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How She Told a Lie. BY THE AUTHOR rp “JOHN HALIFAX GBNTLKMAN.” The three trHvelers—kind Cousin Ev* and hex y rung charges, Cherry and Ruth—were standing cn *be stair case of the curious Hotel de Bourg- throude, 1 y the Place de la Pucelle, Rouen. '1 lie narrow, gloou y little square looked still narrower and gloomier in the drizzle of the dull November city, **nd the ug’y pump in the middle of it, with a sii 1 uglier statue on* the top, marking the place where Jeanne d'Arc was burnt, had been a sore disappointment to the ^children. Th«y had come, enthusias ic little nhgriiua, to see the spot where their fav >rlte heroine died; and iBih tv* cotild hardly get them to jelieve that It was the spot—ihat the immon looking market place, wher# sw ordinary market people were /sing and repassiug, had actuary le scene of that cruel deed— ,t&t from the v* ry identical windows these identical houses brutal ryes *d watched the maid as she stood, le flames curling rout d her, clasping le rude cross which some charitable nil pushed toward her hand. “,D> you remember,” Cousin Eva id, “how, at the last moment, she Retracted all the false confession of iere*y and witchcraft which torture rad wrung from her, and exclaimed : 'Yes, ny voices were of G)d,’ and how, when she saw the flames ap proaching htr, she shut her ryes, > called out once: 'Jesus !’ dropped her [head upon her breast and that was *11, till tiny raked up a handful of sharred bones out of the embers, and threw them into the Seine? ’ The children looked veiy.grave. \t Jh*y did realize the whole, wonder what sort of a day it was, 1 ’ whispered Cherry ; “dull and gloon y, like to-dsy, or with a bright, blue,sunny shy ? Perhaps she looked up at it before the fire touched her. And perhans he stood here—just 'where we stand—the Euglish soldier who cried out, ‘We have burnt a saint!’” “And so she w*s,” said Ruth, with a quiver passtiug over the eager little face, “a real stint.” “But, Cousin Eva,” added Cheri y “why did she ever own to being a witch? and how could she say her voices were not true when she believed they were true? One w#y or the other she must have told a He.” Miss Cheri y was of an. argumenta tive rather than a sentimental turn. She thought a good deal herself, and liked to make other people think,too, so as to enable ner to get at the bot tom of things. She could never over look the slightest break In a chain of practical reasoning; and if she had a era tempt ip this world it was fora wdaa person or a parson who tcld a lie. This fl*w, even in her favorite maid of Orleans, otherwise so strong and brave, was too much for Cherry to passover. “Do you think,” said Cousin Eva, “that it would be possible, under stress of circumstanoes, to tell a lie—to ^confess to something one had never lone? Bishop Cranmer, for instance— have you forgotten how he signed a recantation and then thrust into le fUmes ‘that unworthy right land?’ And Galileo, wffeu forced 1 y "the inquisition to declare the eaith stood still, muttered afterward, ‘Eper- m muove.’ Yes, yes,” continued she, ! “one never knows what one mt> y be driven to till the time comes. The force of torture is veiy strong. Once upon a time I remember 1 told a lie.” “You told a lie,” echoed Cherry, lor king with amazement into the bright, sweet, honest face—my. cheeked, blue-* yad—her little cousins themselves had not more innocent ey^ than Eva’s—as clear and round as a bal y’s. "But nobody ever tortured you?” asked tendered-hearted Ruth, cling ing to the tender hand which, indeed, she ntvtr went far away from, Id. these alarming “foreign parts.” “No, my little girl; the thumb screws, the rack, and the maiden be long, luckily,to that room in the tower where we saw them once, and we are in the nineteenth and not In the fif teenth century. Still, even nowaday-*, a good deal of moral torture can be brought to bear upon one occasionally, especial’y when one is only a child, as I was then. Aud I was tried sharply— enough to make me remember it even r, au l feel quite sure that if I had Jeanne d’Aro I should very like- we done exaoily tyj 3,Uft.dki. Also makes people liars like disbelieving them.” Ruth gave a tender lil tie pressure to the hand she held, while Cherry said proudly : * You Dever disbelieve us aud yju never need to! But tell us, Cousiu Eva, about the lie you told. Was it del ying something y >u had done, or owing to something y m were quite innocent of, like poor Jeaune d’ Arc ? Do tell! You know how well we like the story,” “What, here in this pelt of rain?” answered Cousin Eva, as she proc* eded to investigate from under her umbrella the curiou-i has reliefs o 1 the Field of the Cloth of Gold, which 'till remain in the court of the Hotel du Bourg- throade. “No, children, y >u must wait a more desirable opportunlly.” Which, however, was not long in coming. The day brightened—grew into one of those exquisite day* which French people call Fete de Si. Martin —and truly I know nothing like it except what it most resembles—a sweet peaceful contented o'd age. So Cousin Eva decided to take the chil dren to a place which she herself had once seen and never forgotten—the little church on the hilltop called Notre Dame de Bon Sscours. “ Is that the same w bich Alice sing about in the opera of ‘Robert le Dia- ble?’” and Cherry struck up in htr clear, young voice— •* Quand je qulttals ma Normandie,” Rouen is Normandy, so of course it is the same— ■‘Dalgtie proteger nos amours Notre Dame de Bon Secours.’’ “Please don’t sing quite so loud or the hotel people will hear you,” said timid Ruth, and was quits relieved when they started off. I need not relate how extremely the children eD- j< yed the stiff climb up the hill, and admired the love y building, all ablaze with brilliant but harmonious color ing, and .the little side chapels filled with innumerable votive inscriptions : “A Marie,” “ Graces a Marie,” “ Elle a exauce mes veeix,” etc. Curious, simple, almost childish, it all was, yet touching to those who feel, as Cousin Eva did, that to believe earnestly in ai y thing is better than believing in nothing. Afterward tiny all sat and rested in one of the prettiest resting-places I know for those that live and move, or for “ them that sleep ”—the grave yard on the hilltop, close behind the church of Notre Dame de Bon Secours From this high point the y could see the whole country for miles and miles, the Seine winding through it in plc- piclureaque curves; Rouen, with its bridges and streets, distinct as if a in*p, lay at their right hand, and, rislDg out of the mass of houses, ethe- reftbzsd ly the yellow sunset, were the two spires of the cathedral and the church of St. Ouen. “Can yiu see the market place, Cousin Eva? If so, poor Jeanne d’Arc, when she was brought out to die, must have seen this hill, with the church on top of it; that is, supposing there was a church.” “There might have been, though not this one, which is modern, y .u see.” “ J wonder,” continued Cherry, who was always wondering, “ if she looked up at it, and thought it hard that Notre Dame de Bon Secours should not Jiave succored her. Per haps because, to escape from the here tic English, she had told a lie.” “And that reminds me,” added Ruth, who was not given to ethical questions, “that while we sit and rest we might hear from Cousin Eva about the lie she told.” “Yes, yes, please ssy, Cousin Eva, was it a big or a little one? Why did you tell it? And was it ever found out?” “I don’t quite see the difference be tween big and little, my child. A lie is a lie, though sometimes there are extenuating circumstances iq the rea son for telling it. And once told, the question whether it is found out or not does not matter. My lie was never found out, but it grieved me all the same.” “Will it grieve you to tell me about it? I should not like that,” said Ruth, softly. “No, dear; because I have long since forgiven nuyeelf. I was such a small child, much younger than either of you, and unlike you had no parents, only an aunt, an uncle, and a lot of rough oouslns who domineered over me and made me afraid. That was the cause. The sure way to make a child untruthful Is to make it it ware eldest cousin clutched ms by the shoulder, saying : ‘Did you do that ?’” “And what had you done?” asked Cherr y. “Nothing ; but Will thought I had. We were all digging in our garden, and had just found his favorite jessa mine plant lying uprooted on the ground. It had been my favorite, too, but Will took it from my garden a d planted it in his own, where I watch ed it anxiously, for I was afraid it would die.” “ ‘You did it on purpose,’ Will per sisted, ‘or if not out of revenge, out of pure silliness. Girls are always so silly. Didn’t you propose yesterday to dig it up to see if it had got a root ?’ Which was quite true. I was a vei y sil'y little girl, but i meant no harm. I wouldn’t for the world have harmed either Will or his jessamine. I told him so, but he refused to be lieve me. So did th*y all. They stood around me and declared I must have done it. Noboc T y else had been in the garden, except, indeed, a dog, who was in the habit of burying his bones there. But they never thought cf him as the sinner; it was only of me. And when I denied the thing they were only the more angry. “ ‘You know you are telling a lie, and where do little girls go that tell lieB?’ cried Will, who sometimes told them himself; but then he was a be y, and it was a rule in that family, a terribly mistaken one, that the boys might do anything, and that the girls must alwr ys give in to the boys. So when Will looked fiercely at me, re peating, ‘You know you did it,’ I almost felt as if I really had done it. Unable to find another word I began to cry. Look, here,children,* he called to all the rest of the children. ‘Eva has gone and pulled up my jessamine, out of spite, or mischief, or pure silliness —I don’t know which, and I don’t care. I’d forgive her if she would only confess, but she won’t. She keeps on telling lie after lie, and we won’t stand children that tell lies. If we punish her, she’ll howl, so 1 propose that until she confesses we all send her to Coventry.” “ ‘It’s a very nice town, but I don’t want to go there,’ sa\d|I ; ’ at which I remember, they all burst