THAT RED SILK FROCK.

I.

You could not help liking little Annie Conwell; she was so gentle, and had a half shy, half roguish manner, which was very winning. And, then, she was so pretty to look at, with her pink cheeks, soft blue eyes, and light, wavy hair. Though held up as a model child, like most people, including even good little girls, she was fond of her own way; and if she set her heart upon having anything, she wanted it without delay—right then and there. And she usually got it as soon as possible; for Mr. Conwell was one of the kindest of fathers, and if Annie had cried for the moon he would have been distressed because he could not obtain it for her; while, as the two older children, Walter and Josephine, were away at boarding-school, Mrs. Conwell, in her loneliness at their absence, was perhaps more indulgent toward her little daughter than she would otherwise have been.

Annie's great friend was Lucy Caryl. Lucy lived upon the next block; and every day when going to school Annie called for her, or Lucy ran down to see if Annie was ready. Regularly Mrs. Conwell said: "Remember, Annie, I want you to come straight from school, and not stop at the Caryls'. If you want to go and play with Lucy afterward, I have no objection, but you must come home first."

"Yes, um," was the docile answer she invariably made.

But, strange as it may seem, although Annie Conwell was considered clever and bright enough in general, and often stood head of her class, she seemed to have a wretched memory in regard to this parting injunction of her mother, or else there were ostensibly many good reasons for making exceptions to the rule. When, as sometimes happened, she entered the house some two hours after school was dismissed, and threw down her books upon the sitting-room table, Mrs. Conwell reproachfully looked up from her sewing and asked: "What time is it, dear?"

And Annie, after a startled glance at the clock, either stammered, "O mother, I forgot!" or else rattled off an unsatisfactory excuse.

"Very well!" was the frequent warning. "If you stay at Lucy Caryl's without permission, you must remain indoors on Saturday as a punishment for your disobedience."

Nevertheless, when the end of the week came, Annie usually managed to escape the threatened penalty. For Saturday is a busy day in the domestic world; and Mrs. Conwell was one of the fine, old-fashioned housekeepers—now, unfortunately, somewhat out of date—who looked well after the ways of her household, which was in consequence pervaded by an atmosphere of comfort and prosperity.

One especial holiday, however, she surprised the little maid by saying,

"Annie, I have told you over and over again that you must come directly home from school, and yet for several days you have not made your appearance until nearly dusk. I am going down town now, and I forbid you to go out to play until I return. For a great girl, going on ten years of age, you are too heedless. Something must be done about it."

Annie reddened, buried her cheeks in the fur of her mother's sable muff with which she was toying, and gave a sidelong glance at Mrs. Conwell's face. The study of it assured her that there was no use in "begging off" this time; so she silently laid down the muff and walked to the window.

Mrs. Conwell, after clasping her handsome fur collar—or tippet, as it was called—over the velvet mantle which was the fashion in those days, and surveying in the mirror the nodding plumes of her bonnet of royal purple hue, took up the muff and went away.

"A great girl!" grumbled Annie, as she watched the lady out of sight. "She always says that when she is displeased. 'Going on ten years of age!' It is true, of course; but, then, I was only nine last month. At other times, when persons ask me how old I am, if I answer 'Most ten,' mother is sure to laugh and say, 'Annie's just past nine.' It makes me so mad!"

There was no use in standing idly thinking about it though, especially as nothing of interest was occurring in the street just then; so Annie turned away and began to wonder what she should do to amuse herself. In the "best china closet" was a delicious cake. She had discovered that the key of the inner cupboard, where it was locked up, was kept in the blue vase on the dining-room mantel. She had been several times "just to take a peep at the cake," she said to herself. Mrs. Conwell had also looked at it occasionally, and it had no appearance of having been interfered with. Yet, somehow, there was a big hole scooped in the middle of it from the under side. The discovery must be made some day, and then matters would not be so pleasant for the meddler; but, in the meantime, this morning Annie concluded to try "just a crumb" of the cake, to make sure it was not getting stale.

Having satisfied herself upon that point, and being at a loss for occupation, she thought she would see what was going on out of doors now. (If some little girls kept account of the minutes they spend in looking out of the window, how astonished they would be at the result!) At present the first person Annie saw was Lucy Caryl, who from the opposite sidewalk was making frantic efforts to attract her attention.

"Come into my house and play with me," Lucy spelled with her fingers in the deaf and dumb alphabet.

