Part 2 — SIDNEY'S GOOD INTENTIONS.

(A New Year's Story.)

BY FLORENCE HALLOWELL.

Sidney, did you leave that note at Mrs. Flynn's yesterday?" asked Mrs. Dent, as her eldest son came hurriedly into the sitting-room to get the pocket-knife which he had left on the table. "She hasn't come, and I don't know what I am going to do about the washing. Nora's arm is still so lame that she must not attempt to use it."

"Oh, mother, I am so sorry!" and Sidney looked mortified and contrite. "I fully intended to leave the note, but—"

"You forgot all about it," finished his sister Fannie, who was sewing at one of the front windows. "Of course! Mother ought to have known she couldn't trust you. Your intentions are always good, but that is as far as you go."

"It is a great deal easier to intend to do a thing than to do it—everybody knows that," said Clara, a girl of twelve, who had put down her book as her brother came in. "I suppose as long as we live we'll have to hear Sidney say, 'I fully intended.' I don't expect anything else."

And she laughed.

"I can't help being forgetful," said Sidney.

"Perhaps not," said his mother; "but you could go a long way toward carrying out your good intentions if you would only do promptly whatever is given you to do."

"I will go to Mrs. Flynn's now," said Sidney. "She can get here by ten o'clock, anyway."

"Very well," said his mother. "The sooner you see her, the better it will be for the washing. This winter sun will not last long."

Sidney went out, and, hurrying on his overcoat and cap, was soon on the way to the cottage of Mrs. Flynn.

He felt a little depressed, for the remarks of his sisters had hurt his feelings a good deal.

He wondered, as he walked briskly along, if Fannie and Clara never forgot anything.

Next to Mrs. Flynn's was a small, brown cottage a good deal in want of repairs. It had needed a coat of paint for many a year, and some of the blinds were broken. But at the window was a very pretty little girl, with golden curls, and Sidney paused a minute to nod and smile at her. He knew her quite well, for she was sister to one of the junior clerks in his father's warehouse.

The child smiled in return, and looked into the rear of the room, saying something Sidney could not hear. But a moment later the head of a pale, sad-faced woman appeared above that of the little girl.

She bowed to Sidney and then moved quickly away.

"How ill Mrs. Stewart looks!" thought kind-hearted Sidney. "I imagine Christmas did not bring many good things to this house. I remember now that I fully intended to send little Mabel a doll; but—"

And then he stopped and blushed hotly. Another good intention never carried out.

Fortunately, he found Mrs. Flynn in, and she promised to go to his mother at once. So he walked away, feeling that he had done his best to repair the neglect of the previous day.

His next stopping-place was his father's office, which was a room built on to the warehouse, and communicating with it by a single door.

There was another door which opened on to a side alley, and was kept always locked. It was the door used exclusively by his father for entrance and exit. But Sidney was a privileged person, and had been allowed a pass-key. So he entered the office now without having to go through the busy warehouse.

He was disappointed to find the room empty. His father had promised to give him some money to buy powder, shot and caps for the new gun he had received on Christmas Day, and, like all boys, he felt that time was very precious when he was going to buy anything of that sort.

"Now I suppose I've got to wait," he soliloquized, as he threw himself into the swivel-chair in front of his father's desk. "It'll be noon before I get a chance to try the gun, I dare say."

He played with a paper-cutter at first; but soon his attention was attracted by a letter on the desk, the superscription of which was in a familiar hand.

He picked it up at once, for his Aunt Susan Dent's letters were always public property at home. His father never failed to bring them home and read them aloud at the supper-table. So Sidney drew this letter from the envelope without hesitation.

He had always received a five-dollar bill every Christmas from his aunt, but this year the day had come and gone without the customary present, and he gave an exclamation of joy when, on unfolding the letter, a five-dollar bill fell out.

"For me, of course. Better late than never," muttered Sidney, as he hastily glanced over the letter.

Yes, his aunt intended the money for him.

She wrote that she had been too ill to write just before Christmas, but that Sidney would probably rather have the gift come late than not at all.

"Well, I should say so!" ejaculated Sidney. "And now I needn't wait for father. I can use this money to buy my ammunition, and tell him about it at dinner time."

He restored the letter to its envelope, and then let himself out at the alley door. In five minutes he was in the nearest hardware store, bargaining for his shot.

His mind was full of the sport he expected to have that afternoon in the woods with his gun, and when he reached home he sprang up the steps two at a time.

He was about to ring, with no gentle hand, when the door was thrown open by his sister Fannie.

