Conscience
Eliza Lee Follen

This etext was produced by Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
The short wintry days were beginning to lengthen, the sun rose earlier and staid 
up longer. Now and then a bluebird was heard twittering a welcome to the coming 
spring. As for the robins, they were as pert and busy as usual. The little 
streams were beginning to find their way out of their icy prison slowly and with 
trembling, as if they feared old winter might take a step and catch them, and 
pinch them all up again. 
Frank and Harry were sorry to see their snow man growing smaller and smaller 
every day; from being a large, portly gentleman, he was shrunk into a thin, 
shabby, ugly-looking fellow. His strong arms were about falling to the ground; 
his fat nose had entirely disappeared, and his mouth had grown so big that you 
might look down his great throat, and see the place where one of the boys used 
to go in to make his snowship talk. Frank and Harry loved all their winter 
amusements, and were loath to give up skating, sliding, and coasting, and above 
all, snowballing. Yet the boys enjoyed the lengthening twilight覧-the hour their 
mother devoted to them. 
"Will you please to give me two cents, Mother?" said Frank, one day. 
"For what?" 
"To buy a piece of chalk." 
"And two for me, Mother," said Harry, "for I want a piece as well as Frank." 
"What are you both going to do with chalk?" asked their mother. They were 
silent. She asked again, but they made no reply. "I cannot give you the money 
till you tell me what you want of the chalk. Why are you not willing that I 
should know?" 
The boys continued silent for a short time, and then Frank said, "I am afraid 
that, if you know what we are going to do with the chalk, you will not let us 
have the money." 
"Then," replied their mother, "you think what you want to do is wrong. I, 
perhaps, ought to insist upon your telling me what you want of the chalk. I love 
to give you every innocent pleasure, and what is right for you to do I think I 
may know about. However, if you will assure me it is for nothing wrong that you 
want the chalk, I will ask no more questions, and give you the money." 
"We do not mean to do any great harm with it," said Harry. "Still I am afraid 
you will not quite like to have us do it, mothers are so much more particular 
than boys, you know." 
"Try and see if we disagree about this matter," said their mother. 
"Shall I tell?" said Harry to Frank. 
"Yes," he replied. "It is no such dreadful affair. Let's tell mother all about 
it. You know, she said the other day that she remembered when she was a boy." 
They all laughed at this often quoted blunder, and Harry began: "You see, 
Mother, that yesterday John Green contrived, while we were in school, and 
engaged in doing our lessons, to make a great B on Frank's and my back, with a 
piece of chalk. John is a good hand at such things, and he did it so nicely, 
that the master did not see him, and neither of us saw the B on the other. When 
we went out to play, all the boys cried out, "B for blockhead, B for 
blunderbuss, B for booby," and so on, ever so many other names beginning with B, 
and kept pointing at us. At last, I saw Frank's mark, and he saw mine. I can 
tell you we were both angry enough. Now we want to be revenged on John Green, 
and have a capital plan. You see he will be on his guard, and we must be very 
cunning. To-morrow is exhibition day, and he will have on his best dark-green 
jacket, and Frank and I are to sit one on each side of him. You see he is really 
a dunce about every thing but playing tricks; and, when he is asked a question, 
he will be scared out of his senses, and not know what to say. Now Frank is 
going to pretend to help him, while I write Dunce in large letters on the stupid 
fellow's back. John will not know what I am doing, I am sure; and, as he is a 
real dunce, it will make a good laugh; every one will think he is well served, 
and the whole school will make fun of him." 
"So," said Mrs. Chilton, "you acknowledge that you are planning a piece of 
revenge." 
"Why, yes, Mother," replied Frank; "I suppose you would think it ought to be 
called revenge, but I don't see any great harm in it. Schoolboys always play 
such tricks, and no boy thinks the worse of another for such a thing." 
"You think," said Mrs. Chilton, "that this schoolmate of yours will be so 
embarrassed at answering the questions that he will not know what he is about; 
you mean, one of you, to pretend to be his friend and help him, while the other 
makes him appear like a fool to the rest of the boys." 
Frank and Harry looked a little troubled, and were silent a while. Then Frank 
said, "It is no more than what John would do; 'tis what he deserves, and it is 
true enough that he is a dunce." 
"I will tell you, Frank, a better way of being revenged," replied his mother. 
"What is it, Mother?" 
"Sit by him, as you intended, and when he is troubled and perplexed, help him as 
well as you can, and be particularly kind to him." 
"And so reward him for making fools of us," said Prank, pettishly. "No, Mother, 
what you say may be very good, but I don't want to do such a thing as that." 
"If you were to treat him in the way I propose, do you think he would ever treat 
you unkindly again? Would he not feel deeply ashamed of his conduct if you thus 
returned him good for evil?" 
The boys were silent, but it was evident that they did not quite relish their 
mother's advice, nor feel at all disposed to help John Green say his lessons. 
"I will tell you a story," said Mrs. Chilton, of a man who overcame evil with 
good. A gentleman was once travelling alone in a gig through a very unfrequented 
road. There was no house, no sign of human existence there. It was so still that 
the hills and rocks and deep woods gave back the echo of his horse's hoofs; the 
song of a bird or the chirping of a cricket seemed to fill a great space, and 
fell on the ear with a strange and almost startling effect. He was observing or 
rather feeling this extreme solitude and stillness, when suddenly at a turn in 
the road he came upon a man who placed himself directly before the horse's head. 
The man had a dark, bad expression in his face, and fixed his eye upon the 
traveller in such a way as to convince him that the man meant to stop and rob 
him. 
The gentleman immediately drew up his reins, and said kindly, "Friend, if you 
are going my way, step into my gig, and let me take you on." 
The man hesitated, and then got in. My friend, who was a clergyman, began 
immediately to talk earnestly about many interesting things, and kept up a 
lively conversation. At last, he mentioned the uncommon loneliness of the road, 
and observed that it would be a good place for a robbery. He then went on to 
speak of robbers, and then of criminals in general, and of what he thought was 
the right way to treat them. He said that society should try to instruct and 
reform them; that putting them to death was wicked; that, by patient love and 
kindness, we should win them back to virtue, that we should show them the way to 
peace and honor. He expressed his belief, that there was something good in the 
heart of the very worst man, and said that he believed God had placed a witness 
of Himself in every human heart. "I am a non-resistant"覧concluded the 
clergyman, "and I would rather die than take the life of my bitterest enemy." 
The man listened very attentively. When they came to the next road, he asked to 
be allowed to get out, as he said his home lay that way. After bidding farewell, 
he added, "I thank you for taking me in, and for all you have said to me. I 
shall never forget it. You have saved me from a crime. When I met you, I meant 
to rob you. I could easily have done so; but your kind words put better thoughts 
into my heart. I think I shall never have such an evil purpose again. I thank 
God I met you. You have made me a better man." 
"Now," said Mrs. Chilton, "I will give you, boys, the money you ask for, and 
leave you to do as you think best about John Green." 
"But, Mother," said Harry, "I am sure chalking a boy's back is a very different 
thing from robbing a man; and chalking back again is not like keeping a poor 
fellow in prison all his life, or hanging him." 
