HOW A GOOD LESSON WAS SPOILED.
By Marion Harland
A DARKENED room, spacious and handsomely furnished—being, in fact, the chamber of Mrs. Wilcox, the mother of the little fellow who occupied the wide bed. He lay there in lugubrious state, the rosy face stained with much crying, just showing above the edge of the counterpane; his tangle of yellow curls crushed upon the bolster. Below these was a white mound, stretched along the middle of the bed, just the length of Robby Boy, aged seven-and-a-half, the youngling of the Wilcox family. Two big blue eyes, glazed with tears, wandered from one to another of the two faces gazing at him from opposite sides of the horizontal pillory. Both were kindly, both loving, both sad. They belonged to the parents of Robby Boy, and he had been convicted, sentenced, and punished for telling a lie. His mother had sent him to a fruit-store with twenty-five cents and an order for two lemons. The tempter, in the form of a "street-boy," waylaid him at a corner with a challenge to a competitive show of tops. The silver "quarter" was in the same pocket with Robby Boy's new air-top and card, the pride of his soul. Or, he may have drawn it out with his handkerchief when he wiped his face after the game. The tempter may have known more about it than the tempted suspected. At any rate, the money was not to be found, and he was close by and ready with his proposition when Robby Boy discovered the loss. "Mamma will certainly scold me this time," he subjoined, turning every pocket inside out, and staring distractedly up and down the street. "I lost ten cents last week, and she told me to be more careful." "Don't tell her! And don't pay for the lemons. When the bill comes in, your mamma will have forgotten all about sending you for them, or she'll think the lemon-feller made a mistake. I know lots of real gamey fellers who get out of scrapes that way. It's only milk-sops who run to mammy with every little bother." The experiment, thus suggested and urged, was a success until mamma demanded the change. "He said there wasn't any!" faltered the errand-boy. "No change! out of twenty-five cents!" Then, with a searching look at the scarlet face painfully averted—"Robby Boy!" The "milk-sop" bethought him of the "gamey fellers." "Honest-true, mamma!" he plucked up courage to say. Put on your hat, my son, and go with me to the store where you bought the lemons. There is something wrong when my boy cannot look me in the eyes!" Thus came about the tragedy that darkened the June day for the whole Wilcox household. It was at nine o'clock on Saturday morning that the falsehood was detected. At two P. M. Mrs. Wilcox brought up the prisoner's dinner. Only bread and water! He had smelled savory soup and roast lamb, and the cook had hinted at strawberry short-cake when he passed, whistling, through the kitchen, turning the silver quarter over in his pocket. That was an eternity of suffering ago. Almost five hours, and he was to lie here until supper-time, alone! When he had eaten the bread of affliction, seasoned with tears of self-pity and remorse, mamma reappeared with papa. "My son!" said the latter, "I would rather have you die in your innocent boyhood than grow up a liar! Tell the straight, simple truth always and everywhere. No brave man will lie. Papa does not want his boy to be a coward. No honest man will deceive or tell a falsehood. Papa does not want his boy to be a cheat!" Mrs. Wilcox sat down on the bed when her husband had gone. All the mother-heart in her was crying out and tearing itself with longing and pity ineffable. Arms and heart ached to enfold the precious little sinner so grievously worsted in the battle with temptation. "Mamma is very sorry that her darling has been so naughty!" she said, bowing her head upon the pillow beside the mat of curls dampened by the rain from the culprit's eyes. "Mamma! Indeed, I will never tell another lie—not the leastest fib!" he sobbed. "God help you to keep your word, my son. Every falsehood is like a drop of ink upon snow to your soul!" She stroked back his hair and comforted herself with him by giving him, one after another, the passionate kisses withheld through all these miserable hours. Holding the chubby fingers in hers, she talked to him a few minutes longer of his sin, and to whom he should look for forgiveness; then bending over him, she prayed in simple words and few for the little one who had stumbled to his own hurt. "Lie still and think it all over, dear!" was her parting injunction. When Netta, his grown-up sister, came at six o'clock to dress him for tea, he was sleeping as peacefully as if falsehood and tempters had never been heard of, and the world were peopled by mothers as lovingly-compassionate as his own. The touch of lips upon his awoke him. He laughed out suddenly and merrily in the face he thought so pretty—then his glance fell—his lips trembled. "I was awfully naughty, sister. Did you know it?" "Yes, dear. But you will never do it again. Sister could not kiss a little boy who soils his