“Well, don’t touch it, my little pattern miss,” Lydia said; “don’t touch it; put your hands behind your back, and then you can swear you did not; you need not even look at it; shut your eyes and turn your back, my pretty dear, and I will describe, to you the beautiful scenes as I turn over the pages; for I have no pleasure when it is not shared.” Then changing her tone of raillery, she continued: “But what has come over my little Matilda? I scarcely know her again--she that used to be so obliging and so affectionate towards me--have I indeed lost my little friend?” “Oh, no, no!” Matilda exclaimed, and tears were in her eyes. “I am still your little friend; don’t be angry with me. You will love me again, won’t you?” Lydia’s smile was that of triumph; but Matilda did not see it--she was now covering her eyes with her hands. Lydia jumped up on the chair and took down the book; then gently removing Matilda’s hands, she said,--“Come, darling, don’t be foolish; let me see my sweet Matilda again; let us be friends as we have ever been.” Poor Matilda! all her sense of what was right, all her good resolutions, vanished before Lydia’s bland smile. Selina’s repeated warnings, and yet more, the texts of the morning, had been entirely forgotten.--“Show me thy ways, O Lord; teach me thy paths.” And the answer: “Trust in the Lord with all thy heart, and lean not unto thine own understanding; in all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.” Alas! had she asked in sincerity to be shown His ways, to be guided in His paths? had she not leant to her own understanding, and listened to the voice of the tempter? how then could she expect that God would direct her ways when God was not in all her thoughts? She turned over the pages of the book for Lydia, she explained the sketches, and praised them extravagantly, with a confused idea that she was atoning to Mrs. Roberts in some degree by doing so, and she gave herself completely up to the enjoyment of the moment. “Well,” Lydia said, as she turned the last page, “now we have finished; we have had our pleasure, and what the worse, I should like to know, is the pretty book of our admiration? Come, let us put it up again in the book-case.” Matilda jumped up to assist her, and in her haste overturned an ink-glass on the table, which she herself had neglected to put into the inkstand again; a small portion of the ink fell on the beautiful binding of the book; Matilda was horror-struck. “Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?” she exclaimed, as she stood in helpless distress gazing upon it.