Jessie's Parrot

The caressing touch, the tender manner, the earnest, pleading voice were too much for Gracie, and, throwing herself down on a chair, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed bitterly.

Bessie let her cry for a moment, for the wise little woman knew that tears often do one good for a while, and contented herself with giving soft touches to Gracie's hair and neck to let her know she was still beside her and ready to give her her sympathy.

At last Gracie raised her head and said brokenly, "Oh, Bessie, I am so bad! I am so wicked!"

"I don't think being rather – rather – well, rather cross, is so very wicked," said Bessie, hesitating to give a hard name to Gracie's ill-temper, "and if you are sorry now and will come downstairs, we'll all be very glad to see you."

"Oh, it isn't that," sobbed Gracie. "Bessie, if you knew what I've done, you'd hate me. I know you would."

"No, I wouldn't," said Bessie. "I'd never hate you, Gracie. I'd only be sorry for you and try to help you."

"You can't help me. No one can help me," said Gracie, in a fresh paroxysm of distress.

"Can't your mamma? Mammas generally can," said Bessie.

"No, not even mamma," answered Gracie. "Oh, Bessie, I do feel as if it would be a kind of relief to tell you; but you'd hate me, you couldn't help it; and so would every one else."

"Every one else need not know it because you tell me," said Bessie. "Tell Jesus, and ask Him to help you, Gracie."

"Even He can't," said Gracie; "at least – at least – not unless I tell other people who ought to know it."

"Do you mean He would want you to tell it?"

"Yes, I s'pose so," almost whispered Gracie.

Bessie considered a moment. That Gracie was full of a vain, foolish pride and self-conceit, she knew; also that she was not the Gracie of a year or two since; but that she would wrong any one she never dreamed, and she could not imagine any cause for this great distress.

"Gracie," she said, "I think by what you say that you must have done something to me. I can't think what it can be; but I promise not to be angry. I will be friends with you all the same."

"It was not you; no, it was not you; but, Bessie, it was such a dreadful thing and so mean that you never can bear me after you know it. You are so very true yourself."

"Have you told a story?" asked Bessie in a troubled voice.

"Not told a story, but I acted one," sobbed Gracie. "O Bessie! sit down here and let me tell you. I can't keep it in any longer. Maybe you'll tell me what to do; but I know what you'll say, and I can't do that."

Bessie did as she was requested, and, in as few whispered words as possible, Gracie poured her wretched story into her ears.

Bessie sprang to her feet, and her arms which she had clasped about Gracie's neck fell away from it. It was as the latter had feared; this was so much worse than any thing Bessie had expected, she was herself so truthful and upright, that her whole soul was filled with horror and dismay. No wonder that Gracie was distressed. This was indeed dreadful.

"I knew it, I knew it," said Gracie, burying her face again. "I knew you never could bear me again. It seemed as if I couldn't help telling you, Bessie; but you never, never will speak to me again. I wish – I wish – oh, I almost wish I was an orphan and had no one to care for me, so I could wish I was dead, only I'm too bad to go to God."

Sympathy and pity were regaining their place in Bessie's heart in spite of her horror and indignation at what Gracie had done, and once more she sat down beside her and tried to soothe and comfort.

She succeeded in part at least. Gracie's sobs grew less violent, and she let Bessie persuade her to raise her head. Then they sat side by side, Bessie holding her hand.

"What would you do, Bessie?" asked Gracie. "I know I ought to tell, but I don't see how I can. It will be such a disgrace, and all the girls will have to know, and I've made such a fuss about myself, and always thought I never could do any thing that was very bad. And now this."

And now this!

Yes, after all her boasting, after all her self-confidence, her belief that she could not and would not fall into greater sin through her own conceit and vanity.

Bessie knew all this; knew how confident Gracie had been in her own strength; knew what a bitter shame and mortification it must be to have this known; knew that it must be long before she could regain the trust and respect of her schoolmates after this thing should once be told. During the last few months Gracie had lost much of the liking and affection of her little friends; but not one among them would have believed her capable of deliberate deceit or of that which was not strictly honest.

