"My dear little daughter," he said bending down to look with grave, tender eyes into the troubled face, "never, _never_ conceal anything from your mother; it is not safe for you, pet; and she would far rather bear the pain of knowing. If our children knew how much, how very much we both love them, they would never want to hide anything from us." "Papa, I don't; but--somebody says it would be selfish to hurt mamma so." "The selfishness was in doing the naughty thing, not in confessing it. Go, my child, and tell mamma all about it." He hastened away, and Violet crept back to the drawing-room. The other children were leaving it. "Come, Vi," they said, "we're going for a walk." "Thank you, I don't wish to go this time," she answered with gravity. "I've something to attend to." "What a grown up way of talking you have, you little midget," laughed Meta. Then putting her lips close to Vi's ear, "Violet Travilla," she whispered, "don't you tell tales, or I'll never, never play with you again as long as I live." "My mamma says it's wicked to say that;" returned Vi, "and I don't tell tales." Then as Meta ran away, Violet drew near her mother's chair. Mamma was talking, and she must not interrupt, so she waited, longing to have the confession over, yet feeling her courage almost fail with the delay. Elsie saw it all, and at length seized an opportunity while the rest were conversing among themselves, to take Vi's hand and draw her to her side. "I think my little girl has something to say to mother," she whispered softly, smoothing back the clustering curls, and looking tenderly into the tear-stained face. Violet nodded assent; her heart was so full she could not have spoken a word without bursting into tears and sobs. Mamma understood, rose and led her from the room; led her to her own dressing-room where they could be quite secure from intrusion. Then seating herself and taking the child on her lap, "What is wrong with my dear little daughter?" she asked. "O, mamma, mamma, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" cried the child, bursting into a passion of tears and sobs, putting her arms about her mother's neck and hiding her face on her breast. "Mamma is sorry, too, dear, sorry for anything that makes her Vi unhappy. What is it? what can mother do to comfort you." "Mamma I don't deserve for you to be so kind, and you'll have to punish, 'stead of comforting. But I just want to tell about my own self; you know I can't tell tales, mamma." "No, daughter, I do not ask, or wish it; but tell me about yourself." "Mamma, it will make you sorry, ever so sorry." "Yes, dear, but I must bear it for your sake." "O mamma, I don't like to make you sorry I--I wish I hadn't, hadn't been naughty, oh so naughty, mamma! for I played with some of your mamma's things that you forbade us to touch, and--and one lovely plate got broken all up."