"Very true, Harry, but the principle of overcoming evil with good is the same 
for both cases. The evil purpose in the robber's heart was overcome by the love 
and kindness of the man he meant to injure. Think the whole matter over, boys, 
and let me know to-morrow what you have done. I leave you free to do as you 
think best." 
The next day after school, she asked them what they had done about John Green, 
and whether they had spent their money for chalk to write dunce on his back. 
"I bought a piece of chalk," said Frank, "for I thought I might want very much 
to pay him back for his trick upon us, but the poor fellow looked so frightened 
that I did not want to touch him." 
"I did not buy any chalk," said Harry, "for I felt almost sure that, if I had a 
piece in my pocket, I should leave some mark on his back." 
"Did you then do nothing to revenge yourselves?" asked their mother. 
"Frank had such a revenge as you would approve of," said Harry. 
"One of the examiners asked John where Athens was. The poor fellow could not 
tell, for he is a real dunce, though we did not chalk the word on his back. 
Well, he was just going to say that he did not know, when Frank whispered the 
answer very softly into his ear, and saved him from being disgraced. I did want, 
just then, to write dunce on John's back; but, on the whole, I pitied him, and, 
when I heard him, after the examination, thank Frank, and say, "I am sorry for 
what I did the other day," I did feel that it was better to overcome evil with 
good, though it comes hard, Mother, sometimes." 
"Very true," said Mrs. Chilton; "to do right is not always easy. At first, it is 
perhaps always hard, but it grows easier and easier, the more we try; till, at 
last, that which was painful becomes pleasant. Some good person, I forget who, 
said, "Whenever I want to get over a dislike of any person, I always try to find 
an opportunity to do him a service." Tell me, Frank, if you do not feel more 
kindly towards John Green, since you did him that kindness." 
"I suppose I do," said Prank. "My anger is gone, at any rate." 
"We don't want candles yet, do we, Mother," said Harry. "There is the moon just 
over the old pine tree, and there is a bright little star waiting upon her. Now 
is our story time. Can you not make up something to tell us?" 
"I cannot think of any thing," said Mrs. Chilton. "I believe I spun all the 
cobwebs out of my brain when I told you about the old garret." 
"Did you not say to us, the other day, Mother," said Frank, "that, when you were 
at uncle John's many years ago, before we were born, you wrote down some 
stories? I think you told aunt Susan that you meant, when we were old enough, to 
read them to us." 
"I did, Frank, and when the light comes, I will read some of them. Meantime, I 
will tell you one or two little anecdotes. I was dining yesterday with a 
gentleman who told me this story. He was returning from England to Boston in one 
of the fine royal steamers. When not very far from the end of the voyage, he and 
some other gentlemen determined to indulge themselves with the pleasure of 
giving a dinner as good as they had every day to the sailors. I suppose you know 
that in these steamers the passengers pay a large price for the passage, and are 
feasted every day with luxuries. The gentleman asked the captain's leave to give 
this dinner, and wished him to order it; but the captain replied, "I will have 
nothing to do with such nonsense. I will give steward orders to do whatever you 
bid him; and I don't care what you do, only I must not appear in it." 
Accordingly, the gentleman gave the steward orders to provide the very best 
dinner that the ship could afford, telling him to prepare four courses, and 
adding that if the dinner was in any respect inferior to what the cabin 
passengers had it would not be paid for. The steward was desired to keep it a 
profound secret who ordered the dinner, and not to say any thing about it 
beforehand. 
When the day came, the sailors were astonished that they did not have their 
dinner at the usual hour. Presently all hands were called on deck. This was such 
an unusual thing when all was quiet in the ship, that they were still more 
puzzled. The gentlemen meant to have them dine in the cabin; but the captain 
advised against this on the ground that sailors would feel confined in the 
cabin, and would not enjoy themselves. So the dinner was served on deck. When 
the sailors were assembled, and were ordered to take their places at the dinner 
before them, they obeyed, looking greatly astonished. They were first helped to 
soup覧then to meats of all sorts覧then puddings, pies, &c.覧then nuts, oranges, 
raisins, figs, and wine. At first, they stared, as if they were in the land of 
dreams; but presently the enchanting realities before them were welcomed and 
consumed with the greatest relish. They were waited upon in the most respectful 
manner. Their feast had no drawback. All was good and agreeable as possible. 
The gentleman said he had been at many grand dinners, but had never enjoyed one 
so much as this. 
The sailors tried to find out their benefactor, but no one would tell them. 
At last their suspicions fell upon the right man, him who told me the story. 
They chose the oldest of their number to wait upon him in the name of the whole, 
to express their thanks. "When the old man approached me," said the gentleman to 
me, "he took off his hat and was going to speak, but the tears came in his eyes, 
and he could not. He went away, and presently returned; but again he lost his 
self-command, and turned away. At last, he recovered himself enough to speak, 
and these were his words: "'Tis the first time, sir, that we were ever treated 
like men." 
The captain, who laughed at the whim of these gentlemen, said afterwards that he 
had never had such work from his sailors as he had from that time to the end of 
the voyage. 
I will tell you yet another true story. 
There was a poor girl who was ill of a consumption. She did not suffer much, yet 
was pretty certain that she should never get well. She was very happy, however, 
for she had many beautiful thoughts to keep her company in the sick room. 
One day a good man came to visit her, and told her of a school in Canada, to 
teach colored people who had been slaves, and had run away from their masters. 
You know that in Canada American slaves become free English subjects. 
He told her that he was trying to get money to pay teachers in this school. 
The poor girl was very much interested, wished much to contribute something, and 
felt grieved at her poverty. Presently her face lighted up with a sad smile. "I 
have," said she, "one thing of value which I could give you, but," (and she 
looked very sad,) "it would be hard parting with it. My mother gave it to me." 
She went to a drawer, and took out of it a gold necklace. Then, as if she were 
talking to herself, she said, "How sweetly my mother smiled upon me when she put 
this around my neck! I cannot wear it now, my neck is so thin, and is always 
covered up. She would wish me to give it for this purpose, I know. Yes, she 
would like I should do it. But then I cannot bear to give it away. It was hers; 
she wore it herself. I shall not keep it a great while longer, at any rate. I 
can desire my uncle to give it to the school when I am gone." She covered her 
face with her hands, but you could see her tears through her thin, emaciated 
fingers. 
Her friend, who had told her about the school, simply to please and interest 
her, begged her not to think any more of giving away the necklace, and spoke to 
her of something else. 
"No," said she, "I cannot keep it, now that it has come into my mind that I 
ought to give it to you for the school. You must take it. Forgive my weakness; 
the thought of my dear departed mother brings the tears to my eyes." 
"Think again, then, before you give away this precious necklace," said the good 
man. 
She put the necklace into his hand, and said, as she did so, "I have thought of 
it again, and I have decided to give it." 
He took it, and left the generous-hearted girl, praying that she might recover, 
but fearing that he should never see her again. 
Not long after this, in a steamboat, he met a gentleman with whom he had much 
conversation upon various subjects; among others the institution for the 
instruction of the poor runaways. He mentioned among other things this poor 
girl's gift, and her grief at parting with her mother's gold necklace. "I 
hated," said he, "to take it. She will not stay here long, and her pleasures are 
very few." He mentioned also the name of the town in New Hampshire where she 
lived. 