"We've been watching for you, Sidney," she said, in some excitement. "Uncle Charles is here, and wants you to go home with him for two or three days. He says he can promise you a splendid time. You'll have to hurry, though, for the train leaves at twelve o'clock, and it is half-past eleven now. We were so afraid you wouldn't get back in time."

"Hurry, Sidney," said his mother, appearing at the parlor door. "Change your clothes as quickly as possible. I have packed your valise for you."

"No time to waste, my boy," said his uncle, from the dining-room, where he was snatching a hasty lunch, attended by Clara. "The train won't wait for us."

Sidney was soon ready, and, with a hasty good-by to his mother and sisters, hurried off with his uncle.

"And be sure you come back Friday night, Sidney," called out his sister Fannie, as she followed him to the front gate. "Don't 'fully intend' to do it, and then come walking in here on Sunday. You know you've got to make calls on New Year's Day."

"All right," answered Sidney. "I'll be here. You needn't worry."

It was not until he was in the train and half way to his destination that he thought of the five-dollar bill. He was provoked with himself that he had not spoken of it to his mother.

"But I'll write as soon as I get to Meadville," he thought; "and they'll get the letter to-morrow."

But there was a great deal to occupy him when he reached his uncle's home.

His cousins were fond of fun and were always ready for anything, and he was so hurried from one place to another and had so many calls on his time, that it was little wonder that the writing of that letter was postponed. He fully intended to write it, but it wasn't written.

Only the recollection of Fannie's parting words made him resist an invitation to a sleighing party and start for home on Friday. He knew how the girls would talk if he were not there to make those calls on New Year's Day.

He occupied himself while on the train with thinking on whom he would call and what he would talk about. His visit to Meadville would give him one subject, at least, for conversation.

It was nearly eleven o'clock at night when he reached home, but he found his father and mother and two sisters still up. They were finishing some preparations for the celebration of the next day.

"So you have actually come!" cried Fannie, as Sidney entered the room and went to the fire to warm his half-frozen hands and feet. "One good intention kept, at least. I'll score that to your credit, Sidney."

"It seems as if I had been gone a good deal longer than four days," said Sidney. "I've been in a perfect whirl of excitement ever since I left here."

"We've had some excitement, too," said Clara. "Father's discharged Harry Stuart."

"Yes, just think, Sidney, he stole five dollars," said Fannie.

"We merely suspected him of stealing it, my daughter," said Mr. Dent. "I did not accuse him of it; but I fear there is no room to doubt that he is guilty. He was the only one in the office while I was out."

"It is very hard to believe Harry Stuart a thief," said Mrs. Dent. "He had as open and frank a face as I ever saw, and every one says he is devoted to his mother; but then of course he was greatly tempted, needing the money as he did."

"Do you mean the five-dollar bill Aunt Susan sent to me, father?" asked Sidney.

He had grown very pale and his voice trembled as he spoke.

"Yes; how did you hear of it? The letter came the very day you left."

"Oh, father, I read the letter, and—and it was I who took the money! I fully intended to tell you, but—"

And there Sidney broke down utterly and could not go on.

"You took it!" repeated his father. "Oh, what trouble and sorrow you have brought upon an innocent person, Sidney, by not letting me know that sooner!"

"I intended to write from Meadville," faltered Sidney.

"But, as usual, you did not carry out your good intentions. Sidney, for the first time in my life I am ashamed of you—heartily ashamed."

By degrees they drew the whole story from Sidney; and, though they blamed him, they could not but feel sorry for him, so acute was his remorse.

"I hope this affair will be a lesson to you as long as you live," said Mr. Dent, as he dismissed the remorseful boy to his room.

Had it not been so late, Sidney would have gone that night to see Harry Stuart, but as it was, he was up the next morning by six o'clock, and in the cold, gray light of the first day of the New Year hurried to the little brown cottage.

He found Mrs. Stuart sitting by the bedside of her son, who, never strong, had been utterly prostrated by the trouble which had come upon him, and for two days he had been delirious with fever.

He did not recognize Sidney, and the latter could hardly repress his tears as he took the young man's hot hand in his own and looked down at his flushed face and unnaturally bright eyes, and heard him mutter incoherently his denial of the theft of which he had been suspected.

That was the only call Sidney made that day. All else was forgotten as he sat by Harry Stuart's bedside hour after hour, trying to atone for the pain and grief his carelessness had caused.

Harry got well at last and was restored to his former place with an increase in salary, and he and Sidney were firm friends for the rest of their lives; but Sidney never forgot the lesson he had learned and the good resolutions he had made that New Year's Day in the little brown cottage.

No one ever again heard him say, "I fully intended." To intend was to do with him at last.

NEW YEAR'S EVE.

[This Story began in No. 2.]

Andy Fletcher.