Annie raised the sash. "I can't, Lucy!" she called. "Mother said I must stay in the house."

"Oh, do come—just for a little while!" teased naughty Lucy. "Your mother will never know. She has gone away down town: I saw her take the car. We'll watch the corner; when we see her coming, you can run around by the yard and slip in at the gate before she reaches the front door."

The inducement was strong. Annie pretended to herself that she did not understand the uneasy feeling in her heart, which told her she was not doing right. The servants were down in the kitchen, and would not miss her. She ran for her cloak and hood—little girls wore good, warm hoods in those days,—and in a few moments was scurrying along the sidewalk with Lucy.

The Caryls lived in a spacious brown stone house, which exteriorly was precisely like the residence of the Conwells. The interior, however, was very different. Contrasted with the brightness of Annie's home, it presented an appearance of cheerless and somewhat dingy grandeur. The parlors, now seldom used, were furnished in snuff-colored damask, a trifle faded; the curtains, of the same heavy material, had a stuffy look, and made one long to throw open the window to get a breath of fresh air. The walls were adorned with remarkable tapestries in great gilt frames, testimonials to the industry of Mrs. Caryl during her girlhood. Here and there, too, hung elaborate souvenirs of departed members of the family, in the shape of memorial crosses and wreaths of waxed flowers, also massively framed. They were very imposing; but Annie had a nervous horror of them, and invariably hurried past that parlor door.

The little girls usually played together in a small room adjoining the sitting-room. They had by no means the run of the house. Annie, indeed, felt a certain awe of Lucy's mother, who was stern and severe with children.

"I'm sure I shouldn't care to go to the Caryls', except that Lucy is so seldom allowed to come to see me," she often declared.

On this particular afternoon Mrs. Caryl had also gone out.

"My Aunt Mollie sent me some lovely clothes for my doll," said Lucy. "The box is up on the top story. Come with me to get it."

Remembering the "funeral flowers," as Annie called them, she had an idea that Lucy's mother kept similar or even more uncanny treasures stored away "on the top story," which her imagination invested with an air of mystery. So she hesitated.

"Come!" repeated Lucy, who forthwith tripped on ahead, and looked over the baluster to see why she did not follow.

Annie hesitated no longer, but started up the steps. Just at that moment a peculiar sound, like the clanging of a chain, followed by a strange, rustling noise, came from one of the rooms above. A foolish terror seized upon her.

"O gracious! what's that?" she panted; and, turning, would have fled down the stairs again, had not Lucy sprung toward her and caught her dress.

"It's nothing, goosie!" said she, "except Jim. He's been a naughty boy, and is tied up in the front room. Ma thought she'd try that plan so he could not slip out to go skating. I suppose I ought to have told you, though. Maybe you thought we had a crazy person up here."

Annie forced herself to laugh. Reassured in a measure, and still more curious, she ventured to go on. When she reached the upper hall, she saw that the door of the front room was open, and, looking in, beheld a comical spectacle. Fastened by a stout rope to one of the high posts of an old-fashioned bedstead was a rollicking urchin of about eight years of age, who seemed to be having a very good time, notwithstanding his captivity. Upon his shoes were a pair of iron clamps resembling spurs, such as were used for skates. It was the clank of these against the brass balls, of which there was one at the top of each post, which made the sound that had so frightened Annie.

"Hello!" he called out as he caught sight of her. And, fascinated by the novelty of the situation, she stood a moment watching his antics, which were similar to those of a monkey upon a pole. Again and again he climbed the post, indulged in various acrobatic performances upon the foot-board, and then turned a double somersault right into the centre of the great feather-bed. And all the while his villainous little iron-bound heels made woful work, leaving countless dents and scratches upon the fine old mahogany, and catching in the meshes of the handsome knitted counterpane.

"You'd better stop that!" Lucy called to him.

In response to her advice, he clambered over and seated himself upon the mantel.

"Oh! oh!" she expostulated in alarm, lest the shelf should fall beneath his weight.

As that catastrophe did not occur, he coolly shifted his position, made a teasing grimace at her, and when she turned away slipped down and resumed his gymnastic exercises.

There was nothing else on the top story to excite Annie's surprise, but she was glad when Lucy secured the box and led the way downstairs.

II.

"When the little friends were again in their accustomed play corner, Lucy, with much satisfaction, displayed her present.

