“Do you know what that means?” asked her teacher, thinking to help her on by defining the word.

“Always—­for a great while—­or something like that; doesn’t it?” faltered Jill, with a tight feeling in her throat, and the color coming up, as she tried to speak easily, yet felt so shame-stricken she could not.

“Are you in pain, my child?  Never mind the lesson; tell me, and I’ll do something for you.”

The kind words, the soft hand on her hot cheek, and the pity in the eyes that looked at her, were too much for Jill.  A sob came first, and then the truth, told with hidden face and tears that washed the blush away, and set free the honest little soul that could not hide its fault from such a friend.

“I knew it all before, and was sure you would tell me, else you would not be the child I love and like to help so well.”

Then, while she soothed Jill’s trouble, Mrs. Minot told her story and showed the letter, wishing to lessen, if possible, some part of the pain it had given.

“Sly old stamp!  To go and tell on me when I meant to own up, and get some credit if I could, after being so mean and bad,” said Jill, smiling through her tears when she saw the tell-tale witnesses against her.

“You had better stick it in your book to remind you of the bad consequences of disobedience, then perhaps this lesson will leave a ‘permanent’ impression on your mind and memory,” answered Mrs. Minot, glad to see her natural gayety coming back, and hoping that she had forgotten the contents of the unfortunate letter.  But she had not; and presently, when the sad affair had been talked over and forgiven, Jill asked, slowly, as she tried to put on a brave look,—­

“Please tell me about Lucinda Snow.  If I am to be like her, I might as well know how she managed to bear it so long.”

“I’m sorry you ever heard of her, and yet perhaps it may help you to bear your trial, dear, which I hope will never be as heavy a one as hers.  This Lucinda I knew for years, and though at first I thought her fate the saddest that could be, I came at last to see how happy she was in spite of her affliction, how good and useful and beloved.”

“Why, how could she be?  What did she do?” cried Jill, forgetting her own troubles to look up with an open, eager face again.

“She was so patient, other people were ashamed to complain of their small worries; so cheerful, that her own great one grew lighter; so industrious, that she made both money and friends by pretty things she worked and sold to her many visitors.  And, best of all, so wise and sweet that she seemed to get good out of everything, and make her poor room a sort of chapel where people went for comfort, counsel, and an example of a pious life.  So, you see, Lucinda was not so very miserable after all.”

“Well, if I could not be as I was, I’d like to be a woman like that.  Only, I hope I shall not!” answered Jill, thoughtfully at first, then coming out so decidedly with the last words that it was evident the life of a bedridden saint was not at all to her mind.