Spring had come with its soft, warm breezes, the grass was springing up fresh and green, the trees were putting forth their leaves, the woods were full of violets and anemones, and the little birds, while busy building their nests, were filling the air with their happy songs of praise. The winter term of school was over; Mr. Burton had left, and the children had holidays for a few weeks, until it should be time for the summer school to commence. Ella rejoiced in the return of spring. She had been confined to the house for several weeks, until both she and her aunt were heartily tired of it, but now she was quite well again, and able to run about, and keenly did she enjoy the privilege of rambling through the woods in search of wild flowers, or working in the little spot of ground which her aunt had given her in the corner of the garden, digging up the soft earth and planting roots and flower seeds; and in these employments she was, to her great delight, allowed to spend most of her time, because, as aunt Prudence said, "She was glad to get her out of the house, for there was no such thing as keeping it to rights when she was in it."
"Why, Ellie child, what are you doing there?"
It was Mary Young who spoke. She had been taking a walk, and on her way home passed through the graveyard, that being her shortest route, and in so doing she had come suddenly and unexpectedly upon Ella, who was seated upon the ground, with a trowel in her hand and a small basket beside her. Ella, looking up and showing a face all wet with tears, answered:
"Planting violets on mother's grave."
"And watering them with your tears, you poor little thing," said Mary, sitting down and putting her arms around the child. "Ellie dear, I wish for your sake, that your mother was alive; that aunt Prudence of yours isn't very kind to you, is she?"
"No, not like mother was. O Mary, I do want to see my mother so bad," sobbed the poor child, laying her head on Mary's shoulder, "and aunt Prudence says I never will if I don't be good, and I can't be good without mother. Somehow, I'm almost always bad now-a-days."
"Why, Ellie, I don't think you're so very bad. I'm sure you don't tell lies like some children I know. You always speak the truth, even when you know that you'll be punished. I know you used to play and whisper in school sometimes, and blot your copy-book, or spill ink on your copy, or lose your books or pencil, or forget to bring them to school, and I know Mr. Burton used to get very angry, and scold and whip you, and to be sure it was naughty, but I don't think it was so very wicked; not half so bad, I'm sure, as telling lies."
"But, Mary, you told me to tell a lie one day when I came late to school; what made you do that, if you think it is so wicked?"
"Oh, because I didn't like to have you get whipped; I knew Mr. Burton would whip you so hard, and besides, I thought it wasn't a very bad story, because it wouldn't do any body any harm—only save you from a beating."