"That is my native place," said the gentleman to whom he was relating the story. 
"Will you let me see the necklace?" 
"Certainly," said the missionary, and he took it from his pocket. 
"What sum of money shall you obtain for this necklace?" 
"I have had it weighed," said he, "and I shall get so much money for it," naming 
the sum. 
"Are you willing to sell it to me for that sum?" 
"Certainly; that is all I can obtain for it." 
The bargain was concluded. The stranger paid the sum. Then, putting the necklace 
into his own pocket, he said, "She shall have it for a new year's gift." 
Now let us, on the first of January, visit the poor sick girl again. Early in 
the morning, some one hands her a little parcel覧she opens it, and there is her 
precious necklace, the gift of her dear mother in the heavenly land. It is 
accompanied by a short note in which the writer begs her not to part with the 
necklace again while she lives, but to consider it her own to do as she pleases 
with it at her death. 
The stranger, who had purchased the necklace, and sent it back to the poor girl, 
knew the true value of riches, and understood and enjoyed the luxury of doing 
good, of making the poor and the sorrowful rejoice. He was the same man who 
planned the dinner." 
After tea, Mrs. Chilton took out her manuscript book. 
"The story I shall read," said she, "is a very painful one, but sadly true. If 
it makes you very unhappy, you must try to let it save you from committing the 
fault which was so severely punished. All the essential facts are true, as I 
shall read them to you. 
"IT IS ONLY A TRIFLE." 
"Be sure, my son," said Mr. Pratt, as he left his counting room, in 
Philadelphia, "be sure that you send that money to Mr. Reid to-day; direct it 
carefully, and see that all is done in proper form and order." 
"Yes, sir," replied George, "I will." 
George fully intended to obey implicitly. He was, in the main, desirous to do 
right; but he had one great fault. When he had a small duty to perform, he was 
apt to say and think, "O, that is only a trifle. Why should we lay so much 
stress on trifles?" He would often say, when any one found fault with him for 
the neglect of a small duty, "I am sure it is only a trifle." 
George, as soon as he had finished something he was about, wrote the letter 
according to the directions given him, carefully enclosed the money in it, 
nicely folded and sealed it. Just as he was preparing to direct it, a young man 
opened the door of the counting room in great haste, and begged him to go with 
him that moment, to speak to some one who was then passing. 
"I can direct and carry the letter," said George's younger brother; "I know to 
whom it is to go, and I can send it just as well as you." 
George had a slight feeling in his heart that he ought not to leave this letter 
to any one to direct; but his brother again said, "I should think I could do 
such a trifling thing as that; I can surely direct a letter, though I cannot 
write one yet." 
Frank was the younger apprentice, and was anxious to get forward and do what 
George did. 
"Well," said George, "you may do it, but be sure you do it right. John Reid, you 
know, is the name;" and he went with his companion. "It is only a trifle," he 
said to himself, as he remembered his father's charge. "I have done all that is 
really important. It is of little consequence who directs and carries the 
letter." So he chased away the slight cloud that hung over his mind as he left 
the counting room with his friend. 
These slight clouds that rise in the soul's horizon, so prophetic, so full of 
mercy or of terror as we regard or slight them! "Why do we not learn their 
meaning? Why are they not ever messengers of love and peace to us? Had George 
stopped and considered, perhaps he would not have done as he did, perhaps he 
would not have called this duty a trifle, and would not have left the counting 
room till he had performed every tittle of his father's command. 
The letter was directed and sent. Frank did as well as he knew how. 
When George returned, he asked, "Have you directed the letter to Mr. John Reid?" 

"Yes, I have, and carried it to the office." 
"Did you enclose that money to Mr. Reid, George?" asked his father, when he next 
saw him. 
"Yes, sir," George replied, with a slight hesitation, which, however, he soon 
got over; "for," said he to himself, "I enclosed the money carefully; what does 
it matter whether Frank or I directed the letter?" So he spoke out freely to his 
father. 
"All right, father; the letter is on its way to Ohio." 
Unfortunately his father had not noticed his hesitation, was satisfied, and 
asked no further questions. 
Again George checked the monitions of his conscience. Again he said to himself, 
"It's only a trifle." He had yet to learn that no duty is a trifle. 
Weeks passed, and there was no acknowledgment of the money. At last a letter 
arrived from Mr. Reid to Mr. Pratt, requesting him, if convenient, to pay the 
two hundred dollars promised to him some weeks before. 
Mr. Reid was a poor man, to whom two hundred dollars was an important sum. 
Mr. Pratt again questioned his son, and was again assured that the money had 
been sent, and wrote to Mr. Reid accordingly, advising him to inquire at the 
post office. 
There happened to be a young man in the office, by the name of Harry Brown, 
whose mother was a widow. She was poor, and a stranger in the town. Her son had 
obtained his place on account of his quick intelligence, and because he could 
also write a very good hand. Strong suspicions fell upon him. He was questioned 
about the letter, and at last Mr. Reid accused him of the theft. 
The young man's indignation was uncontrollable; he turned white with anger; he 
could not speak; he stammered and clenched his fists, and at last burst into 
tears and left the office. 
All this was taken for the agony of detected guilt and neither the postmaster 
nor Mr. Reid attempted to stop him, for neither of them wished to have him 
punished, and they hoped to recover the money by gentler means. 
We will now change the scene. Let us enter this small, neat cottage. There are 
but two rooms on the floor. One is kitchen and parlor, the other a bed room. A 
sort of ladder in one corner intimates that in the small attic is also a 
sleeping place. A small table is spread for two people; it is very clean and 
nice, but every thing that you see indicates poverty. An old woman, with a sweet 
but sorrowful countenance, sits by the small window, looking anxiously out of it 
for some one who you might suppose was to share her simple meal with her, which 
stood nicely covered up at the fire, awaiting his arrival. She is talking to 
herself. 
"One treasure is yet left me in this world覧my noble, beautiful, brave son. God 
bless him; for him I am willing to live. There he comes; how fast he runs! but 
how red and heated he looks! What is the matter, Harry? what has happened?" she 
exclaimed, as he entered; "are you sick?" 
"Yes, Mother, and I shall never be well again. I have been accused of stealing, 
and Mr. Reid and the postmaster both believe it. I cannot live here any longer. 
I have just come from the recruiting office; I have enlisted for the Mexican 
war, and I hope I shall be shot; I go the day after to-morrow. I will never be 
seen here again. To think that any one should dare to accuse me of theft! Why 
did I not knock him down? I hate the world, I hate all mankind, I hate life, I 
want to die. If it were not for you, Mother, I believe I should kill myself. O 
Mother, Mother! how can I live?" And the poor fellow laid his head in his 
mother's lap and wept bitterly. 
The poor mother覧she spoke not, she did not weep; she laid her hands upon her 
son's head, and looked up through the thin roof of her poor cottage, far, far 
into the everlasting heavens, where alone are peace and hope to be found. In her 
deep agony she called upon the Almighty for aid. She looked like a marble image 
of despair. 
"I must prepare to go," at last her son said; "I have enlisted, and I must be 
ready. "What will you do with yourself, Mother?" 
"Go with you, my child. Wherever you go, there I go too. I can cook for the 
camp. You have done wrong, my son, in enlisting as a soldier; why not come first 
to me? Your innocence will yet be proved. Why were you so rash? All might have 
yet been well with us." 