Ah! it was a great and terrible fall. Bessie felt this as well as Gracie.

But she knew also that there was but one thing for Gracie to do; but one way in which she could have any peace or comfort once more.

Bessie was not the child for Gracie to put confidence in, if she expected advice that was not plain and straightforward.

"What shall I do, Bessie?" she repeated.

"I think you'll have to tell, dear," said the pitying little voice beside her.

Gracie actually shrank in a kind of terror at the thought; and yet she had known that this was what Bessie would say.

"Oh! I can't, I can't; I never can," she moaned.

"But, Gracie, dear," said the little monitress, "I don't think you will ever feel happy and comfortable again till you do; and Jesus is displeased with you all the time till you do it. If you told about it and tried to make it up to Nellie, then He would be pleased with you again. And then you could have comfort in that even if people were rather cross to you about it. And, Gracie, Maggie and I will not be offended with you. I know Maggie will not; and we'll coax the other girls not to tease you or be unkind to you about it."

"Don't you think it was so very wicked in me then?" asked Gracie. "O Bessie! you are such a good child, I don't believe you ever have wicked thoughts. You don't know how hard it is sometimes not to do wrong when you want to do it very much, – when a very, very great temptation comes, like this."

"Yes," said Bessie, "I think I do, Gracie. And you are very much mistaken when you say I never have naughty thoughts. I have them very often, and the only way I can make them go is, to ask Jesus to help me, and to keep asking Him till they do go, and the temptation too. Perhaps, when you had the temptation to do this you did not remember to ask."

"No, I did not," said Gracie. "But, Bessie, it never seemed to me that I could do a thing that was not quite true and honest. And I suppose it has come because I thought too much of myself and wanted too much to have my work the best. It was not that I cared about the money, for you know that was for Jessie and her grandfather; but I wanted every one to say mine was the best; and it made me so mad that any one should say Nellie's was better than mine. If I had not cared so very much, Hattie would not have persuaded me, for I did know it was horribly mean. You never had a temptation like this, Bessie."

"I don't know," said Bessie slowly. "I think I once had one something like it. Don't you remember, Gracie, that time you lost your prize composition and we found it in the drawer of the hall-table?"

"Yes," answered Gracie, "and how cross I was about it, and how hateful to you and Maggie."

"Well," said Bessie, "I had a very hard temptation that time. I found the composition first, and I wanted to leave it there and not tell any one, 'cause I wanted Maggie to have the prize so much; and at first it did not seem so very wrong to me, and I tried to think I ought not to tell, because then my own Maggie could have the prize; but I did not feel sure about it, so I asked Jesus to let me see what I ought to do, and then I saw it quite plain, and knew I must take the composition to you. But it was a dreadful temptation, Gracie."

"Yes," said Gracie with a sigh, feeling deeply the difference between herself and her dear little playmate who had so bravely resisted temptation. For she knew how very anxious Bessie had been that Maggie should gain the prize.

"But you did not do the thing you were tempted to do," she said. "What would you do if you had, Bessie?"

"I should go right away and tell my mamma; and perhaps she could find some way to help me out of it," said Bessie. "Anyway, she ought to know, and she will tell you what you ought to do."

"Oh, it will make mamma feel dreadfully," said Gracie. "She was always telling me I would fall into trouble some day because I thought too much of myself; but, oh, dear! she never could have believed I would do this. Wouldn't you feel awfully, Bessie, if you had done it?"

Yes, indeed. Bessie felt that she should; it almost seemed to her that she should die if she had such a weight on her mind and conscience, and she felt for Gracie most deeply.

But still she knew that Gracie would never feel right again till she had made confession, and she once more urged it upon her; confession to God and man; and at last Gracie promised.

Promised with many tears and sobs; but that promise once given, she became in haste to have it over and to go home to her mamma at once.

"Ask your mamma to let me go home as soon as she can, Bessie," she pleaded. "Tell her I do not feel well, for I do not really. My head aches and I feel all shaky, as if I could not hold still; and I don't want to see any one down stairs again or to have any supper."

Bessie was about to leave her to do as she was asked, when Mrs. Bradford came in.