me to see you so unhappy. Cannot you tell me frankly what has caused this sad change?"
"Don't speak so, aunt; it makes me cry more. If you would only be cross with me, I could bear it a great deal better; but I have been very wicked! I—I don't deserve to have you love me!"
"I know all about it, my poor child,—your letter to Aunt Clarissa, and all; but I would have you confess your fault."
Ellen sprang to her foot. "Has she sent me the money?" she almost screamed. "Oh, if she has, and I can but pay that hateful bill, I am sure I never shall be so wicked again."
"No, Ellen; she has not answered your letter; your father enclosed it in one to me."
The child's countenance fell again.
"I will advance you the money," rejoined her aunt, "and will accompany you to the store to pay your bill, on one condition,—that you promise me never to repeat this offence. Afterwards you can earn it and repay me."
"I have been too miserable ever to do so again," faltered the poor girl; "and Mary's paper too; did you know about that?"
"Yes, here it is. Now what shall I do? Cut off this pencilled slip at the top, and lay it in Mary's portfolio, where she will no doubt find it; or will you tell her frankly that you took it, and was betrayed into deceiving her?"
Ellen hesitated, cast down her eyes, blushing crimson, but presently exclaimed, "I will tell her; I feel so much happier already, now that you know it! Oh, aunt," throwing her arms about the lady's neck. "I do mean to try to be good! If I thought I could ever be like Mary!—It seems so easy for her to do right."