"I cannot bear it, Mother; I must go." 
"Then I go with you; I will never desert you." 
"But O, you will be killed with fatigue and exposure. Mother, dear Mother, stay 
till I can get you a new home." 
"I go, my son, where you go," said his mother; "my only home is with you." 
In two days their few possessions were sold, and they were gone. 
We will now return to the counting room where our TRUE story began. Some months 
had passed; the father and son are there. "George," said Mr. Pratt, "I cannot 
but fear you made some mistake about that letter. Money is seldom stolen out of 
letters. Were you very particular about the name and place in your direction?" 
"The truth is, Sir, that Frank directed the letter; I wrote and folded and 
sealed it; but just as I was going to direct it, Harry Flint called me to speak 
to some one, and I let Frank direct it; but I told him to be sure to direct it 
to Mr. John Reid, and I know he did so, just as well as if I had seen it." 
The father looked much displeased. "You did wrong, George, after my particular 
orders." 
"Why, Father, I am sure it was of no importance which of us did it. That was 
only a trifle, I am sure. I told Frank the name, and he knows where Mr. Reid 
lives. I should not think you would blame me for this覧" 
"I do blame you very much. You should not have left this to Frank. I charged you 
to be very careful. This was your own duty, and you should have performed it 
yourself. Your neglect will most likely cost me two hundred dollars, for I shall 
send the money to Mr. Reid; he of course is not to lose it. You cannot be sure 
that Frank directed the letter correctly; he is not used to the work." 
George began to feel that it was not a trifle to leave another person to direct 
a letter of importance; he felt very sorry at the thought of losing his father's 
money. Poor fellow! he had a worse pain than this to endure. 
The next morning, when the letters came from the post office, there was one from 
Mr. Reid. The missing letter had at last arrived, and the two hundred dollars 
were in it. The letter had been misdirected. There was a mistake in the name of 
the place. The letter had been sent to Washington, whence he had just received 
it, as the person whose office it is to read these letters knew him personally, 
and so could correct the mistake. He then related the sad story of the clerk and 
his poor mother. He added that he went to the poor woman's house the very day 
that he left the town, intending to satisfy his mind upon the question of her 
son's guilt, of which he began to doubt覧intending, if he found the young man 
innocent, to take him back into the office, and if not, to try to induce him to 
restore the money, and go, to recover his character, to some other place, to 
which he would have helped him to remove. He was too late. He found the house 
empty. "I pity the person," he said, "who misdirected that letter覧he was the 
unconscious cause of the ruin of two excellent beings. We may blame the young 
man's violence, and may call him foolish and passionate; yet it was a deep 
hatred of even the appearance of sin and shame that made him do so mad an action 
as to enlist in a wicked war." 
Mr. Pratt now read this letter to his son. George covered his face to hide his 
shame and sorrow; his heart was ready to break with agony. He groaned aloud. He 
spoke not one word. 
George was suffering in silence the bitterest of all pains which a good mind can 
endure,覧that of being the cause of misery to others, through one's own 
wrong-doing. After a few moments, he started up and exclaimed, "I must send word 
to the poor fellow that the money is found and his innocence proved; let me do 
what I can to repair the evil I have caused. If I write to the postmaster and 
tell him the story, he will take the poor fellow back again. I have some money 
of my own, Father, to pay for the travelling expenses of the boy and his mother. 
All perhaps may yet be right. I can work. I will do any thing for them. Poor 
Harry Brown覧so proud and so honest! O, Father! I hate myself. But how shall I 
send him word? the post is not certain; let me think. Bill Smith said he was 
going to the war, if he could get money enough for his journey. He would take my 
letter. I'll be after him, and get him off in no time." 
Away flew George; he gave Bill Smith the money, told him the story, and sent him 
off for that very night, George then wrote to the postmaster, and implored him 
to write immediately to Harry, and offer him again the place in the office. 
George went to bed with a heavy heart, still with the hope that poor Harry had 
not been killed. 
Now let us follow Harry and his old mother to Mexico. Many weeks have passed 
since we left George mourning his fault, and sending up prayers for the life of 
poor Harry. It is a few days after a battle. On the ground, in the corner of a 
small tent, lies a poor soldier. Bandages stained with blood are lying about. 
The poor sufferer is very pale, and his face shows marks of pain. An old woman, 
whose face is full of anxious love, sits by his side and holds his hand. The 
young man lifts the old withered hand to his lips and kisses it; he looks up 
through the thin canvas of his tent, and says, "Thank God, dear Mother, that you 
are here with me now to take care of me, else I think I should die. Forgive my 
rashness; if I live will yet be a good son to you. I knew was not a thief, and 
that ought to have been enough for me. I was wrong to be so angry, and to forget 
you, whom I ought to have staid by and taken care of, as I promised father I 
would. Forgive me, dear Mother. Perhaps I shall be a better man with one leg 
than I was with two." 
While the poor fellow, who had lost his leg the first day he went to battle, was 
slowly uttering these words, the tears were running fast down the hollow cheeks 
of his old mother, but gentle, quiet tears, as though the heart of her who shed 
them was resigned and peaceful. 
"I thank God for your life, my son. Your fighting days are over; they have been 
short; but usefulness and happiness are yet before you, though you go through 
life maimed. I shall yet see you smiling and happy again in our cottage, your 
innocence proved, your place restored, and friends all around you." 
"How can that be?" said Harry; "there is only my word and character as evidence 
of my honesty. I cannot go back to the old place覧never, never, Mother. What 
shall I do? Better die than live disgraced." 
"Have no fear, Harry; I have none. I am sure all will be well, and your honesty 
proved. So go to sleep, as the surgeon directed. Have faith; you have shown 
courage." His mother smoothed the clothes over him, and gently stroked his hand, 
and he was silent, and fell asleep. 
Presently, the surgeon looked in. He was a kind-hearted man, and knew their 
story. He said softly, "When the boy wakes I have some news for him that will do 
him more good than I can." 
Harry, who was just waking, started and exclaimed, "What news? tell me this 
minute! is the money found?" 
"Come, Mr. Gunpowder, keep quiet, if you please, or you'll not hear any thing 
from me." 
"Yes, yes; I am as quiet as a lamb, only be quick. Tell me the news." 
"Well, here are two letters that a great six foot chap has brought, not for your 
lambship, Mr. Harry, but for your good mother, who takes things like a rational 
being." 
He gave the letters to the mother and left the tent, saying with a smile, "Don't 
be too happy." 
The letter from the postmaster was to ask Harry's pardon for the injustice, and 
to offer the place in the office. "There is no one," it concluded, "I could 
trust as I can you." 
The other was from George, as follows:覧 
"DEAR MR. BROWN: My neglect of my duty in directing a letter was the real cause 
of the suspicion that fell upon you. I can never forgive myself. I can hardly 
hope you can forgive me. If you will be generous enough to try to do so, you 
will make me less unhappy. If you accept the sum I enclose you to meet the 
expenses of your journey, I shall be less miserable. By taking it you will prove 
that you pity and forgive me,覧the unintentional cause of so much evil to you 
and your excellent mother." George enclosed a check for five hundred dollars, 
all he had saved from his earnings as a clerk for the two years past. 
