p= How She Told a Lie. BY THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN HALIFAX GENTLEMAN," The three travelers—kind Cousin Eva and her young charges, Cherry and Ruth—were standing on the stair- case of the curious Hotel de Bourg- throude, ty the Place de ls Pucelle, Rouen. The narrow, gloon y little wquare looked still narrower and gloomier in the drizzle of the dull November ds y, snd the ug'y pump in the middle of it, with a stil uglier statue on the top, marking the place where Jeanne d’Arc was burnt, had been a sore disappeintment to the children. They had come, enthusias. tio little nhigrimus, to see the spot where thelr favorite heroine died; and Cousin Eva could hard’y get them to believe that it was the spot—that the common: looking market place, where a few ordinary merhet people were passing and repassiug, had actusl'y heen the scene of that cruel deed— that from the very identical windows of these identical houses brutal «yes bad watched the maid as she stood, the flames curling rou. d her, claspink the rude eross which some charitable soul pushed towsrd her hand. a. to investigate from under her umbrella the curious bas reliefs of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, which «till remain in the court of the Hotel du Bourg- throude. ‘‘No, children, you must wait a more desirable opportuni'y.” Which, however, was not long in coming. The dsy brightened—grew into one of those exquisite ds ys which French people call Fete de Bt. Martin —and truly I know nothing like it except what it most resemblese—a sweet peaceful contented old age. Bo 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 Secours. “ Is that the same w hich Alice sing about in the opera of ‘Robert le Dia- ble?” and Chery struck up in her clear, young voice— “Quand jo quittals ma Normandie," Rouen is Norman(y, so of course it is the same— ‘Dalgune proteger nos amours Notre Dame de Bon Secours.” “ Please don’t sing quite #0 loud or the hotel people will hear you,’ sald timid Ruth, and was quite relieved when thy started off. I need not relate how extreme!y the cnildren en- “Do you remember,” Cousin Eva said, “how, at the last moment, she retracted all the false confession of here'y and witchersft which tortoye had wrung from her, and exclaimed : ‘Yes, vy voices were of God,” ard how, when she saw the flax es ap proaching h.r, she shut her yes, sslled out once: ‘Jesus!’ dropped her head upon her Lremst and that was all, till th y raked up a handful of charred bones out of the embers, and threw them into the Seine?’ The children Jooked ve: y grave. At _iast the y did realize the whole. “I wonder what sort of a dey it was,” whispered Cherry ; “dull sand gloou y, like to-d: y, or with a bright, plue,sunry ¢} y? Perhaps she looked ap at it before the fire touched her And perhaps he stood here—just where we stand—the English soldier who cried out, ‘We have burut » saint!’ ”’ “And so sne was,” sald Ruth, with a quiver passing over the eager little face, ‘a real saint.” “Bat, Cousin Eva” added Chery, “why did she ever own to being a witch? and how could she say her voices were not trae when sbe believed they were true? One wy or the other ane must have told a lie.’ Mise Cher y was of an arguments. tive rather than a sentimental turn. She thought a good deal herself, and liked to make other people think, too, 30 a8 to enable ner to get at the bot- tom of things. Bhe could never over look the slightest break in a chain of practical reasoning; and if she had a contempt in this world it was for a Weak person or & parson who told a lie. This flaw, even in her tavori te maid of Orleans, otherwise so strong and brave, was 100 much for Cher: y 10 pass OVer. “Do you think,” sald Cousin Eva, that it would be possible, under stress of circumstances, to tell a lie—to sonfess to something one had never done? Bishop Cranmer, for instance have you forgotien how he signed» recantation and then thrust into the flames ‘that anwortl y right Land? And Galileo, when forced t y the inquisition to declare the earth stood still, muttered afterward, ' E per- of muove,’ Yes, yes,” continued she, “one never knows what one m:y be driven to till the time comes. The force of torture is ve y strong. Once upon s time I remember I told a lie.” “You told s lie,” echoed Chery, locking with amazement into the bright, sweet, honest face—ro:y- cheeked, blue yed—her little cousins themselves had not more - innocent eyes than Eva's—as clear and round as a bal y's “Bat nobody ever tortured