The temptation to handle the tiny, dainty shoes and see how well they fitted the feet of the pretty doll, was great, and not giving herself time to think, Violet dropped down on the carpet by Meta’s side and complied with the request.  “Just to slip on those lovely shoes, now that they were there right before her, was not much,” so said the tempter:  then, “Now having done a little, what difference if she did a little more?”

Thoughtless and excitable, she presently forgot mamma and her commands, and became as eagerly engaged as Meta herself in the fascinating employment of looking over the contents of the trunks, and trying now one, and now another suit upon the dollies.

“Now this one’s dressed, and I’ll set her up to the table,” said Meta, jumping up.  “Oh my!”

Something fell with a little crash on the lid of the trunk by Vi’s side, and there at her feet lay one of the beautiful old china plates broken into a dozen pieces.

The child started up perfectly aghast, the whole extent of her delinquency flashing upon her in that instant.  “Oh, oh! what have I done! what a wicked, wicked girl I am! what will mamma say!” And she burst into an agony of grief and remorse.

“You didn’t do it, nor I either,” said Meta; stooping to gather up the fragments, “the doll kicked it off.  There, Vi, don’t cry so; I’ll put the things all back just as they were, and never, never touch one of them again.”

“But you can’t; because this one’s broken.  Oh dear, oh dear!  I wish you had let them alone, Meta.  I wish, I wish I’d been a good girl and obeyed mamma!”

“Never mind:  if she goes to whip you, I’ll tell her it was ’most all my fault.  But she needn’t know:  it won’t be a story to put them back and say nothing about it.  And most likely it won’t be found out for years and years; maybe never.  You see I’ll just put this plate between the others in the pile and it won’t be noticed at all that it’s broken; unless somebody takes them all down to look.”

“But I must tell mamma,” sobbed Violet.  “I couldn’t hide it; I always tell her everything; and I’d feel so wicked.”

“Violet Travilla, I’d never have believed you’d be so mean as to tell tales,” remarked Meta, severely.  “I’d never have played with you if I’d known it.”

“I’ll not; I didn’t mean that.  I’ll only tell on myself.”

“But you can’t do that without telling on me too, and I say it’s real mean.  I’ll never tell a story about it, but I don’t see any harm in just getting the things away and saying nothing.  ’Taint as if you were throwing the blame on somebody else,” pursued Meta, gathering up the articles abstracted from the closet and replacing them, as nearly as possible as she had found them.

“Come, dry your eyes, Vi,” she went on, “or somebody’ll see you’ve been crying and ask what it was about.”

“But I must tell mamma,” reiterated the little girl, sobbing anew.