perhaps more humiliating, when there is
something mean in it. A bold, brave, great sin, or
a soft, passionate error one can recal with a
kind of palliating tenderness and pity for
ourselves. When Pim, a few days after my
discovery of this apparent clue, was well enough
to resume his work, and at my earnest
solicitation came home to have some breakfast,
bringing his letters with him, which was
transgressing a strict rule, and I looked them over,
and saw a letter in an evidently disguised
handwriting, addressed, "Mrs. Barnett, widow,
Tamford," with the words, "Try Fazeley," written
upon it by the postmaster, do you much wonder,
that, having no moment for reflection, I withdrew
it secretly from the bundle, and allowed
Pim to proceed on his way without it?

The risk of detection was as slight as it
possibly could be, for the letter had come in this
morning, and the words "Try Fazeley" would
lead Mrs. Barnett to suppose that it had been
detained in Tamford for one day, that the town
letter-carrier might see if it belonged to any one
in his delivery. Pim would confirm this
opinion if she spoke to him about it. The
envelope was not sealed, and could be opened and
reclosed readily. Yet I hesitated. I followed
Felicia about, afraid of being left alone, and
watched her sitting placidly at her stitching,
with the child at her feet attempting to sew a
piece of cloth, the pretty little features puckered
into lines of painstaking. At last she looked
up with grave, childish eyes into Felicia's face.

"Will mamma come to-day?" she asked; for
I talked often to her of the mother who would
come for her some time, and love her more than
we could.

"No," answered Felicia.

"I wish she would," sighed the child,
wistfully; "I'm so tired."

That decided me. I went back into the school-
room, where the scanty class of poor scholars had
assembled, and seated myself at poor old Pim's
desk—the head boy's desk, with its mottoes of
hope, which he had appropriated to his own use—
and, concealing myself behind the heavy lid, which
rested upon my forehead, I unfastened the
envelope with a wicked dexterity, and drew out the
enclosure, wrapped within a. blank paper.

It was nothing whatever but a few shillings'-
worth of postage-stamps, without a line of
writing. I suppose if I had been a greater
adept in crime, I should have been disappointed
at this failure of result; but, upon the whole, I
was not so. After the first feeling of surprise
there came an under-current of relief. I had not
then violated any private communication. I had
been saved from doing Mrs. Barnett the treacherous
injury I had designed. When Pim had taken
the letter to her, I should feel as if I had done
her very little wrong; and, having once tasted
the humiliation of dishonour, I should never fall
into the same temptation again.

I was obliged to leave it, until the boys
were gone, carefully locked up in Pim's desk.
The morning wore slowly away, but at length
the foundation-scholars were dismissed, and my
father prepared to lounge out for his noonday
stroll. He was loitering at the school-door,
deliberately drawing on his gloves, while I stood
beside him, impatient for his departure, when at
the turning into College-hill there appeared an
extraordinary group, escorted by the returning
scholars. The postmaster and a stranger walking
briskly towards us, and behind them a policeman,
with our poor old faithful Pim. Coming
on too quickly to give me a moment's time for
thought, they entered the schoolroom after my
father, who retreated hastily at the sight of
them, and shut the door in the familiar faces of
the boys and almsmen clustering round. Their
errand was speedily told. A letter containing
marked stamps had been posted in London to
test the honesty of the town letter-carrier, and
had been addressed only to "Mrs. Barnett,
Tamford"—selecting that name at random—in
the supposition that it would necessarily pass
into the hands of the suspected man; but the
postmaster, knowing no one of that name except
the lady at Fazeley, had put it among Pirn's
letters for him to try, first, whether it belonged
to her. The detective—the pleased and satisfied-
looking stranger—had come down to Tamford to
learn the success of his experiment, and, upon,
hearing the postmaster's statement, had
repaired to Mrs. Barnett's to reclaim the letter.
Finding it was not delivered, he had gone on
to High Overton after Pim, whose confused and
frightened manner had already condemned him
in his eyes. They were come now to institute
a search for the missing letter.

"Oh, Miss Bessie," cried Pirn, falling upon
his knees before me, "have pity upon me, my
dear. Don't you say anything to break my
heart. It won't be hard to bear if you don't
get into trouble, and your mother left you in
my charge. Don't speak—don't speak."

I saw it all in a moment—every consequence,
every dire dreary result of my fault. Pim's
tears were falling fast upon my hands, which he
kissed imploringly, while he reiterated his prayer
to me to be silent. But I had no power to
speak. Suddenly he seemed removed a long
way from me, and his words sounded like
indistinct mutterings, only I heard him say it was
all right now, as I felt Felicia's arms round me,
and was conscious of nothing more.

That night, after the dreadful afternoon was
over, with its confusion and dismay, and the
almost magisterial visit of the mayor and rector,
who were trustees of the grammar-school, I had
to tell my secret to Felicia—not to my father,
he could neither counsel nor aid me. I was
unprepared for the terrible paroxysm of anguish
into which my shameful confession threw her.
It was nearly dark in the schoolroom, for we
had had no heart to light a candle, and I could
scarcely see her white face. She trembled
violently, and spoke in broken sentences.

"What ought I to do, Felicia?" I asked,
trying to look steadfastly at our position.

"I cannot tell," she said, wringing her hands;
"we ought not to let Pim suffer this for us; he
has done so much for us."