“Mother, when we were in the park we met Miss Butler, just by the fountain, you know; and she kissed me, and asked me how my mother is”--said _à-propos_ of nothing, in the most quiet, easy way. I met Miss Butler this morning, and thanked her for the kind inquiries she had been making through my little girl; and--“Do you think Fanny grown?” Miss Butler looked perplexed; Fanny was a great favourite of hers, perhaps because of the loveliness of which her parents could not pretend to be unaware. “It is more than a month since I have seen the little maid, but I shall look in soon, and gladden her mother’s heart with all the praises my sweet Fan deserves!” Little she knew that shame, and not pride, dyed my cheek; but I could not disclose my Fanny’s sad secret to even so near a friend. But to talk it out with John is a different matter. He ought to know. And, certainly, men have more power than women to see into the reasons and the bearings of things. There had I been thinking for months in a desultory kind of way as to the why and wherefore of this ingrained want of truthfulness in the child, and yet I was no nearer the solution. A new departure in the way of lying made me at last break the ice with John; indeed, this was the only subject about which we had ever had reserves. “Mother, Hugh was so naughty at lessons this morning! He went close up to Miss Clare while she was writing, nudged her elbow on purpose, and made her spill the ink all over the table-cloth.” I chanced to meet Miss Clare in the hall, and remarked that I heard she had found Hugh troublesome this morning. “Troublesome? Not at all; he was quite industrious and obedient.” I said nothing about the ink, but went straight to the schoolroom to find the table neat as Miss Clare always leaves it, and no sign of even a fresh inkspot. What possessed the child? This inveterate and inventive untruthfulness was like a form of madness. I sat in dismay for an hour or more, not thinking, but stunned by this new idea--that the child was not responsible for her words; and yet, could it be so? None of our children were so merry at play, so intelligent at lessons. Well, I would talk it over with John without the loss of another day. * * * * * “John, I am miserable about Fanny. Do you know the child tells fibs constantly?” “Call them lies; an ugly thing deserves an ugly name. What sort of lies? What tempts her to lie?” John did not seem surprised. Perhaps he knew more of this misery than I supposed. “That’s the thing! Her fi--lies are so uncalled-for, so unreasonable, that I do not know how to trust her.” “Unreasonable? You mean her tales don’t hang together; that’s a common case with liars. You know the saying--‘Liars should have good memories’?”