you?” saked tendered-hearted Ruth, cling- ing te the tender hand which, indeed, she never went far awry from, in these alarming “foreign parts.” “No, wy little girl ; the thumb- d the maiden be- Still, even nowadsys, good deal of moral torture can be to bear upon one ocoasionally, 'y when one is only a child, as 1 was then. And I was tried sharply— to make me remember 1) gre an | feel quite sure that if ow! Jeanne & Arc 1 should very like- y have done exaci'y as she did. Also I tearned what I have tried to put In joe ever since, that nothin makes people lisrs like disbelleving tender ili tle pressure to while Cherry said poor Jeaune t like how well quite innocen a’Are? Dotelll You know we like the story.” “What, here in this pelt of rain?” answered Cousin Eva, as she i yed the stiff climb up the hill, and dwired 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 yoeux,’” ete. Curlous, gimple, almost childish, it all was, yet touching to those who feel, ns Cousin Eva did, that to belleve earnestly in ar ything is better than believing in nouring. Afterward th: y all sat and rested in one of the pretiest 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 Becours. From this &igh point they could see | the whole count: y for miles and miles, tbe Seine winding through it in pic picturesque curves; Rouen, with its bridges and streets, distinct as if a map, I'y at their right hand, and, rising out of the mass of houses, ethe- real zed 1y the yellow sunset, were the two spires of the cathedral and the church of st. Ouen, “Can you see the market piace, Cousin Eva? If so, poor Jeanne d’Are, 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 pot this ome, which is modern, you see,” “J wonder,” continued Cherry, who was alwsys wondering, ** if she looked up at it, and thought it hard that Notre Dame de Bon Becours should not have succored her. Per- haps because, to escape from the here tic English, she had told a le"! “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 sy, Cousin Eva, was it & big or a little one? Wiy did you tell it? And was it ever found out ?”’ “I don't quite see the difference be tween big and little, 10 y child. A lie is a lle, though sometimes there are extenuating circumstances in 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 sll the same.” “Will it grieve you to tell me about it? I should not like that,” said Rath, softly. “No, dear; because I have long since forgiven myself. I was guch a small child, much younger than eitier of you, and unlike you I had no parents, orly an sunt, an anele, and & lot of rough cousins who domineered over me and made me afraid. That was the cause. The sure way te makes child untruthful is to make it afraid. I remember as if it were yesterday, the shudder of terror that came over me when wy eldest cousin clutched me by the shoulder, ssylug: ‘Did you do that?’ L 2) “And what had you done?” naked Cherry. “Nothing ; but Will thought 1 had, We were all digging in our garden, and had just found his favorite jessa- milne plant lying uprooted on the It had been my favorite, too, but Will took it from my garden aod 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 v8 80 silly. Didn’t you propose esterday to dig it up to see if it hind got a root 7’ Which was quite true. I was a ve ysil'y little gird, but I meant no there. But they never thought of him as the sinner; it was only of me, And when I denied the thing they were only the morse angry. “'You know you sre telling a lle, and where do little girls go that tell lies?’ cried Will, who sometimes told them himself; but then he was a bey, and it was a rule in that family, = terribly mistaken one, that the boys might do anything, and that the girls must alwys give In to the boys. Bo when Will looked flercely 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. +[,o0k. 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 siiliness —I don’t know which, and I don’t care. I'd forgive her if she would only confess, but she won’t. Bhe keeps on felling hie 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.” « [p's a very nice town, but I den’t want to go there,’ sald ;’ at which I remember, they all burst out laugh- ing, and I cried only the more. “1 had no idea of what sending to Coventry meant, unless it was like gending to Siberia, which I had lately been reading of, or to the quick- gilver mines, where condemned con- viots were taken, and where nobody sever lived more than two years Perhaps there were quicksilver mines al Coventry. A