Emily wondered very much what this wonderful treasure could be that she used so badly, and puzzled her brain the whole evening in guessing, but her mother told her to have patience, and in a week she would find out.

Emily Manvers was a kind, amiable little girl, between ten and eleven years old; she was dutiful and obedient, but had an evil habit of procrastination, which her mother had tried in vain to overcome.  It was always “time enough” with Emily to do everything, and consequently her lessons were frequently imperfect, and her wardrobe in a sad state, as Mrs. Manvers insisted upon her daughter sewing on strings, and hooks and eyes, when they were wanting, thus endeavoring to instill early habits of neatness.  “Put not off till to-morrow what should be done to-day,” was a copy the little girl frequently wrote, but she never allowed its meaning to sink into her heart.  It was this truth which her mother hoped now to teach her.

On Monday morning, Emily jumped up as soon as her mother called her, and seated herself on a low stool to put on her shoes and stockings; there was a story book lying upon the table, and as her eyes fell on it, she began to think over all the stories it contained, (some of them quite silly ones, I am sorry to say,) and pulling her night-dress over her feet, sat thinking about worse than nothing, until her mother opened the bed-room door, and exclaimed in surprise,

“What! not dressed yet, Emily!  It is full fifteen minutes since I called you.”

“I will be dressed directly, mother,” said she, jumping up quite ashamed, and she hurriedly put on her clothes, brushed her hair and prepared for breakfast.

After breakfast she had to look over her lessons, but remembering her mother’s remarks, she stole a few minutes to feed her doves, and then hurried to school afraid of being late.  On her return home in the afternoon, her mother told her to mend her gloves, which she had torn.  Emily went to her work-basket, but could not find her thimble.

“Where can my thimble be?” she cried, after looking two or three minutes for it.  “Oh, I remember now; I left it on the window sill,” and off she ran to get it.

She was gone some time, and on her return her mother asked, “Couldn’t you find your thimble, Emily?”

“Yes, mamma, but James and George were flying their kites, so I stopped just a minute to look at them.  I will sit down now.”

She opened her work-box and took out a needle, then looking about said,

“Why, where is my cotton spool?  I left it on the chair a minute ago.”

She moved the chairs, turned up the hearth-rug, and tumbled over her work-box in vain; the cotton could not be found.  Presently she espied puss, under the sofa, busily employed tossing something about with her paw.

“Oh, you naughty kitty, you have got my spool,” cried Emily, as she stooped down and caught hold of the thread which puss had entangled about the sofa legs; but kitty was in a playful mood and would not give up the cotton-spool at once, so Emily amused herself playing with the cat and thread for some time longer.  At last, she remembered her gloves, and sitting down mended them in a few moments.