She drew a low stool to her aunt's feet, and there in her own impulsive manner gave an account of her temptation and of her sin,—how one lie led to many others until she found herself entangled in difficulties from which she saw no way of escape. Many tears showed how bitterly she had suffered; but the bright flush of pleasure with which, when she had ended, she said, "Now I have told you all, I am so happy!" encouraged Mrs. Collins to believe that having once learned the delight resulting from a frank confession of her fault, she would never be guilty of the like deception again.
"Does uncle know about it?" she asked, as her aunt tenderly parted her hair on her forehead.
"Yes; he brought me the letter. He will rejoice as sincerely as I do that we have found our own light-hearted Ellen, again."
"And Frank, has he heard it too?"
"Not a syllable. You shall do as you please about telling him."
She covered her face with her hands; there was a quick gasp, and then she said, firmly:
"Will you come with me now while I have courage?"
Frank's look of astonishment as Ellen, with burning cheeks, repeated her sad story was, perhaps, the severest punishment she had borne. From his cradle, he had been taught to despise a liar as too mean and cowardly to be endured; but when, with a burst of feeling, she ended with the words, "You know I had never been taught how wicked it was, till I came here," there was an instant revulsion of feeling, and with boyish enthusiasm, he exclaimed,—
"I'm real sorry for you, Nelly, but I think you're a trump after all to confess it now. I'm going to forget all about it right off; and we'll all help you to be a first-rate truthful girl. Wont we, Mary?"
"Yes, indeed!" said his sister, her lips quivering. "I love you, dear Ellen, better than ever; for I believe you are really penitent."