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more, undressed her, and gave her something warm in bed.

“Don't talk, dear child, till you feel better. You are all safe now.

Oh, but, mother, you don't know what I've done! I've been to the fish-ponds, instead of school, and fell in."

“My child, who made you do that ?"

“Must I tell you, mother? I promised not, if I could help it. I was persuaded to go; but I knew all the time I oughtn't. And, oh! what will father say and do to me? I am so frightened at his coming home.”

“Don't be that, Jenny. If father thinks you are really sorry, he won't be very angry; but as to telling me who made you get into this trouble, I will not ask their names if you will give me a promise, and I never knew you break your word yet. It must be quite a promise, that, whoever they may be, you will never more have anything to do with them. I am sorry for you; but you must give them up.”

“Oh, mother dear! you needn't be sorry about that. I shall be so glad never to speak to them again. They were so cross to meever so cross! And I had thought they liked me, and they only laughed at me. Oh! I never shall be happy again.”

“Yes, dear child, you will, if you will try now to be really sorry that you have done wrong—not merely that it has all come out. Hiding things from your mother always ends in trouble. If you had asked for a holiday, to go with girls I could trust, you know you should have had it; but to pretend to go to school and not to go, is not exactly telling a lie, but it is deceit, which is as bad. And now ask God to forgive you, my dear one, and try to get to sleep. Your father won't come up to you to-night.”

“But oh! mother, ask him to. I had rather get it all over.”

And then a fresh fit of sobbing came on, and she became so hot and feverish, that instead of scolding her, her father had to fetch the doctor, and for some weeks it seemed doubtful whether she would recover.

She had now time enough for thought and re-pent-ance. She had no longer any wish for Sandford School, nor did she turn cross and sulky with Mary, if she found fault with her. But Mary, too, had grown wiser, and saw that it was not her place to guide her elder sister, but that to set her a good example was much better than lect-ur-ing.

In the end Jane and Mary Black grew up to be great comforts to their father and mother, while the Joneses went on from bad to worse, till their father and they were obliged to leave the place.

Har - ri - et

ap - pears
hun - dred

flow - ing an - swers

throb - bing non - sense

tri - fles

hun - dred
an - swers

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6 HARRIET, leave the knife alone!

A hundred times was said. She answers, in an angry tone,

I'm not so soon afraid ! "I eat my dinner every day

With knives as sharp as this; Therefore it's nonsense now to say

I'm doing what's amiss."
Then o’er the edge she pressed her thumb,

To show how slight her fears.
But Harriet's flesh was not so numb-

A large deep gash appears.
Too late she views the flowing blood,

And feels the throbbing pain.
Knives should be used for eating food,

But not for trifles vain.



PART I. TUN-BRIDGE WELLS is a very pretty place in Kent, where there is a spring of water that sick people come to drink. There is a large common, with furze, and heath, and rocks, and there are donkeys always ready, with saddles on, for those children who want a ride. These donkeys belong to one or two masters, but each donkey has a boy to take care of it, and to lead it when it is hired.

Some of the boys were very cruel and unkind to the poor asses. They would gather bunches of furze, with which they whipped them, and they would ride them themselves when the poor animals ought to have been resting. There was one boy, Jim Russell, who was worse than the rest. He had had no mother and no sister, and boys, from not living with women, often get hard and thoughtless about their treatment of animals. Jim would beat his ass without any reason at all, never feed it the whole long day, never let it get out of the sun under a tree, and one day he gave it such a blow that it came down on its knees, and hurt the little child that was riding, so his master turned him off.

Alfred Davies, who had a good mother, that never let him teaze or hurt any living creature, took great care of his donkey, which was called Neddy. He always loosened its saddle; when it was not hired, he took it where it could get a bit of grass and a few thistles, gave it some water to drink, and threw some over its feet when hot and sandy. It knew Alfred's voice so well, it never needed to be beaten to make it go on. He was very often hired by Mr. Lyne for his sick little girl, during their stay at Tunbridge, and when he went away she had got so much better for her rides, that he bought the donkey for £3; and when its master told Alfred this, he could hardly help crying.

“Please, sir, don't sell Neddy,” he said. “You'll never get such a good one."

“But, my boy, it's done; and all you have to do, is to leave his saddle here, take him up to Mr. Lyne's, and bring back the bridle.”

With a heavy heart poor Alfred drove Neddy before him for the last time; he stopped to let him eat some thistles and drink some water, and then knocked at Mr. Lyne's stable-door. The coachman opened it.

“I have brought Neddy, sir," he said ; 6 and oh! please be good to him ; he's such a good donkey.”

“Me be good to him, my young master !" said the coachman. “I like that. I, who have been a head-coach-man since before you were born, to be taught by a scrap of a boy like you how to treat a stupid ass! What next, I wonder ? Make off, if you please."

Alfred was standing with his arms round Neddy's neck, and the tears running down his face. He ran off as quickly as he could. He saw he should do more harm than good if he said any more. If he could but be sure that that terrible horse-whip that he saw hanging up would never be used on Neddy, he would be happier. All he could do was to get up early the next day and watch about the gates till he saw Neddy driven off to the rail-road station.

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