able to look up into her father's face, and say, very calmly, "I
could not take any pleasure in your pretty box, for I know I do not
deserve it. Please, dear Father, to tell Mother all about it, and
put away the box, if you choose not to give it to some one else. It
is very pretty, but it is not to be my box."

The tears began to come in her eyes, and she turned to go out of the
room. Her father stopped her. "Come here, my Child," he said. "You
did wrong, but you have done all you could to repair your fault. You
will never again, I think, be guilty of falsehood. At the end of
another month, if you feel sure of yourself, come to me for your
box."

"No, Father, that would seem like being paid for speaking the truth.
I should never ask for the box."

"Would you rather I should give it to your cousin?"

"If you please, I should;" and then the tears ran fast down her
cheeks. "You know my cousin Edith has very few pretty things. I
should like her to have it."

"Take it, Alice, and give it to her yourself."

"As your present, Father, not as mine. You know it is not, and
cannot be mine. I have been so unhappy at my untruth, that I think I
shall never commit such a fault again."

Alice never did again, in the slightest thing, depart from the
strictest truth and uprightness, in action as well as in word. It