A text—­one of the many she had learned to recite to her mother in that precious morning half hour—­came to her mind as she rose from her knees.  “He that covereth his sins shall not prosper:  but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.”

“I didn’t cover them;” she said to herself, “I told God:  but then God knew all about it before; he sees and knows everything; but mamma doesn’t know.  Perhaps it means I musn’t cover them from her.  I think Jesus did tell me.”

Wiping away her tears she went back into the drawing-room.  The gentlemen were just leaving it, her father among the rest.  A sudden resolution seized her and she ran after them.

“Papa!”

He turned at the sound of her voice.  “Well daughter?”

“I—­I just want to ask you something.”

“Another time then, pet, papa’s in a hurry now.”

But seeing the distress in the dear little face he came to her and laying his hand on her head in tender fatherly fashion, said, “Tell papa what it is that troubles you.  I will wait to hear it now.”

“Papa,” she said, choking down a sob, “I—­I don’t know what to do.”

“About what, daughter?”

“Papa, s’pose—­s’pose I’d done something naughty, and—­and it would grieve dear mamma to hear it; ought I to tell her and—­and make her sorry?”

“My dear little daughter,” he said bending down to look with grave, tender eyes into the troubled face, “never, never conceal anything from your mother; it is not safe for you, pet; and she would far rather bear the pain of knowing.  If our children knew how much, how very much we both love them, they would never want to hide anything from us.”

“Papa, I don’t; but—­somebody says it would be selfish to hurt mamma so.”

“The selfishness was in doing the naughty thing, not in confessing it.  Go, my child, and tell mamma all about it.”

He hastened away, and Violet crept back to the drawing-room.

The other children were leaving it.  “Come, Vi,” they said, “we’re going for a walk.”

“Thank you, I don’t wish to go this time,” she answered with gravity.  “I’ve something to attend to.”

“What a grown up way of talking you have, you little midget,” laughed Meta.  Then putting her lips close to Vi’s ear, “Violet Travilla,” she whispered, “don’t you tell tales, or I’ll never, never play with you again as long as I live.”

“My mamma says it’s wicked to say that;” returned Vi, “and I don’t tell tales.”

Then as Meta ran away, Violet drew near her mother’s chair.

Mamma was talking, and she must not interrupt, so she waited, longing to have the confession over, yet feeling her courage almost fail with the delay.

Elsie saw it all, and at length seized an opportunity while the rest were conversing among themselves, to take Vi’s hand and draw her to her side.

“I think my little girl has something to say to mother,” she whispered softly, smoothing back the clustering curls, and looking tenderly into the tear-stained face.