Even then, I don’t know whether I would have spoken, because Jill is only a cat, you know, and her feelings couldn’t be hurt by bearing blame that didn’t belong to her for a few hours, until I could see grandma alone. But, just as I was thinking that, I heard grandma say: “The fault rests with little John. I charged him a dozen times to keep watch of that cat, and not on any account let her out of the barn to-day; and that is all the good it did! I think I have given John a lesson on obedience that he will remember.” Now John is the little errand boy; a real nice chubby little fellow, who was very fond of aunt Kate, and who had never tasted wedding cake, and he was to drive one of the carriages to the depot that very day, to see the bridal party off. It all came over me like a flash—how grandma would forbid his coming in to the wedding supper, and how she would not let him drive to the depot, but would send him to bed; and I felt just as though I should choke! Even then, it didn’t seem to me that I could speak out then and there; and I don’t believe I could have done it, but for the verse. Girls, I know you don’t see how the verse is coming in, and I can’t explain myself how it seemed to fit; there was certainly nothing about “confessing” Jesus in my telling of what I had done. And yet, you see, I knew I ought to tell, and I know it is what Jesus would do in my place, and it would be showing that I wanted to copy him, and—well, anyhow, it seemed to fit exactly, though I can’t explain it. And I spoke right out, loud and fast: “Grandmother, it wasn’t the cat; John didn’t let the cat out; it was I did it.” My voice sounded so loud that it almost seemed as though they could hear me down at the church; the people at our table all stopped talking, and I just knew they could hear my heart beat. “You!” said grandma. “You let the cat out?” “No, ma’am,” I said, “I broke the dish.” Then she questioned, and I answered, until somehow, she had the whole story. I don’t think any tears dropped, but my eyes and my throat felt full of them. It didn’t seem to me that I could say another word, and then grandma said: “Well, well, child, there are worse things in the world than broken dishes. Eat your wedding cake, and think no more about it.” And I heard her call one of the waiters, and say to him: “Tell little John that he may dress himself again in his best suit, and come to the dining-room as soon as he is ready.” Then I knew that I had been none too soon with my confession. And the bride, my dear, sweet aunt Kate, leaned over toward me and spoke low, “There are better things than glass dishes,” she said; “there are little nieces who are true.” And papa looked across the table at me, and nodded, and smiled. And in spite of the lovely broken dish, and the tablecloth, and my being ashamed, and all, I never felt happier in my life.