The Way That May And Alice "Made Up."


FOR several mornings, Mrs. Morton had noticed

that something went wrong with her

little May. She seemed happy as usual at the

breakfast-table; but, when school time drew

near, she became restless. She got her hat

and cape long before the hour, and stationed

herself at the window, looking up the street as

if waiting for the time; yet, when it came, she

went reluctantly, as if she had no heart to go.

"Why don't you start, May, if you are all

ready?" said her mother, one morning, when

this performance had been repeated so many

times as to awaken her curiosity.

"I don't want to go yet," was the reply.

"Perhaps Alice Barnes will call for me."

But, when there were only ten minutes left,

May hastened away alone with a troubled

face. She came home at noon sadder than

she went.

"What does grieve the little girl?" asked

her mother, as she came into her room looking

the picture of despair.

"O mother!" said May, crying outright at

a kind word, "you don't know!"

“Yes; but I want to," said Mrs. Morton.

"Perhaps I can help you."

"No, ma'am," said May; "nobody can help

me. Alice Barnes and I we've always been

such friends! And now she's mad with me."

"What makes you think so?" asked her

mother.

"Oh, I know so! She always used to call

for me mornings, and we were always together

at recess, and everywhere. I wouldn't believe

it for the longest while; but it is a whole

week since she called for me, and she keeps

away from me all the time."

"Now I know what Alice has done, dear,

can you think of anything you did?"

"Why, mother! No, indeed! I don't need

to think. I haven't done a thing. I thought

too much of Alice." May cried again at the

bare idea.

"There, don't cry. Perhaps you haven't;

but you must not be discouraged till you have

asked her why she keeps away. Very likely

there is some little thing that you never thought

of.

"I don't want to ask her, mother. It is her

fault, and she ought to come to me."

"Ah! Then," replied Mrs. Morton, "I fear

that your pride is stronger than your love to

Alice." She was brushing May's hair as she

spoke; and she stooped to kiss her forehead

with a loving, motherly kiss, and then went

to see about dinner. They were not alone

again till school time came. But it seems that

May knew her mother was right; for she went

straight up to Alice when she saw her on the

sidewalk after school, and said,

"Alice Barnes, what makes you mad with

me?"

"I shouldn't think you'd ask me, May Morton,"

replied Alice, "when you’ve said such

unkind things about me."

"No such a thing!" said May indignantly.

"May Morton," said Alice, looking as solemn

as her round, rosy face would let her,

"didn't I hear you, with my own ears, telling

Bessy Potter that I was the most mischievous

little thing you ever saw?"

"When?" demanded May, feeling strange

and helpless as if she were in a nightmare.

"Last week, Thursday, in your seat," said

Alice, "just before the bell rang for school to

begin."

May looked blank for a minute, and then

she burst into a laugh. Alice turned angrily

away, but May caught her by the arm, and,

choking down her laughter as fast as possible,

she said, "Alice, don't you know I named

my new canary bird Alice, after you? I was

telling Bessy Potter about her, and how she

tore her paper to pieces, and scattered her

seed all over the floor."

Alice stared, and drew a long breath. May's

eyes twinkled again; and both little girls forgot

their grievances in a peal of hearty laughter,

ending in an affectionate shake and hug.

"There, Alice," said May afterward, "if

ever we get put out again, let's speak about it

the very first thing. Perhaps it will be something

as funny as this."

I have told this story for the sake of other

children, large and small. Many a pleasant

day is spoiled, and many unkind and painful

feelings are caused, by little mistakes which

a few frank words would set right. True love

is not too proud to speak first. It is pride

that prevents; and, if we could see pride in

all its selfish ugliness, we should make haste

to tread it under foot. 





Child at Home.