"Your Aunt Mollie must be awful nice!" exclaimed Annie. "How lucky you are! Three more dresses for your doll! Clementina has not had any new clothes for a long time. I think that red silk dress is the prettiest, don't you?"

"I haven't quite decided," answered Lucy. "Christabel looks lovely in it; but I think the blue one is perhaps even more becoming."

They tried the various costumes upon Lucy's doll, and admired the effect of each in turn.

"Still, I like the red silk dress best," said Annie.

"It would just suit Clementina, wouldn't it?" suggested Lucy.

"Yes," sighed Annie, taking up the little frock, and imagining she saw her own doll attired in its gorgeousness. After regarding it enviously for a few moments, she said: "Say, Lucy, give it to me, won't you?"

"Why, the idea!" cried Lucy, aghast at the audacity of the proposal.

"I think you might," pouted Annie. "You hardly ever give me anything, although you are my dearest friend. I made you a present of Clementina's second best hat for Christabel, and only yesterday I gave you that sweet bead ring you asked me for."

These unanswerable arguments were lost upon Lucy, however. She snatched away the tiny frock, and both little girls sulked a while.

"Lucy's real mean!" said Annie to herself. "She ought to give it to me,—she knows she ought! Oh, dear, I want it awfully! She owes me something for what I've given her.—I am going home," she announced aloud.

"Oh, no!" protested Lucy, aroused to the sense of her duties as hostess. "Let us put away the dolls and read. There is a splendid new story this week in the Young Folks' Magazine."

Taking Annie's silence for assent, she packed Christabel and her belongings away again, and went to get the book. Annie waited sullenly. Then, as her friend did not come back immediately, she began to fidget.

"Lucy need not have been in such a hurry to whisk her things into the box," she complained. "To look at the red dress won't spoil it, I suppose. I will have another look at it, anyhow!"

She raised the cover of the box and took out the dainty dress. Still Lucy did not return. A temptation came to Annie. Why not keep the pretty red silk frock? Lucy would not miss it at once; afterward she would think she had mislaid it. She would never suspect the truth. Annie breathed hard. If she had quickly put the showy bit of trumpery back into the box and banished the covetous wish, all would have been well; but instead, she stood deliberating and turning the little dress over and over in her hands. Meantime a hospitable thought had occurred to Lucy. She remembered that there was a new supply of apples in the pantry, and had gone to get one for Annie and one for herself. On her way through the dining-room she happened to look out of the window.

"Goodness gracious!" she exclaimed; for there was Mrs. Conwell getting out of the car at the corner!

At Lucy's call of, "Annie, here comes your mother!" Annie started, hesitated, glanced at the box, and, alas! crammed the red silk frock into her pocket. Then she caught up her cloak and hood, and rushed down the stairs. Lucy ran to open the yard gate for her, and thrust the apple into her hand as she passed.

Flurried and short of breath, she reached home just as Mrs. Conwell rang the door-bell. She did not hasten as usual to greet her mother; but, hurrying to her own little room, shut herself in, and sat down on the bed to recover from her confusion.

It happened that the cook claimed Mrs. Conwell's attention in regard to some domestic matter, and thus she did not at once inquire for her little daughter, supposing that the child was contentedly occupied. Annie, therefore, had some time in which to collect her thoughts. As her excitement gradually died away, she found that, instead of feeling the satisfaction she expected in having spent the afternoon as she pleased and yet escaped discovery, she was restless and unhappy. Upon her neat dressing-table lay the apple which Lucy had given her. It was ripe and rosy, but she felt that a bite of it would choke her. Above the head of the bed hung a picture of the Madonna with the Divine Child. Obeying a sudden impulse, she jumped up and turned it inward to the wall. Ah, Annie, what a coward a guilty conscience can make of the bravest among us!

Glancing cautiously around, as if the very walls had eyes and could reveal what they saw, she drew from her pocket the red silk frock. She sat and gazed at it as if in a dream. It was as pretty as ever, yet it no longer gave her pleasure. She did not dare to try it on Clementina; she wanted to hide it away in some corner where no one would ever find it. Tiny as it was, she felt that it could never be successfully concealed; Remorse would point it out wherever it was secreted. Annie began to realize what she had done. She had stolen! She, proud Annie Conwell, who held her head so high, whom half the girls at school envied, had taken what did not belong to her! How her cheeks burned! She wondered if it had been found out yet. What would Lucy say? Would she tell all the girls, and would they avoid her, and whisper together when she was around, saying, "Look out for Annie Conwell! She is not to be trusted."

She covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears. And all the while a low voice kept whispering in her heart with relentless persistency, till human respect gave way to higher motives. She glanced up at the picture, turned it around again with a feeling of compunction, and, humbled and contrite, sank on her knees in a little heap upon the floor.

A few moments afterward her mother's step sounded in the hall. When one finds a little girl's cloak flung on the baluster, stumbles over a hood on the stairs, and picks up an odd mitten somewhere else, the evidences are strong that the owner has come home in a hurry. Mrs. Conwell had, therefore, discovered Annie's disobedience. She threw open the door, intending to rebuke her severely; but the sight of the child's flushed and tear-stained face checked the chiding words upon her lips.

"What is the matter, Annie?" she inquired, somewhat sternly.

"O mother, please don't scold me! I'm unhappy enough already," faltered Annie, beginning to cry again.

Then, as the burden of her miserable little secret had become unendurable, she told the whole story. Mrs. Conwell looked pained and grave, but her manner was very gentle as she said:

"Of course, the first thing for you to do is to return what you have unjustly taken."

Annie gave a little nervous shudder. "What! go and tell Lucy I stole her doll's red silk dress?" she exclaimed. "How could I ever!"

"I do not say it is necessary to do that," answered her mother; "but you are certainly obliged to restore it. I should advise you to take it back without delay, and have the struggle over."

She went away, and left the little girl to reflect upon the matter. But the more Annie debated with herself, the more difficulty she had in coming to a decision. Finally she started up, exclaiming,

"The longer I think about it the harder it seems. I'll just do it right off."

She picked up the dress, darted down the stairs, hurriedly prepared to go out, and in a few moments was hastening down the block to the Caryls'. Lucy saw her coming, and met her at the door.

"Did you get a scolding? Was your mother very much displeased?" she asked; for she perceived immediately that Annie had been crying, and misinterpreted the cause of her tears.

"Oh, no!—well, I suppose she was," hesitated Annie. "But she did not say much."

"How did she happen to let you come down here again?" continued Lucy, leading the way to the sitting-room.

Annie cast a quick glance at the table. The box which contained Christabel and her wardrobe was no longer there. It was useless, then, to hope for a chance to quietly slip the red dress into it again.

Lucy repeated the question, wondering what had set her playmate's thoughts a-wool-gathering.

"I'm not going to stay," began Annie.

Lucy's clear eyes met hers inquiringly. To her uneasy conscience they seemed to accuse her and to demand the admission of her fault. Her cheeks grew crimson; and, as a person in a burning building ventures a perilous leap in the hope of escape, so Annie, finding her present position intolerable, stammered out the truth.

"I only came to bring back something. Don't be vexed, will you, at what I'm going to tell you? I took that red silk dress home with me; but here it is, and I'm sorry, Lucy,—indeed I am!"

A variety of expressions flitted across Lucy's face as she listened. Incredulity, surprise, and indignation were depicted there. Annie had stated the case as mildly as possible, but Lucy understood. After the first surprise, however, she began to comprehend dimly that it must have required a good deal of moral courage thus openly to bring back the little dress. She was conscious of a new respect for Annie, who stood there so abashed. For a few moments there was an awkward pause; then she managed to say:

"Oh, that is all right! Of course I should have been vexed if you had not brought it back, because I should have missed it as soon as I opened the box. I was mean about it, anyway. I might have let you take it to try on Clementina. Here, I'll give it to you now, to make up for being stingy."

Annie shook her head, and refused to take the once coveted gift from her companion's outstretched hand.

"Then I'll lend it to you for ever and ever," continued Lucy, impulsively.

"No, I don't want it now," answered Annie. "Good-bye!"

"Will you go to walk with me to-morrow after Sunday-school?" urged Lucy, as she followed her to the door.

"P'rhaps!" replied her little friend, hastening away.

The inquiry brought her a feeling of relief, however. Lucy evidently had no thought of "cutting" her acquaintance. The sense of having done right made her heart light and happy as she ran home. The experience had taught her that one must learn to see many pretty things without wishing to possess them; and also that small acts of disobedience and a habit of meddling may lead further than one at first intends.

Annie became a lovely woman, a devoted daughter, a most self-sacrificing character, and one scrupulously exact in her dealings with others; but she never forgot "that red silk frock."