"Thank Heaven, my innocence is proved!" said the honest fellow. "But, Mother, I 
don't want the money." 
"It is kinder to take it," said the mother. 
Harry submitted. Ere long, he was able to move on crutches. He and his mother 
were again in their little cottage. Harry received the heartiest welcome from 
his towns-people when he was seen again with his one leg in his place in the 
post-office. 
George often went to the town. His first visit was always to Mrs. Brown. He 
treated her as if she were his mother, and her son was to him as a brother. He 
was often heard to say, "The sound of Harry Brown's crutches always reminds me 
sorrowfully that when there is a duty to perform involving the rights of others 
we should never say, It is only a trifle." 
"It seems to me," said Frank, "that I should never have been happy again to have 
caused so much misery by the neglect of my duty; and yet, Mother, it did seem a 
trifle." 
"My mother," replied Mrs. Chilton, "said to me, when I was a girl, Never 
consider any duty, ever so great, as too difficult, or any, ever so small, as 
too trifling. I have never forgotten her words, and though I have not always 
been faithful to this lesson, it has often saved me from wrong-doing and its 
consequent unhappiness." 
After a short silence, Mrs. Chilton said to her boys, The next story is not so 
painful, but it illustrates the same truth覧that, in matters of conscience, 
nothing is trifling. You shall now hear how happy a good conscience can make one 
even under the severest trials. 
One pleasant afternoon, my friend and I were seated in the neat little room 
which served old Susan Vincent for parlor, kitchen, and bed-room. She was 
sitting in a nice arm-chair which her infirmities made necessary for her 
comfort. A kind friend had sent it to her. She had on a nice clean gingham gown, 
a handkerchief crossed on her neck, in the fashion of the Shakers, and a plain 
cap, as white as the driven snow, covered her silver locks. A little round 
table, polished by frequent scouring, stood beside her; on it was her knitting 
work, Baxter's Saints' Rest, and the Bible; the last lay open before her. She 
was reading in it when we entered. As her door was open and she did not hear 
very quickly, we had an opportunity of observing her before she perceived us. 
There was that deep interest in her manner of reading this holy book, as she was 
leaning over it with her spectacles on, entirely absorbed, that made her 
resemble a person who was examining a title deed to an estate which was to make 
her the heir of uncounted treasures. She was indeed reading with her whole soul 
the proofs she there found of her claim to an inheritance that makes all earthly 
riches seem poor indeed. 
"I am glad to see you, dear," was her affectionate welcome to me; "do I know 
this lady with you?" 
"No," I answered; "she is my friend whom I told you the other day I should bring 
to see you." 
"I am glad to see her if she is your friend," she replied. 
"I want you, Susan, if you are strong enough to-day, to repeat to my friend that 
little account of yourself that you were once kind enough to give me." 
"What, the whole story?" said Susan, "beginning at the beginning, as the 
children say?" 
Susan was silent a minute or two, as if to collect her thoughts, and then said, 
I have always believed, that, though it seemed strange that such a 
good-for-nothing creature as I am should be spared, and others taken away, that, 
may be, I was left to give my testimony for some good purpose, and that my 
experience might do some good to poor pilgrims. For 
     "It is a straight and thorny road,
        And mortal spirits tire and faint;
      But they forget the mighty God
        Who feeds the strength of every saint."
Susan knew half the hymn book by heart, and loved to repeat hymns so well, that 
she could hardly have told her story without this preface. She immediately began 
as follows:覧 
"My father, who was a sailor, lost his life at sea when I was two years old; my 
mother never had very good health, and about six years afterward she fell into a 
consumption. She lived only a year after she was taken sick. I was too young to 
remember much of her, but I have a distinct recollection of seeing her often 
sitting by a little stand like this, with an open Bible upon it; and once I was 
struck with her looking up to heaven with her hands clasped for a long time as 
if she were praying, and then looking at me, and then at the book; and I saw big 
tears rolling down her cheeks. She called me to her, and said, with an earnest 
but broken voice, God save my child from the evil that is in the world! and give 
her the testimony of a good conscience. 
These words I could not forget, for the next day she died. We forget many things 
in this world, ladies, but the words of a dying mother we cannot help 
remembering. This was the first time I had ever seen death, but there was such a 
peaceful, happy expression in my mother's face, that it did not seem very 
terrible to me, till I found they were going to carry her away; indeed, I think 
I must have believed it was sleep, and expected her to awake; for, when they 
took her from me, I was half out of my senses, and screamed for them to leave me 
my mother. 
A kind old lady, a friend to my mother, took me in her lap and put her arms 
round me, and tried to soothe and comfort me. She told me my mother had gone to 
heaven; that it was only her body that was dead; but that her soul was living, 
and was gone to heaven. "She will never be sick or unhappy any more; she is gone 
to God, and she will live forever with Jesus Christ and all good beings." 
"But I want to see her," said I. 
"You will see her again, I doubt not, my child, if you are good," the old lady 
said. Perhaps I should not have remembered so exactly what she said, if she had 
not frequently repeated the same thing to me, and if I had not loved my mother 
so much. 
This excellent lady took me home with her, and it was to her goodness I owe 
every thing. She had lost nearly all her property by the failure of a merchant 
to whom she had lent money; she had supported herself by taking boarders. I was 
perfectly destitute; my mother had made out to get a living by taking in sewing, 
but left nothing. The last year of her life she could not have got along without 
my assistance, and what was given her by her charitable neighbors; and for the 
last three months she could not even make her bed, or clean her own room, or do 
her little cooking, without my help. And O, how happy I was when I was helping 
my dear mother! Now at this moment, when I am so old, and forget so many things, 
how well I remember her and all she said! It seems as if I could hear her say, 
"What should I do without you, my dear Susan." It seems to me as if I would 
rather live over again those days, when I was trying to help and comfort my sick 
mother, than any of my whole life. Children are not aware how much they can do 
for their parents, nor do they know what a blessed remembrance it will be to 
them to think that they have lessened the sufferings of a sick mother. All the 
riches in the world would not afford them such happiness. 
Mrs. Brown, the kind lady who took me home, told me that she would send me to 
school, and that I should have a home at her house; but that, as she was very 
poor, she should expect me to exert myself when I was not at school, and do all 
I could to help in the house; and that I must improve my time at school. She 
gave me a great deal of good advice, and told me I must not imitate the bad 
conduct that I might see; and that I must never do any thing without asking my 
conscience whether it was right to do it. I remember she asked me if I knew what 
my conscience was. I was not quite sure that I did; so I said, I did not know 
whether I did. Then she asked me if I ever remembered doing wrong. 
"O yes, ma'am," I said; "I never shall forget playing with my mother's bottle of 
cough drops, when she told me not to, and spilling them all out. I did not tell 
her of it at first, and she could not get any more till next day; and every time 
she coughed, it seemed as if my heart would break; and I hated myself, and could 
not bear it at all till I told her I had played with the bottle and spilled the 
drops." 
"It was your conscience, Susan," the old lady said, "that was so troubled; it 
was your conscience that said you must tell your mother; this is God's witness 
in your heart; always do as that directs you, and come what will, Susan, you can 
bear it." 