lips with untruths." When dressed he put a question,— "Sister, when you were little and foolish—a long time ago—did you ever tell a wee bit of a —lie?" "Grown people don't ever, I know," pursued the penitent; "but I thought maybe—it came so easy, you see. Why, it slipped out almost before I knew it, after I opened my mouth. I just wondered if the same thing had ever happened to you. When you were very small of course. I's'pose though, you have always been a great deal gooder than me." Netta smiled in patting the round face so droll —to her apprehension—in its melancholy thoughtfulness. "You need not sigh so dolefully over it. You are going to be always good now. There is the tea-bell." Hungry Robby Boy was not disposed to talk at table. He noted and understood the grave gentleness of his father's countenance and demeanor; the chastened loveliness of his mother's look; the quiet tone caught by the other children from Netta, who sat next to him. His transgression had affected the spirits of the whole party. The very avoidance of all direct reference to it was significant and impressive. It was something too disgraceful for table-talk. A blackened soul! Soiled lips! These were the figures most distinct to his imagination as he crept after supper into the library, and sat down at the alcoved window looking upon a side street. The boys were playing noisily in the warm twilight. Robby Boy watched them, curled up on the window-bench, one foot tucked under him his face more sober each minute. He was sure his mother would shake her head sadly were he to request permission to join the joyous group of his fellows. Nor did he care—very much—to go out. The recollection of sin and consequent suffering was too fresh. He had a fancy, also, that there was something salutary—because bitter—in meditation at eventide, when one grew more low-spirited each second. Netta had a visitor and mamma had joined the girls, and was chatting cheerfully with them—not at all as she looked at the cowering little liar under the counterpane upstairs. "Mamma," suddenly exclaimed the daughter, "there are old Mr. and Mrs. Bartol! I do believe you are to be honored by a call from them." "I sincerely hope not," was the answer. "Papa and I had planned a walk on this lovely evening, and our friends the Bartols are given to long sittings." "Besides being insufferably prosy," interpolated plain-spoken Netta. "They are coming in. Milly, you and I can run away!" and they fluttered through the back-parlor door. Mamma's face was overcast with genuine vexation. Her sigh, "How provoking!" reached the alcoved auditor. Then she advanced to meet a fat old lady and a fatter, bald old gentleman. "Is this really yourself, Mr. Bartol? It is an age since I have met you. I am happy to see you both. Pray be seated." "Oh, good gracious!" said Robby Boy, under his breath, sinking back into his corner, actually sick and trembling. When he could listen and think again, papa had been sent for, and Mr. Bartol was apologizing for mingling business with a friendly visit. He wanted to buy a house owned by Mr. Wilcox, situated near his—Mr. Bartol's—home. The play of negotiation, of parry and thrust, was courteous, as befitted actors and scene, but Mr. Bartol's intention to buy cheap, and his host's desire to sell dear, were palpable to the unworldly eavesdropper. "I am sorry you hold the property at so high a figure!" finally remarked Mr. Bartol, rising to take leave. "I must consult the friend who commissioned me to make inquiries, before I can say anything definite." Mr. Wilcox was the impersonation of smiling indifference. "The truth is, my dear sir, I do not care to sell at all. The property is rising in value, and I may remove to that part of the city myself next year. I should lose on it were I to take less than the price I have named." When the guests had gone, Mr. Wilcox turned laughingly to his wife:— "Well, my love, you have lost your walk, but your husband has made four thousand dollars—clear!" "You think he will buy the place, then?" "I know he will! He wants to settle his daughter there. She is to be married next month. I had a hint to that effect some days since. I had the game in my hands from the first. I bought the property, three years ago, at a low figure. The rent has covered interest, taxes, etc. I shall never live there myself. It would not be convenient for my business. I have been anxious this great while to sell. I am already carrying more real estate than I ought to hold." "I am afraid Robby Boy is less impressed by the lessons of to-day than we could desire," observed Mrs. Wilcox sorrowfully to her husband at bed-time. "He stole off to bed without saying 'Good night' to any one, and pretended to be asleep when I looked into his room just now, answering gruffly after I told him I knew he was awake. What shall I do if my child becomes an habitual deceiver?" "We must watch his associations narrowly," replied the judicious father. "Everything depends upon the examples and impressions of early life."—Marion Harland.