cold shudder of fear ran through me, but I was atterly powerless. I could but die. “Soon I discovered what ry pun- ishment was, and, though not death, it was hard epough., Fan y, children, being treated d:y after d y, and all dy long, jusl as if you were & chalr or table—never taken the least notice of, never asnawered if you spoke, never en any recount, pl: yed with, petted or scolded ; oom- pletely and sbsolute’y ignored, This was belong sent to ‘Covent: y,” and it was as cruel a punishment as could have been inflicted upon sy little girl wh. liked her plsyfellows, rough as th y were, and was very fond of one of them, who was never rough, but always kind and good. “This was alittle Ixy who lived next door. His parents, like mine, were out in Indiza—nor had he any brothers or sisters, He was just my age, and younger than a" y of my cousins. Bo we were the best © friends, Tommy and I. His surname I have forgotten, but I know we always called him Tommy, and I loved him dearly. The bitterest pang of all this bitter time was that even Tommy went over to the enen y. “At first he had been very sorry for me—had tried, all through that holi- dsy Basturday when my punishment began, to pers: de me to confess and escape it; and when he failed —for how could I confess to what 1 had never done—to an action 80 mean that I would have been ashamed even to have thought of doing?—then Tom y also sent me to Covenly On the Sunde y, all ‘us children’—we didn't mind grammar much 'n those day:—walked to church together across the fields, and Tommy always walked with me, chattering the whole way. Now we walked in total silence for Will's yess were upon him, and even Tommy was afrald. Whatever I said, he never answered a single word. “Then [ felt aa if the whole world were against meas if it were no use trying to be good, or telling the truth, since even the truth was regarded as a lie. In short, in ny childish wey, I suffered much as poor Jeanne 4’Arc must have suffered when she was shut up Im her prison at Rouen, ca'led a witch, a decelver—forsaken of all, and yet promisea pardon if she would only eonfess and own she was a wicked woman, whicn she knew she was nt. +] was quite innocent, but after three days of being supposed guilty, I sensed to care whether I was guilty or not. I seemed not to care for anything, Mince they supposed I was capable of pulling up & harmless jessamine root out of spite, what did it matter whether they thoaght I had told a lie or not ? Indeed, If I tell one, it would be mach easier than telling the truth; and every day ‘un y sticking It out’ and per- sisting In the truth became more diffi- cult. “This state of things continued till Wednesds y, which was our half holi- day, when my cousins went for a long walk or played cricket, and I was gent In to spend the afternoon with Tommy. Thry were the delight of my life those quiet Wednesdays. when Tomn y and I went ‘mooning abou,’ dug in our garden, watched our tad. poles—we had a handbasin full of them, which we kept In the arbor till they developed into myriads of frog, and went hopping about everywhere, But even tadpoles could mot charm me now, snd 1 dreaded, rather than my half holiday. Moult enough, for 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 Ido? Would it not be better to hide away somewhere, 50 as to es- cape going into Tomn y s house at all? indeed, I almost think that some vague thought of running Away and hiding myself forever crossed my mind, when I beard Will calling me. “He and two of the others were standing at the front door, a terribl council of three, like that which used to sentence to death the victims in the Prigoni 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 rellef, 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,’ sald Willie, In quite a judicial tone, ‘ we think you have been punished enough to make you thoroughly ashamed of yourself. We wish you to go and plry with Tommy, as usual ; but Tomn y could not possi- b'y have you unless you were out of Covenliy. We will give you one chance more. Confess that you pulled up the jessamine and we will forgive you and tell nobody about you, and my, just as if nothing had happened. Think-—you have or'y to sy one word.’ “+ And if 1 don’t say it? “i Then, answered Will, with a solemn and awful expression, * I shall be obliged immediately to tell every: body everything.’ “ That terrible threat, all the more formidable because of its vagueness, quite overcame me. To be set down as & liar or to become one; to be pun- ished as I know my sunt would pan- jsh me on her son's mere staternent for a wrong I had never done, or to do a wrong thing, and, escaping punish- ment, go back to my hap; y life with my dear Tommy, who stood, the tear inhiseyes awaiting my decision! “It was a hard sirait—too hard for one so young. And Will stood glar ing at me with his remorseless eyes. “i'Well, now—s:y once for all, did “ It was too much, Suddenly, slow ly, I made up my mind to the inevita ble, and answered, 'Bince you will have it so—yes,’ But the instant I had said it I fell into such a fit of sob- bing—almost hysterical screaming— that my cousins were frightened and ral AWAY. “Tommy stald, 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 lt was long before I stopped crying, and still longer before anything like cheerful- ness came into my poor little heart. We played together all the afternoon very aflectionsate’y, but in a rather melancholy sort of wry, as if we had something on our minds to which we never made the smallest reference. Tommy was a timid bry, and Will had cowed him into unkindness ; but he loved me. Only, ss is often tle case, If his love had had a little mr courage it would have been better for me-—perhaps for him, too, “We spent a peaceful but rather dull afternoon, and then were summoned indoors to tea, “Now tes at Tommy's house was a serious thing. Tommy's grandmother always ate at the table and looked at us through her spectacles, and talked to us in & formal and dignified mav- ner, saking if we had been good chl’- dren, had learnt our lessons well, had played together without quarrelling, ete. Bhe was a kind old lady, years upon years older than we, and quite unable to understand us at all. Con- sequently we never did more than answer her questions and hold our tongues, As for telling her anything, eur troubles especially, we should as soon have thought of confiding in the Queen or Emperor of all the Rus siana, “] mever opened my lips all tes time, and at last she potice i it. Also that my eyes were rather red. “ap little girl looks as if she had been crying. I hope you have not made her ery, Tommy, my dear.’ “Tommy was silent. But I eagerly declared that Tommy had net made me ory. Tommy Was never unkind te 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 not quite sure of that I could not allow Tommy to play with you.’ “She looked me fully in the face, as if she saw through and through us— which she did not, being very ahort- sighted—yet I felt myself tremble in every limb, As for Tommy, he just at me snd glanced away again, turning crimson to the very roots of his hair, but he said noth. “What would have appeared next, I eannot tell; we waited in to speak to some one, and we two children had to finish our tes alone, “It almost choked us-—me al any rate. But ss soon as it was over, ard Tommy sand I found ourselves out in the g rden, I flung my arms around his neck and told him all. “And Tommy believed me, No maiter whether the others did or not, Tommy believed me at last! Tommy sympsthized with me, comforted me, thought I was not so wicked even though I had told a lle, but not the one I was accused of telling. Tommy wept with me over all that I had sul fered, and promised that, though per haps it was better to Jet the matter rest now, if such a thing were to hap- pen again he would not be afraid of Will, or anybody, but would stand up for me ‘like a man.’ ”’ “And did he do it 7’! asked Cherry, with slight incredulity in her tone. “He never had the opportunity. A week after this he was suddenly sent for to join his parents sbrosd and pever saw my friend Tommy an more,”’ “But did you neyer hear of him? Is he alive still? He must be a very old gentleman by this time.” “Very, No doubt a father-—possi- bly even a grandfather,” replied Cousin Eva, smiling. Cherry blushed. “I didn’t mean that, since he was barely as old as you, and you are certainly not a grandmotiner, But want to hear more of Tommy. Is he married ?”’ “I really cannot ssy. The last time I hesrl of him was tep years ago ; when he was living somewhere abroad—I rather think in Bhanghal, He was not married then.” “I wish,” whispered Ruth solemnily “Y wish he would come back W England and mary you.” Cousin Eva laughed, “There might be two opinions on that question, you know. But oh! my children, when you are married and have chil. dren of your own, remember ny story. If ever a poor little thivg looks up in your face saying, ‘I dida’t do that,’ believe it ! If it sobs cut, “I sm naughty,’ don't eall it naugh'y. Give it the benefit of the doubt. Have patience, take time: and whatever are alwsys liars. Of the two evils lt is less harmfal to believe a person who tells a lie, than to doubt another who is speaking the truth.” “I think so, 100,” sald Cherry sage- ly, “Remember poor Jeanne d’Are.” “And poor Cousin Ewa,’ added Ruth, kissing the well-beloved band. And so, in the fading twilight, the three rose up together, and went down the hill from Notre Dame de Bon Becours. lf nse House Decoration. Do not overload your rooms with ornament. A superabundanoce of even the choloest ornaments will weary the eye and obtrude unplessantly upon the notlee, A rather long, large {rawing-room would look well with cool blue woolen and silken draperies, woodwork creamy-white, or, for choice, two tones of olive green; chimnpey-piece to match, or perhaps ebonized, with ornaments of Eastern china. Glazed tiles in fireplaces and for laying hearths serve a useful as well as an ornamental purpose; for the polished surface of the tiles reflects a considerable amount of heat into the room, and makes a cheerful glow which both looks and feels warm. Paint upon woodwork in rooms should always be of pure aud simple colors and “flatted;” the ordinary “graining’ to imitate different kinds of wood being mere dissimulation, as such to be entirely reprobated ; the more clearly itis done, the more ab- solute the untruth. Instead of curtains, which the mod ern forms of bedstead renders incon. gruvus and impossible, screens on either side of the bed are a much preitier and healthier substitute Screens insure privacy, they keep ou the light if necessary and are a great improvement to the looks of any room. It is of the first Importance to have the furniture and fittings of a bed room simply constructed and not too heavy to be easily removed for house cleansing. The carpet should never eover the whole of the floor ; but only laid down in the centre of the room and fastened with carpet-pins, so that it can be easily taken up and shaken. The rest of the floor may be stained and varnished, and kept frequently rubbed with beeswax and turpentine, In sll purchases of furniture, insist upon honest material, little glue and good sound workmanship, even ia —_ Home Gossip. Ladies scarcely realize the possibill ties of chamois leather. It isan ex-~ cellent material for decorative pur poses. It takes color well, and is be~ sides 80 soft and pliable that it can be very readily embroidered ; in addition to this it answers, well for designs in dry color, HBeveral years ago paper curtains were in grest demand in England, They were usually In imitation of Eastern designs, and were also lined with paper, the linings being different'y decorated, An attempt has béen made to introduce them here, but hitherto not very suc cessful’'y. They are, of course, much cheaper than hangings of worsted ms. terials, and as they haves glazed sur- face, they can be readily shaken or wiped free from dust. The fashionable table lamp of to-dry is mounted upon a beautifully paint~ ed vase of spheroid form, and is often of very great value, choice porcelain being selected for this purpose, Some of the most beautiful carving ly ladies is carried out in cedar wood. They are specially adapted for glove boxes and other swall articles. The table doilies are now oftn em- broidered in the centre only. An in- itinl letter is frequent'y selected, and within a fanciful or grotesque figure is carried out in raised dotted embroid- ey. A novel'y is about to be introduced for bedrooms in the shape of a draped toilet table. The foundation is of ordinary wood, and above the table an upper frame is supplied with » swinging mirror. The drapery is ar ranged upon a projecting shell above the frame and festooned around the glass, which is also decorated with a double ruching of the material. Usu- al'y paper muslin of light color is se lected as 8s background, and spotted | Bwiss supplies the material of the | drape y itself. Crysial is gaining in favor. Most beautiful centre pieces for the lunch | table are in vogue, deep’y cut in this material, and a new shape hes super- | ceded the globular. It is not unlike & crescent. Iridescent mother-of pearl is much | used now for bouquet holders, fan. handles, ete. It is often rich 'y carved, but still more frequent'y inlaid with gold and silver. Braiding is to become populsr again. Rounded soutache will be used, as the designs can be executed in raised work ty its use. It is en