I was so grateful to my kind friend for her tender care of me, that I attended 
to all she said to me, and never forgot it; and it has been the source of 
happiness to me through life. I had not been long in the school before I had a 
trial of my conscience, and I thank Him who is the giver of all strength that I 
resisted this first temptation. 
One day the schoolmistress left her penknife open upon her desk, when she went 
out of her room during the recess; nearly all the girls took it into their hands 
to look at it, for it had a number of blades, and was rather curious; some of 
them tried the knife to see how sharp it was. We had been told not to meddle 
with her things, and all of us knew it was wrong; as I was one of the small 
girls, I did not get a chance to look at it till all had seen it; but, when the 
others ran out to the play ground, and I was left alone, I went to the desk, and 
took up the knife, and opened and shut all the blades; but instead of leaving 
the one open which I found so, I left open another blade, just put it on the 
edge of my nail, to see how very sharp it was, and then laid it down, and ran 
after the rest of the girls. 
When the schoolmistress came in, she immediately saw that we had taken up her 
knife. "Some one," said she, "has been using my knife; I am sure of it, because 
the blade that I left open is shut, and another is open, and it is gapped; who 
has done it?" Not a girl spoke; I thought that I was the only one who had opened 
and shut the blades, but I knew I had not gapped either of them. I knew that all 
the others had taken up the knife; I was afraid to speak; I did not like to take 
the whole blame, and I was silent as the other girls were. 
After waiting a few minutes, our teacher said, "As none of you choose to confess 
who has done this, I shall have to punish the innocent with the guilty; I shall 
take away a merit from all of you, except those few girls who, I feel sure, 
would not disobey me." 
There were only five girls in the school who did not lose a merit, and I was one 
of the number. As she named them over, and gave her reasons for believing them 
innocent, when she came to me, she said, "Little Susan Vincent has been so 
orderly and so good ever since she has been here, that I am sure it was not she 
that did it, and, if she had, I am sure she would confess it." 
I felt as if I was choking; I put my head clear down so that no one could see my 
face; but the girls, who had none of them seen me touch the knife, thought that 
my modesty made me appear so much confused; no one but God and myself knew that 
I had a guilty conscience. I felt too dreadfully to speak then; I thought of 
nothing else all school time; I missed in all my lessons, for I did not attend 
to any thing that was said to me. The schoolmistress thought I was sick, and I 
went home miserable enough. 
As I went along, I thought over all that Mrs. Brown had said to me about 
conscience, and I understood then what she meant by the voice of God in the 
heart. No one accused me, but I felt like a criminal; every one thought well of 
me; my schoolmistress and companions all loved me; but I despised and hated 
myself. I felt as if God was displeased with me. 
As usual, I went directly to Mrs. Brown to ask what she had for me to do. 
"What's the matter, Susan?" said she; "you don't look right; have you been 
naughty, or are you sick, child?" 
I could not bear to have her speak so kindly to me when I did not deserve it, 
and I burst into tears; I loved her like a mother, and I told her all. 
"And now, Susan, what are you going to do?" 
"I want you, ma'am, to tell the schoolmistress." 
"Better tell her yourself," she answered. 
After thinking a while, I said that I would; and then my conscience was a little 
easier. I went a little before the time, that I might see her alone. When I came 
in, I found a friend of hers with her, and I heard my mistress whisper, "This is 
my dear little orphan girl." She called me to her, and took me up in her lap. 
"Well, honest little Sue," said she, "why don't you look up in my face, as you 
know you always do?" 
This was too much for me; I burst into tears, and put my hands over my face. 
"What's the matter, Susan?" said she. 
As soon as I could speak, I said, "I did open the knife; I was wicked when you 
thought I was good, for I did not tell the truth; I opened and shut all the 
blades, and I cut a notch on my nail with one, and then I did not tell you of it 
when you asked who opened it." When I had got it all out, I felt better; it 
seemed as if a great load was taken off of my heart. 
In a few minutes, my kind friend said to me, "I am sorry you did wrong, Susan; 
but I am very glad to see that you have a tender conscience, and that it has 
made you come and confess your faults; I am very glad that you are so sorry; it 
is a bad sign when children think they are happy, after they have done wrong. I 
trust, my dear Susan, that you have suffered so much, that you will never commit 
such a fault again; it was only foolish and disobedient to take up my knife, but 
it was very wrong not to tell me, when I asked who did it, and let me punish so 
many girls for your offence." 
I saw that she thought I was the only one that had touched the knife, and 
believed me worse than I was; and then I felt what a difference there was 
between a good and an evil conscience; for it did not trouble me half so much 
that she thought me worse than I really was, as to see that she thought me 
better. 
Then she said, "You must, Susan, confess before the whole school that it was you 
that took my knife." 
While she was speaking, the girls came in. I had cried so much that I could 
hardly speak; and my good friend said that, as I was a little girl, she would 
speak for me. 
As soon as she said that I had confessed that it was I that took the knife, 
almost every girl in the school cried out, "It was not little Susan, it was I!" 
"It was not Sue, it was I!" was heard all round the room. This made me feel bold 
enough to speak, and I said, 
"Yes, I did take it up when you were all out on the play ground; I opened and 
shut all the blades, and cut a little notch on my nail." 
"And so did I!" "And so did I!" was heard from a number of voices. "And we took 
it up first," said all the girls. 
When there was silence, the schoolmistress told us that she was glad to see 
that, though we had done wrong in the morning, we were trying now to do right, 
and repair our fault; that although we had not obeyed conscience then, we were 
acting as it directed us now. 
"And are you not all happier?" said she. "Yes," they all said. "And is not God 
good, to put this feeling in your hearts, that makes you unhappy when you do 
wrong, and happy when you do right? Follow this guide, children, and it will 
lead you to heaven." 
It may seem strange that a child, hardly nine years old, should remember all 
that was said at such a time; but I suffered a great deal before I confessed my 
fault, for I was a little proud of my good character at school, and my suffering 
made me remember. Besides, Mrs. Brown often talked about conscience to me, and 
told me that I must learn to govern myself, for that when she died, I should 
have nothing but my character to depend upon; no guide but my Bible and my 
conscience, and no protector but God. 
When I was about fifteen years old, Mrs. Brown, my kind friend, died, go sweetly 
and calmly that death in her seemed beautiful. I sat by her side, after I had 
closed her eyes, and looked in her dear face, till even my grief at losing her 
was quieted, and till I felt what we learn in the good book, that the good never 
die. I felt sure that her soul was with God. 
After the funeral, I went out to inquire for a place, and soon found one, for 
every one knew Mrs. Brown's regard for me. 
I met with a great trouble at my first place; I was the chamber maid, and the 
nursery maid was envious of me, because my mistress liked me better than her. 
She often accused me of faults I did not commit; but, when my mistress spoke to 
me, I looked and was so innocent that she was convinced. 
One morning my mistress sent for me; as soon as I saw her face I knew that 
something very bad was the matter, for the tears came into her eyes when she 
spoke to me. She told me that she was very sorry, but that she could not keep me 
any longer; she was grieved to lose me, but more for the cause. 
I asked her to tell me the cause. 
"I am afraid," she said, "indeed, Susan, I have a good reason to believe, that 
you are not honest." 
