One stormy winter day, Mrs. Dorcas had been working till dark, making
candle-wicks. When she came to get tea, she tied the white fleecy
rolls together, a great bundle of them, and hung them up in the
cellar-way, over the stairs, to be out of the way. They were extra
fine wicks, being made of flax for the company candles. "I've got a
good job done," said Mrs. Dorcas, surveying them complacently. Her
husband had gone to Boston, and was not coming home till the next day,
so she had had a nice chance to work at them, without as much
interruption as usual.

Ann, going down the cellar-stairs, with a lighted candle, after some
butter for tea, spied the beautiful rolls swinging overhead. What
possessed her to, she could not herself have told--she certainly had
no wish to injure Mrs. Dorcas' wicks--but she pinched up a little end
of the fluffy flax and touched her candle to it. She thought she would
see how that little bit would burn off. She soon found out. The flame
caught, and ran like lightning through the whole bundle. There was a
great puff of fire and smoke, and poor Mrs. Dorcas' fine candle-wicks
were gone. Ann screamed, and sprang down stairs. She barely escaped
the whole blaze coming in her face.

"What's that!" shrieked Mrs. Dorcas, rushing to the cellar-door. Words
can not describe her feeling when she saw that her nice candle-wicks,
the fruit of her day's toil, were burnt up.

If ever there was a wretched culprit that night, Ann was. She had not
meant to do wrong, but that, maybe, made it worse for her in one way.
She had not even gratified malice to sustain her. Grandma blamed her,
almost as severely as Mrs. Dorcas. She said she didn't know what would