Countess. "See, mother," cried Amelia, "of all my birthday presents, surely nothing can equal the one I have received from Mary. Never have I seen so beautiful a basket, and nowhere can you find such beautiful flowers." The Countess was equally pleased with Mary's present, although she expressed herself more moderately. "What a charming basket!" she said, "and its flowers, how beautiful! They are yet wet with dew. The basket of flowers does credit to the taste of Mary but more to the kindness of her heart." Asking Mary to remain in the room, she made a sign to Amelia to follow her into another apartment.

"Amelia," said the Countess, "Mary must not be permitted to go away without some suitable return. What have you to give her?"

Amelia paused for a moment's reflection. "I think," she replied, "one of my dresses would be a most acceptable gift. For instance, if you will permit me, my dear mother, that one with the red and white flowers on the deep green ground. It is almost new; I have worn it but once. It is a little too short for me, but it will almost fit Mary, and she can arrange it herself. She is so handy with her needle. If, therefore, you do not think the present too valuable——"

The Countess interrupted her. "Too valuable! certainly not. When you wish to give anything it ought to be something good and serviceable. The green robe with the flowers will be very appropriate for Mary."

"Go now, my dear children," said the Countess, when they returned to the room where Mary was, "take good care of the flowers, that they may not fade before dinner. I want the guests to admire the basket also, which will be the most beautiful ornament on our table."

Amelia ran to her room with Mary, and told Juliette, her maid, to bring the dress with the white and red flowers.

"Do you wish to wear that dress to-day, miss?" said her maid.

"No," said Amelia, "I intend to make a present of it to Mary."

"Give that dress away!" replied Juliette hastily. "Does the Countess know?"

"You forget yourself, I think, Juliette," said Amelia with dignity. "Bring me the dress, and give yourself no trouble about the rest."

Juliette turned away hastily, her face burning with anger, and her heart full of spite. Pulling the door of the wardrobe open, she took from it the young Countess's dress. "Oh, I could tear it to pieces," she said passionately. "This sly Mary has already wormed her way into the affections of my young mistress, and now she steals from me this dress which ought to have been mine when the Countess had done with it. I could tear the eyes out of this little flower-girl; but some day I will be revenged." For the time being, however, she had to suppress her anger, and, taking the dress on her arm, she returned to her mistress and gave her the dress with a pleasant air.

"Dear Mary," said Amelia, "many of the presents which I have had to-day have cost more money than your basket, but none of them have given me so much pleasure. Will you take this dress from me as a token of my affection, and carry my best wishes to your good old father?"

Mary was not a vain girl, but her eyes sparkled at the sight of the beautiful dress, which surpassed anything she had ever dreamed of possessing. After warm thanks, she kissed the hand of the young Countess and left the Castle.

Amelia's maid continued her work in silence, but with jealous fury burning at her heart. The many tugs which she gave to the head-dress she was preparing made Amelia at length inquire—

"Are you angry, Juliette?"

"I should be silly indeed, miss," answered Juliette; "to be angry because you choose to be generous."

"That is a very sensible answer, Juliette," replied Amelia, "I hope you may feel just as sensible."

Meantime Mary ran home to her father to show her new dress. The good old man, while pleased at his daughter's pleasure, could not help feeling a little anxiety when he saw the present. "I would much rather, my child," he said, "that you had not taken the basket to the young Countess, but it cannot be helped now. I fear that this valuable present will but rouse the jealousy of some of our neighbours, and, what would be still worse, that it may make you vain. Take care, my dear Mary, that you fall not into this great evil. No costly and beautiful garments so much adorn a young girl as modesty and good manners. It is the Bible that says the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit is in the sight of God of great price."

CHAPTER III.

THE MISSING RING.

Shortly after Mary had left the Castle the Countess missed a valuable diamond ring. No one had been in the room where she had left it but Mary, and it is not surprising that suspicion fell upon the humble flower-girl. Calling Amelia to her, the Countess told her of her loss and of her suspicions, and bade her go to the cottage in order that she might induce Mary to restore the ring before the theft became known.

When Amelia arrived at Mary's home, the young girl was busily engaged trying on her beautiful dress. She was frightened to see the young Countess enter her little room, pale and trembling, and out of breath with her haste.

"Dear Mary," said Amelia, "what have you been doing? My mother's diamond ring, which she left lying in the room where you were, is lost. No one has been in the chamber but you. Do give it up at once, and no harm will be done."

The unexpected charge of theft stunned and frightened Mary. Earnestly she declared her innocence. She had never seen the ring, nor had she moved from the place where she stood when she entered the room. But Amelia found it impossible to believe her, and continued to urge her to give up the ring, which she said was worth a large sum of money. To be suspected of theft was bad enough, but to have her friend Amelia unwilling to believe her, made Mary burst into tears.

"Truly," she cried, "I have no ring. Never in all my life have I ventured to touch anything which did not belong to me, much less to steal. My dear father has always taught me better."

Her father, who had been at work in his garden, now came in to learn the young Countess's errand, and to him Amelia told the story. Shocked beyond measure at the charge, the old man was so overcome that he was obliged to sink into a chair.

"My dear child," he said to Mary solemnly, "to steal a ring of this price is a crime which in this country is punished with death. But this is not all. Your action is not only one for which you must account to men, but to that God who reads the heart and with whom all false denials amount to nothing. Have you forgotten His holy commandment, 'Thou shalt not steal?' Have you forgotten all the advice that I have given you? Were you tempted with the gold and the precious stones? Alas, do not deny the fact, but give back the ring to the Countess. It is the only return you can make for your crime."

"My father, oh, my father," cried Mary, weeping bitterly, "be sure, be very sure that I have not the ring. If I had even found such a ring on the road I could not have rested till I had restored it to its owner. Indeed, believe me, I have it not."

"Look at this dear young lady," said the old man, without replying to Mary's protestations, "her affection for you is so great that she wishes to save you from the hands of justice. Mary, be frank, and do not add falsehood to the crime of theft."

"My father," cried Mary, "well do you know that never in my life have I stolen even the smallest coin, and how should I take anything so valuable as the Countess's ring? I pray you, believe me; I have never in my life told you a lie."

"Mary," again said her father, "see my grey hairs. Do not bring them down with sorrow to the grave. Spare me so great an affliction. Before that God who made you, into whose presence there can come no thief, tell me if you have the ring?"

Thus adjured, Mary raised her eyes, and once more assured her father in the most solemn manner that she was innocent of