I do confess, ladies, that I was very angry; it seemed as if all the blood in my 
body flew up into my face and head; I could not speak, and I don't know but my 
confusion and anger together made me look guilty. 
"I am glad," said she, "that you don't tell any falsehood about it; you are 
welcome to stay here till you get a place." 
By this time I could speak, and I said to her, "I am as innocent as the child 
just born. I never took so much as a pin from any one; I do not wish to stay a 
minute in your house; I would not stay in any one's house who had accused me of 
dishonesty;" and I called upon my mother and my friend Mrs. Brown, though I knew 
they could not answer me, and I cried aloud like a child. 
My mistress shed tears, and said she should not have accused me without certain 
proofs of my dishonesty, and begged me to confess my fault, and to stay till I 
got a place; but I told her I would not stay another minute, and I went to my 
chamber and tied up my bundle, and put on my bonnet and shawl, and walked 
straight off without speaking to any one. 
I had gone nearly a mile before I was at all calmed, and then, out of breath, 
and miserable beyond words to tell, I sat down under an old tree by the 
roadside. It was autumn; the tree was stripped of its leaves, the wind sounded 
mournfully among the dead branches, there were heavy dark clouds in the sky, and 
my heart was heavier and darker than the clouds, and my sighs were sadder than 
the wind. 
The place where I had been living was two miles from the village where I had 
lived with Mrs. Brown, and I had taken the road to it, though then she was not 
there to take me in; I had no relation in the wide world; O, I never shall 
forget that dreary moment, and how desolate I felt. I looked up into the sky, 
and called upon God, the Father of the fatherless; I cried to him for help, and 
help came to me, for I felt stronger and I grew composed; and then I remembered 
I was innocent, and just then the sun broke out between two dark clouds, and it 
looked to me like the pure bright eye of God, looking right into my heart, and 
seeing my innocence; and then it seemed as if my soul was full of light, and I 
went on my way to the village, feeling as if I had no dreadful sorrow. 
When I got into the village, I remembered my old schoolmistress, and I knew 
that, though she was poor herself, she would share her bed with me for a night 
at least, and I remembered that scripture, "Be not anxious for the morrow." 
It was dusk when I knocked at her door; and O, you know not, who have never been 
without a happy home, how cheering to my heart was the sound of her kind voice, 
saying, "Walk in." She was not very quick sighted, and at first she took me for 
a stranger, till I said, "It is I, Miss Howe; do you not know me?" She turned me 
towards the light that was still left in the west, and in a second exclaimed, 
"Why, it is little Sue, my orphan girl!" This was too much for me. She put her 
arms round me, and I cried again like a child; but they were not such bitter 
tears as I had shed before. 
"What brought you here at this time?" said she, "and what is the matter? But 
come take some supper first, and tell me afterwards; you look very tired." She 
took off my bonnet, and made me sit down by the fire, and finished getting her 
tea ready which she was preparing when I came in, and made me drink a cup of it 
before she asked another question, and then she said, "Now, Susan, tell me what 
is the matter; something has happened, I know." Then I told her all that I knew 
myself, for why my mistress had treated me so I could not tell. 
When I had finished, she said, "Now, Susan, you will find the advantage of a 
good character; if I did not believe that you would starve sooner than steal or 
tell a falsehood, I should be afraid about you now; but as it is, I do not feel 
uneasy, for I believe that innocence always prevails. I will do the best I can 
for you; I shall never forget the penknife; so, my child, do not cry any more, 
and let us talk of other things; you shall have half of my bed and whatever I 
have, till you can get a place to suit you; so, dear, do not be downcast." 
O, young ladies, you must know what it is to be alone in the world, and to be 
accused wrongfully, to be able to know the blessing of kindness, of true 
Christian charity; it seemed as if a voice had said to my troubled heart, 
"Peace, be still." 
Directly after breakfast the next morning, Miss Howe left me; she said she was 
going to take a short walk before school began, and should soon return. She 
looked much pleased when she came back. "I think," said she, "I have got a good 
place for you. It is at the minister's; I heard they wanted some one; I went and 
told them all about you, and they believe you are innocent. Mr. A覧says he 
remembers you in Mrs. Brown's sick chamber, but his wife thinks it proper to go 
and see the lady you have been living with, and he will come and see you this 
evening." 
At first this made me feel very badly; my pride and my anger began to rise, but 
after a while I conquered them. I remembered that no one could take away my good 
conscience, and I could not think that I should be forsaken. 
I passed the day very comfortably, and even cheerfully; I sometimes forgot that 
I had any trouble. Just after tea, the minister came in; he shook hands very 
kindly with me, but he looked very serious, and fixed his eye right in my face. 
O, if I had not had a good conscience then, how could I have borne that look! 
but it seemed to me as if I could feel my soul coming up into my face, to tell 
its own innocence; I am sure my looks must have said, I am not afraid, for I 
have done no wrong. 
He seemed more satisfied, but he told me that he had been to Mrs.覧, where I had 
lived, and she had told him that the evidence was so great of my dishonesty that 
she could not doubt it. She was only sorry for me. 
"We have determined," said he, "to try you; I cannot but hope that you are what 
you seem, innocent; but time will show." 
I had felt so proud of my character, that the idea of going upon trial was hard 
for me to bear, and I just answered that I would go; I was not as grateful as 
perhaps I ought to have been, for it was very good in him to believe me 
innocent, in spite of all that was told him against me, and I ought to have 
thanked him for his compassion upon such a forlorn creature as I was then. 
Many years after, I found out what I had been accused of, and I had the 
satisfaction of having my innocence acknowledged. The morning of the day when I 
left my mistress, she had received some money in gold. She had counted all the 
pieces over very carefully, and was about putting them away, when she was called 
suddenly out of the room to see a friend at the door upon important business. It 
was cold, and she called me, and sent me into the room for her shawl, where I 
never even saw the gold. 
Her brother, who had come with her friend, ran into the room to warm himself 
while they were talking; he saw the gold, and, to tease his sister, put one of 
the eagles into his pocket meaning to return it the same day. 
He was in a merchant's counting house, and that very day was sent out of town 
upon important business, at only a minute's warning. He was a careless fellow, 
and forgot his jest, and did not learn till long afterwards its sad 
consequences. 
My mistress, who knew that no one had entered the room but her brother and I, 
and was certain of her accuracy in counting the money, was convinced that I was 
a thief. She had believed some ill- natured things the other servant, who 
disliked me, had said against me, and had become ready to think ill of me. When, 
long after, this lady found out her injustice, she took pains to declare my 
innocence and to ask my forgiveness. But ladies should be careful not to accuse 
poor girls wrongfully, and not to leave money about. Terrible ruin may follow 
such carelessness. 
After I had lived five years at the minister's, I married a carpenter, a good 
man, whom my friends all liked; and, though I was almost broken hearted at 
leaving my happy home, I was willing to give up all for him. 
And then new troubles and trials began. My husband was not very successful at 
first, but I took in sewing, and we got along; we loved each other, and were 
very happy. But about a year and a half after our marriage, he had a fall from a 
house, and injured his spine, and after a sickness of three months he died. 
