as she came into the room:--

"Mayn't Ned stop plaguing me, mamma?"

"No more of that, Edward," said mother, looking displeased. "It is too
serious a subject for jokes. If Margaret has told us a wrong story,
she is, of course, very unhappy. Do not add to her distress, my son.
We keep hoping every day to hear her confess the truth; she may be
sure there is nothing that would make us all so glad."

So mother knew! She must have known all along! She turned to bring me
my dolly from the table, and I saw her eyes were red. I wanted to
throw myself on her neck and confess; but there was Ned, and somehow I
never saw mother alone after that when I could make it convenient.

She was right in thinking me unhappy, but she little dreamed how
wretched I was. Horace and Prudy, you have heard something of this
before; but I must tell it now to Dotty and Fly; for that hatchet
affair was a sort of crisis in my life.

You know I had not always told the truth. My imagination was active,
and I liked to relate wonderful stories, to make people open their
eyes. It was not wrong in the first place, for I was a mere baby. The
whole world was new and wonderful to me, and one thing seemed about as
strange to me as another. I could not see much difference between the
real and the unreal, between the "truly true" and the make believe.
When I said my mamma had silk dresses, spangled with stars, I was
thinking,--

"Perhaps she has. There's _sumpin_ in a trunk locked up, and I _guess_
it's silk dresses."

But as I grew older I learned better than to talk so. I found I
must keep such wild fancies to myself, and only tell of what I knew to
be true. Every time I wanted to utter a falsehood, a little voice in
my soul warned me to stop.

Fly, you are old enough to know what I mean. Your eyes say so. You
didn't hear that voice when you were patting round grandma's kitchen,
making Ruthie's coffee-mill buzz. You were too little to hear it then.
It had nothing to say to you when you stole your mamma's "skipt," and
soaked it in the wash-bowl; or when you stuffed your little cheeks
with 'serves without leave, or told lies, lies, lies, as often as you
opened your sweet little lips.

"You don't 'member actin' so?"

O, no; it was "so _many_ years ago!" But I was going to say you did
all those dreadful things, and still you were not naughty. Nobody
thinks any the worse of you to-day for all your baby-mischief. We
only laugh about it, for you did not kn