She was fond of Gracie, who, when her self-conceit did not come in her way, was really a pleasant and lovable child; and, oh! how she did wish she had never allowed Hattie to lead her into that conversation about her schoolmates.
She colored violently and exclaimed, —
"Well, I did say that, but I did not say it in that way, Gracie. I don't quite know how it was, but it did not seem so bad as that when I said it. And Hattie asked me, so I couldn't help saying what I thought; but it wasn't of my own accord and – and – well, you know, Gracie, most all of us do think you think a good deal of yourself – but – oh, dear! it was too mean for Hattie to go and tell you; and somehow I suppose she's made you think it was worse than it was. 'Cause I didn't mean to say any thing hateful about you; but Hattie asked such a lot of questions, and I never thought she'd go and tell; and I'm going away, and I expect I'll never come back, and, oh, dear, it's too mean!"
All this Fanny poured forth in a very distressed and excited manner, finishing by a burst of tears.
Yes, it was indeed "too mean," and Gracie felt that Fanny had been shabbily treated. She had listened to Hattie's tell-tale report with a half-ashamed feeling, knowing that Fanny could never have thought that her words would be repeated; and, although anger and mortification had taken a strong hold upon her heart, she could not help seeing that Fanny had more cause of complaint than she had.
So she put her arm about Fanny's neck, and, with what she considered magnanimous forgiveness, told her not to cry any more and she would "stop being mad."
And when they talked the matter over and Fanny recalled what she had said, both of Gracie and of the other children in the class, it could not but be seen that Hattie had exaggerated as well as "told tales," so making mischief and bringing discord between the two little friends. And had Fanny been revengeful, or too proud to overlook Gracie's unkindness and beg her to tell her what had come between them the trouble might have been lasting, and they have parted for a long time with bitterness and resentment rankling in their breasts.
But now there was peace between them once more, though Gracie did still secretly feel some vexation at Fanny for even allowing that she could be wrong, and took great credit to herself for being so forgiving and generous.
And now you will not wonder that Fanny did not feel disposed to think Hattie "so very nice," although she, far more generous and charitable than her cousin, would not tell tales and prejudice the minds of her future schoolmates against her.
But Gracie hardly thought the less of Hattie for what she had learned of her; for she always liked any one who admired her, and this Hattie professed to do; perhaps she really did so, for, as I have said, Gracie was a pleasant child, and very clever in many things.
II.
AN EXCURSION
"A LARGE omnibus stood before the door of Miss Ashton's house, and had been waiting there some minutes. This was on a street where a line of omnibuses ran, and every now and then some would-be passenger made for the door of this one, when the driver would turn and say something which plainly disappointed him of his ride, at least in this particular stage.
If such an individual chanced to glance up at the windows of Miss Ashton's house, he saw there a row of little faces in each of the parlor windows; and these same faces brimming over with smiles and dimples at the sight of his discomfiture, and the consciousness that this omnibus had been chartered for their especial pleasure and convenience, and that no mere passer-by had any right or title therein.
Some people smiled in return to the happy little group, and nodded good-naturedly, as if to say, —
"Oh, yes! it is all right, and we are glad you are going to enjoy yourselves, and hope you will have a very pleasant time;" but one or two looked cross, frowning and shaking their heads or shoulders in a displeased manner, and as if they had no sympathy with any simple pleasure or frolic.
Upon each and all of these did the little observers pass remarks, according to what they believed to be their deserts.
"Look at that man," said Belle Powers, "how very displeased he looks. Just as cross as any thing, because the driver wouldn't let him go in our stage."
"I don't believe he likes children," said Bessie Bradford.
"No," said her sister Maggie, "I think he cannot be one of the happy kind the Bible speaks about, that have their 'quivers full of them,' for which he is to be pitied, and we need not be very severe with him."
"But can't people like children and be glad they are going to have a nice time, even if they don't have any in their own homes?" asked Carrie Ransom.
"Yes, of course," said Maggie, always ready to find excuses for others; "but then probably that gentleman never had nice times himself when he was a child, and so he does not know how to appreciate them."
Maggie's long words and elegant sentences always settled any doubtful point, and the "cross gentleman," who still stood upon the sidewalk waiting for the next passing omnibus, was now regarded with eyes of sympathy and pity, which were quite lost upon him as he scolded and grumbled at the "fuss that was made nowadays about children's pleasures."
"Chartered for a troop of youngsters," he growled forth to another gentleman, who coming up also opened the door of the omnibus, and would have jumped in.
Upon which the new-comer drew back, looked up smilingly at the windows of the house, nodded and waved his hand, receiving in return blushes and smiles for himself, with an answering nod or two from some of the least shy of the group.
"He's glad," said Lily; "he is a nice gentleman, and I expect he has lots of little children who love him dearly, and that he tries to give them a good time."
"And so is made happy himself," said Maggie. "There comes Patrick with the shawls and wraps."
And now came Miss Ashton and a couple of lady friends, who had volunteered to go with her and help take care of the little party, bound for an excursion and ramble in the Central Park; and the signal being given for the merry group to take their places in the stage, forth they all fluttered, like so many birds; and amid much laughing and chattering stowed themselves away in the roomy conveyance.
They were all seated, and Patrick, Mrs. Bradford's man, who had been lent for the occasion, was mounting to his seat beside the driver, when another gentleman, coming up with a quick step, pulled open the door of the omnibus, and popped in. He was plainly shortsighted, and did not see how matters stood until he was fairly inside and looking about for a seat.
Perhaps, indeed, his hearing taught him first, for he might almost have thought himself in a nest of sparrows with all that chirping and fluttering. A smothered laugh or two also broke forth as he entered, and he speedily saw that he had no right to a place there.
"Ah! private, I see. Beg your pardon, ladies," he said good-naturedly, and jumped out again, turning with a bow, and "I wish you a pleasant time." Then, as he caught sight of a roguish face and a pair of dancing eyes watching him with a look of recognition, he said, —
"Why, Lily, my dear! Glad to see you. Bound for a frolic? I hope you may enjoy yourself; and your schoolmates as well. A merry day to you, birdies." With which he banged the door and watched them off.
"Who's that gentleman, Lily?" asked more than one voice.
"He is Kitty Raymond's father. His name is Mr. Raymond," answered Lily.
"He is a nice, pleasant gentleman, is he not?" asked Bessie.
"Well, yes, he is very pleasant," said Lily, "but then he is an awful liar."
"Oh-h-h! ah! ah!" broke from one and another of the children at Lily's very plain speaking; and Miss Ashton said reprovingly, —
"Lily, my child! what a very improper expression for you to use, and of one so much older than yourself, too."
"I don't care," said Lily, "it is true, Miss Ashton. I know he tells the most dreadful untrue stories, and that does make him a liar, I know. If children