At the time he was brought home so dreadfully hurt, I had an infant six weeks 
old; I was not very strong, and nursing my husband, and the care of my infant, 
and my distress at his death, all together, were too much for me; I had a severe 
illness. The doctor, who was a very kind man, took care of me and sent me a 
nurse, who tended me through the worst of my illness, and did not leave me till 
I was able to crawl about, and help myself and take care of my poor baby, who 
had been sadly neglected; for I was so sick that I required all the nurse's 
attention; and now came my hardest trial. 
One night in December, about three months after my husband's death, I was 
sitting over my little fire late in the evening, reading my Bible, in hopes that 
those words of comfort might quiet my grief, when I was startled by a knock at 
the door, and my landlord entered. He lived in the other part of the house in 
which he rented me one room; I never liked this man, and at first I felt 
frightened, but in a minute I got over it. 
"I want the rent," he said. 
"But you know," I said, "all my troubles, and that my poor husband left nothing, 
that I have been sick, and that I have no money; I shall soon be able to earn 
enough to pay you, if you will only take pity on me and wait till I can." 
"Well," said he, "one good turn deserves another; perhaps I'll accommodate you 
if you will do something for me." 
"If it is any thing I can do," I said, "I should be glad to do it, and very 
thankful to you for your kindness in waiting for the rent." 
He went into the other room and brought in a large bundle of laces and silks and 
other valuable goods. "I want you," said he, "to open your feather bed and put 
all these things into it; they are rightly mine, but I have my reasons for 
wishing to hide them; some goods have been stolen, and the constables are after 
them, and if they were to see these they might seize them instead of those they 
are searching for, and it would make a great bother." 
I had no doubt they were stolen goods, and I said immediately that I would not 
do what he wished me to, but as civilly as I could. 
"I will," said he, "give you one of the pieces of cambric for your trouble, and 
I will never ask you for this last quarter's rent; it will be a great favor to 
me, for they know that you are sick, and you have the credit of being very 
honest, and the things would not be touched in your bed, and a great deal of 
trouble would be saved." 
"I will," said I, "keep the credit of being honest; I can have nothing to do 
with any of these things; your conscience can best tell whether they are 
honestly come by." 
"Do you dare," said he, "to say I stole them?" in such a loud voice as to wake 
up my poor baby and to make me start. 
"I say nothing," I answered, "but that it is against my conscience to do what 
you asked me to do." 
He flew into a passion, and said, "Conscience or no conscience, you do as I ask 
you to, or out of my house you go this very night." 
"Not to-night," I said. 
"Yes, to-night," he answered. "Do as I tell you, and you have no rent to pay, 
and this piece of cambric is yours, and I am your friend; but refuse me, and out 
of the house you go this very night; I have warned you long enough to pay the 
rent." 
I told him that I could not do what was against my conscience for all the goods 
of this world, and that if he was so cruel as to turn me out of doors, God would 
protect me and my child. "But," said I, "are you not afraid to do such a wicked 
thing, it is so dark and stormy, and my poor baby"覧and at the thought that it 
had no father to protect it, I burst into tears, and could not speak. 
He was silent, and seemed to feel some pity. Presently he said, "Well, you may 
stay till daylight, but then you must either hide these things for me, or you 
must march. And I suppose it will not worry your stomach to let these things 
stay here till then." So he put the goods on a chair, and laid my cloak and 
bonnet upon them. 
As soon as he was gone, and his door shut, I took the things and put them all 
just outside of the door. I was too much troubled and frightened to go to bed. 
At break of day he was in my room again. "Will you do as I desire," said he, "or 
will you clear out? I'll make you pay for putting these things on the dirty 
floor." He stopped a minute. "Come, now, hide these things, and we are friends, 
and no trouble about your rent, and all's right, you know." 
I thank heaven that I never hesitated; it did not seem a possible thing to me 
that I should assist this man in hiding his stolen goods. I am certain that I 
should have rather died. 
I cannot think now how it was that I felt so calm and so strong. I collected 
together a small bundle of clothes, and tried to wrap up my baby so that the 
cold air should not come to her; it seemed as if I could hear my conscience say, 
"Be not afraid;" I felt as if I was not alone. 
I left the house, determining to go from door to door till I found some one to 
take me in. I was refused admittance at two or three; and then I remembered a 
poor widow who had sent me broth when I was sick, and I went to her. It was 
hardly daylight when I knocked; there was a driving sleet, but my heart did not 
fail me, my God did not forsake me. 
It was some time before the good woman came down; I had taken my own cloak to 
cover my dear baby, and I was wet to the skin, and had such an ague fit from 
cold that I could hardly speak to beg shelter for heaven's sake. 
She took me in, she made a fire, and got me something hot to drink; she took my 
child, and dried and warmed it, and put her and me to bed. 
I found that the fever I had just been cured of was returning; the cold and wet 
was too much for my strength; I thought I might die, and I told the kind widow 
my story, and the name of the clergyman with whom I had lived in the country, 
and begged her if I should grow worse to send for him, for I knew he would be my 
friend. It was fortunate I did, for I grew ill very fast; I had a high fever, 
and did not know afterwards what I said. 
She sent for him. He came and told her that all I said was true; he got me a 
nurse and physician, and gave the poor widow money for me, and said he would pay 
all my expenses, and thanked her as much, she told me afterwards, for her care 
of me as if I had been his own child. 
After the fever left me, a severe rheumatism settled in my back, which I had 
strained in lifting my husband. I have never since been able to stand upright. 
But O, this was nothing to what I suffered when they told me, when I was well 
enough to bear to hear it, they told me that my baby, my little daughter,覧I 
cannot bear now to think of it,覧she took cold too, and then the weaning her, 
and all, it was too much for the little thing; my child went to God who gave it. 

It seemed at first as if I should die; then I remembered that if I had done as 
that wicked man wanted me to do, I should have perhaps been well, my baby alive 
and well, and all might have seemed prosperous; and did I regret that I had not 
saved her life and my own health by acting against my conscience? no, not for a 
moment. I had no longer a kind husband, I had lost my only child and my health; 
and yet the light of God's blessing has ever been in my heart; when I think of 
all my trials, and remember that I have kept a conscience void of offence, O, I 
cannot tell you what peaceful thoughts I have, what a strange joy I sometimes 
experience. 
My kind friend, the minister, had me removed as soon as I was well enough to his 
house, and got me this little room in the neighborhood, where I have taken in 
sewing work, and have ever since got a very good living. 
When I inquired about my landlord, I found that the officers came that morning, 
found the stolen goods, and carried him to prison. My friend went to see him, 
and told him from me that as soon as I could earn the money, I would pay him 
what I owed him. This I did with the very first money I received. I went to see 
him, and took the rent to him myself. He did not know me, the stoop had changed 
me so much. 
Certainly, ladies, she added, I have met with what are called great misfortunes; 
I have lost all that I loved best on earth, and I am a cripple for life; but I 
still rejoice to think that my mother's prayer has been heard for me; through 
the blessing of God I have been saved from the evil that there is in the world, 
for I have ever had the testimony of a good conscience. 
The sun was setting before the old lady had finished her story; its slanting 
beams streamed in through the narrow window, and fell on the gray locks that 
were parted neatly on her forehead, and on her bright, calm, uplifted eye, and 
gave a glow of youthful enthusiasm and celestial brightness to her face.