out laugh ing, and I cried only the more. “I had no idea of what sending to Coventry meant, unless it was like sending to Siberia, which I had lately been reading of, or to the quick silver mines, where condemned con victs were taken, and where nobody ever lived more than two year*. Perhaps there were quicksilver mines at Coventry. A cold shudder of fear ran through me, but I was utterly powerlesp. I could but die. “Soon I discovered what my pun ishment was, and, though not death, it was hard enough. Famy, children, being treated di>y after day, and all dty long, just as if you were a chair or table—never taken the least notice of, never answered if you spoke, never spoken to on any recount, never play ad with, petted or scolded ; com pletely and absolutely ignored. This was being sent to‘Coventry,’ and it was as cruel a punishment as could have bten inflicted upon ar y little girl wh- liked her pi# y fellows, rough as th* y were, and was very fond of one of them, who was never rough, but always kind and good. “This was a little be y who lived next door. His parents, like mine, were cut in India—nor had he any brothers or sisters. He was just my age, and younger than ar y of my cousins. So we were the best o friends, Tommy and I. His surna ne I have forgotten, but I know we always called him Tommy, and I loved him dearly. The bitterest paDg of all this bit ter time was that even To nmy went over to the enemy. "At first he had been very sorry for me—had tried, all through that holi- d#y Saturday when my punishment began, to persuede me to confess aud escape it; and when he failed—for how coaid T confess to what i had never done—to in action so mean that I would have been ashamed even to have thought of doing ?—then Tommy also sent me to Coventry On the Hund#y, all ‘us children’—we didn’t mind grammar much in those days--walked to ohuroh together across the fields, and Tommy always walked with me, chattering the whole vfay. Now we walked In total silence, for Will’s eyes were upon him, and even Tommy was afraid. Whatever I said, he never answered a single word. “Then I felt as if the whole world ire against me—as if it were no a lie. In short, in my childish way, I suffered much as poor Jeanne fi’Arc must have suffered when she was shut up la her prison at Rruen, ca'led a witch, a deceiver—forsaken of all. and yet promised pardon if she would only confess aud own she was a wicked woman, whicn she knew she was not. “I was quite innocent, but after three days of being supposed guilty, I ceased 'o care whether I was gulity or not. I seemed-not to care for anything, Since they supposed I was capable of pulling up a harmless jessamine root out of spite,wbatdid it mutter whether they thought I had told a lie or not ? Indeed, if I tell one, it would be much easier than telling the truth; and every day ‘n y sticking it out’ aud per sisting in the truth beeame more diffi cult. “This state of things continued till Weduesdsy, which was our half holi day, when my cousins went for a long walk or played cricket, and I was sent in to spend the afternoon with Toma y. Th< y were the delight of my life,those quiet Wednesdays, when Tomn y and I went ‘mooning about;,’ dug in our garden, watched our tad poles—we had a hand basin full of them, which we kept in the arbor till th* y developed into myriads of frogs, anu went hopping about everywhere. But even tadpoles could not charm me now, and 1 dreaded, rather than longed for, my half holiday. School h*d been difficult enough, for Tommy and 1 bad the same daily gov erness ; but if when we plsysd to gether, he was never to speak to me, what should I do? Beside, his grand- mother would be sure to find it out; and she was a prim and rather strict old lady, to whom a child who had been sent to Coventry for telling a lie would be a perfect abhorrence. What could I do ? Would it not be better to bide away somewhere, so as to es cape going into Tomn y e house at all? Indeed, I almost think that some vague thought of running away and hiding myself forever crossed my miud, when I heard Will calling me. “ He and two of the others were standing at the front door, a terrible council of three, like that which use! to sentence to death the victims in the Prlgoni which we saw last month at Venice. I felt not unlike a condemn ed prisoner—one who had been shut up so long that death came almost as a relief, which it must often have been to those poor souls. The three big boys stood over me like judges over a criminal, and Tommy stood beside them, looking very sad. “ ‘ Little girl,’ said Willie, in quite a judicial tone, ‘we think yruhave been punished enough to make you thoroughly ashamed of yourself. We wish you to go and plsy with Tommy, as usual; but Tomn y could not possi bly have you unless you were out of Coventry. We will give you one chance more. Confess that y ou pulled up the jessamine and we will forgive you and tell nobody about you, and you shall go and have tea with Tom my, just as if nothing had happened. Think—you have only to say one word.’ “ ‘ And if I don’t say it ?’ “‘Then,’ answered Will, with a solemn and awful expression, ' I shall be obliged immediately to tell every body everything.’ “ That terrible threat, til the more formidable because of its vagueness, quite overcame me. To be set down as a liar or to become one; to be pun ished as I know my aunt would pun ish me on her son’s mere statement for a wrrag I had never done, or to do a wrong thing, and, escaping punish ment, go back to my happy life with my dear Tommy, who stood, the tears inhisey-s awaiting my deoision 1 *,It was a hard strait—too hard tor one so young. And Will stood glar ing at me with his remorseless eves. “ ‘ Well, now—say once for all, did you pull up my jessamine?’ “ It was too much. Suddenly, slow ly, I made up my mind to the inevita ble, and ansa ered, ‘ Since y >u will have it so—yes,’ But the instant I had said it 1 fell into such a fit of sob bing—almost hysterical soreaming— that my cousins were frightened and ran away. “Tommy staid, however. He got me into the quiet arbor as fast as he could. I felt his arms around my neck and his comforting was very tender, very sweet. But It was long before I stopped crying, and still longer before anything like cheerful ness oarne into my poor little heart. We played together all the afternoon very affectionately, but in a rathe melancholy sort of way, as if we had g on our jpjuds to whloh we h id cowed him into unkindness; btS he loved me. Only, as is often the ca-ie, if his love had had a little more courage it would have been better for me—perhaps for him, too. “We spent a peaceful but rather dull afternoon, aud then were summoned indoors to tea. “Now tea at Tommy’s house was a serious thing. Tommy’s grandmother always ate at the table aud looked at us through her spectacles, aud talked to us in a formal aud dignified man ner, asking if we had been good chil dren, had learnt our lessons web, had played together without quarrelling, etc. She was a kind old lady, years upon years older than we, aud quite unable to understand us at all. Con sequently we never did more than answer her questions and hold our tongu* s. As for telliug her anything, eur troubles especially, we should as soon have thought of confidiug in the Queen or Emperor of all the Rus sians. I never opened my lips all tea time, and at last she notice 1 it. Also that my eyas were rather red. ‘ This little g rl icons as if she had been crying. I hope you have not made her cry, Tommy, my dear.’ “Tommy was silent. But i eagerly declared that Tommy had not made me cry. Tommy was never unkind to me. “ ‘I am glad to hear it, Evangeline,’ she always gave me my full name, ‘and I hope you, too, are a good child, who is never in mischief, and above all never tells lies. If I were net| quite sure of that I could not allow Tommy to play with you.’ “She looked me fully in the face, If she saw through and through which she did not, being very shoi righted—yet I felt myself tremble eveiy limb. As for Tommy, he j glanced at me and glanced away again, turning crimson to the very roots of his hair, but he said noth ing. “What would have appeared next, I cannot tell; we waited in terror, holding one another’s hands under the tablecloth. But mercifully at tiat instant the old lady was fetched to speak to some one, and we children had to finish our tea alone. “It almost choked us—me at at rate. But as soon as it was atd Tommy and I found ourse out in the g r>len, I flung my art around his neck and told him all. “And Tommy believed m matter whether the others did Tommy believed me at last! sympathized with me, comfortc thought I was not so wicked though I had told a lie,j one I was accused of tell! wept with me over all fered, and promised thatJ haps it was bettfr to le! rest now, if such a thing were' pen again he would not be Will, or any hoc y, but wool up for me ‘like a man.’ ” “Aud did ha do it?” asked with slight incredulity in her “He never had the opportunity, week after this he 4^ suddenly set for to join his parenK abroad anc never saw my frier^ Tommy more.” x “But did ywu never hear of hii Is he alive still ? He must be * v« old gentleman by this time.” “Very. No doubt a father—pc bly even a grandfather,” repi Cousin Eva, smiling. - Cherry blnshed. “I didn’t me that, sinoe he was barely as old you, and you are oertainly not grandmotner. But I want to he more of Tommy. Is he married ?” “I really cannot say. The last tlm« I hear! of him was ten yaars agdl when he was Hying somewhere] abroad—I rather think in Shanghai. He was not married then.” “I wish,” whispered Ruth solemnly, “I wish ha would come back England and marry you.” Cousin Eva laughed. “There mtgt be two opinions on that question, you know. But oh! my children^ when you are married and have ohi dren of your own, remember ml story. If ever a poor little l <”ks up la your face saying, 'I didn’t c that,’believe it 1 If it sobs out, am naughty,’ don’t call it naugl Give it the benefit of the doubt. Ha 1 ! patience, take time; and whatey you do, don’t make it afraid. jCoi arealway* liargL^JMti^MEm ei is less harmfu^l^^Rileve a per who tells a lie, than to doubt anoth« who is speaking the truth. thmk so, too,” said Cherry, emember poor Jeanne d poor Cousin Eva,” well- fadlni