“And make her feel worried and sorry because the plate’s broken, when it can’t do any good, and she needn’t ever know about it.  I call that real selfishness.”

This, to Vi, was a new view of the situation.  She stopped crying to consider it.

It certainly would grieve mamma to know that the plate was broken, and perhaps even more to hear of her child’s disobedience, and if not told she would be spared all that pain.

But on the other hand, mamma had always taught her children that wrong doing should never be concealed.  The longer Vi pondered the question the more puzzled she grew.

Meta perceived that she wavered and immediately seized her advantage.

“Come now, Vi, I’m sure you don’t want to give pain to your mamma, or to get me into trouble.  Do you?”

“No, Meta, indeed I don’t, but—­”

“Hush! somebody’s coming,” exclaimed Meta, locking the closet door, having just finished her work, and hastily dropping the key into her pocket.

“Come, girls, come quick! we’re sending up a balloon, from the lawn!” cried Eddie throwing open the door to make his announcement, then rushing away again.

The girls ran after him, in much excitement, and forgetting for the time the trouble they were in; for spite of Meta’s sophistry her conscience was by no means easy.

The ladies had returned and in dinner dress were gathered on the veranda.  Mr. Travilla seemed to be managing the affair, with Mr. Dinsmore’s assistance, while the other gentlemen, children and servants, were grouped about them on the lawn.

Meta and Violet quickly took their places with the rest and just at that moment the balloon, released from its fastenings, shot up into the air.

There was a general shout and clapping of hands, but instantly hushed by a shrill sharp cry of distress from overhead.

“Oh! oh! pull it down again! pull it down! pull it down!  I only got in for fun, and I’m so frightened!  I shall fall out!  I shall be killed! oh! oh! oh!”

The voice grew fainter and fainter, till it quickly died away in the distance as the balloon rose rapidly higher and higher into the deep blue of the sky.

A wild excitement seized upon the little crowd.

“Oh, oh, oh I which ob de chillins am up dar?” the mammies were asking, each sending a hasty glance around the throng to assure herself of the safety of her own particular charge.

“Who is it? who is it?” asked the children, the little girls beginning to sob and cry.

“Oh it’s Fank! it’s Fank!” screamed Harold.  “Papa, papa, please stop it quick.  Fank, don’t cry, any more:  papa will get you down.  Won’t you, papa?” And he clung to his father’s arm, sobbing bitterly.

“Son, Frank is not there,” said Mr. Travilla; taking the little weeper in his arms.  “There is no one in the balloon; it is not big enough to hold even a little boy like you or Frank.”