Down the Snow Stairs. Alice Abigail Corkran

my two sable brushes.”

      “But you are not going to die,” cried Kitty, giving the bed a shake as she plumped against it. “To-morrow is Christmas Day, and you are to be much better to-morrow. Oh, Johnnie!” she added, wiping away her tears, “I have such a present for you: something you wanted ever, ever so much!”

      “Is it another go-cart to take fancy drives in?” asked Johnnie eagerly.

      “A go-cart! No!” answered Kitty scornfully.

      “Is it a musical box with more than one tune?” asked Johnnie, a patch of red forming on one cheek.

      “It is something ever so much more splendid,” cried Kitty; “but you are not to know till to-morrow. It is a secret. I’ll only just tell you”—and she nodded several times impressively—“that it sings and is alive.”

      “Sings and is alive! Is it”—and now a red patch came on both Johnnie’s cheeks—“is it—no, it can’t be—is it—a bu—ull—finch?”

      “Ye—es,” cried Kitty, jumping up and beginning to skip about, first on one bare foot and then on the other. “But you are to forget till to-morrow,” she went on, stopping her dance. “You must forget it, for it is a secret till Christmas Day.”

      “Has it a tune?” whispered Johnnie, taking no notice of this order to forget.

      “A lovely tune,” answered Kitty, her eyes sparkling. “‘Home, sweet home.’ He sings it with his tail up and his head on one side.”

      As Johnnie laughed with joy, Kitty gave a sob of delight.

      “I ran off to the shop by myself, the bird-fancier’s, you know; ever so far. Nurse scolded me dreadfully when I came back; she was so frightened, not finding me anywhere at home.”

      “Oh, I did so long for a bullfinch, dear, good old Kitsy!” murmured Johnnie, looking very wide awake.

      “I am not good. I am very naughty,” said Kitty slowly. “Oh, Johnnie, I am miserable when I have been naughty to you! It gives me a pain here,” and she thumped her chest.

      “You are never naughty. You are a good, GOOD, GOOD Kitsy,” panted Johnnie with emphasis.

      “I am not good to you. I tease you so often, and I am greedy. I take the largest half of things—when you—you—ought to have them all,” cried Kitty, too shaken by repentant sobs to particularize the speech. “I let you fall one day last summer.”

      “Good Kitsy, good old Kitsy all the same,” insisted Johnnie, thumping the coverlid with his tiny fist.

      Still Kitty’s sobs did not subside: they grew bitterer and bitterer. Then came the confession:

      “I made you ill, Johnnie. I took you—out—in the snow.”

      “I made you take me,” said Johnnie sturdily.

      “Mother had said I was not to take you out in the sn—now,” went on Kitty, shaking with sobs. “You did not know she had said so. Oh, Johnnie, forgive me! Say you forgive me!”

      “I made you take me out,” repeated Johnnie. Then, as Kitty’s sobs continued, he put his wee hand on her head, and said in a voice weak as the pipe of a wounded bird, “Don’t cry, Kitsy. I forgive you!”

      There was a silence. Then Kitty dried her tears.

      “I wonder what makes me so naughty!” she said.

      “It is not naughtiness; it is having two legs the same size,” answered Johnnie comfortingly.

      “But if you had two legs the same size, do you think you would be naughty, Johnnie?”

      Johnnie thought awhile; his eyes glistened, and he shook his downy head.

      “I would run all day long and nobody could stop me,” he said.

      “Do you think you would run about and forget things, and often jump about at lesson time?” questioned Kitty.

      “I think I should,” said Johnnie regretfully.

      “Do you think you would slide down the balusters?” still cross-questioned Kitty.

      “I might,” answered Johnnie very humbly.

      “Johnnie, I wish I could give you my two legs. I wish I could. I would not give one just only to be good; but I would give you the two. I lo-o-ove you so much, Johnnie!” and Kitty shook the bed with her sobs as she took his hand in hers.

      Johnnie looked wistfully before him: his face was crimson; his eyes shone like two tiny lamps; the little hand in Kitty’s seemed to burn. Then he said cheerily:

      “It would not do for every one to have two legs. There would not be any one to sit down, and look on, and clap hands, and say hurrah! when the others were running matches, you know.”

      “As you did when Cousin Charlie and I played in the hay that day last summer,” cried Kitty.

      “Yes,” said Johnnie, and he began to mutter something Kitty did not understand.

      “We’ll play again next summer, and you’ll look on,” said Kitty.

      “Yes. How sweet the hay smells!” said Johnnie in a strange far-away voice.

      “Miss Kitty!” said some one behind.

      Turning round Kitty saw nurse standing with her two hands raised and her eyes round with alarm and trouble. “Oh, Miss Kitty, what have you done? what have you done?”

      “I am not going!” cried Kitty, stamping one bare foot. “I won’t go. Every one comes to Johnnie but me.”

      “What is the matter?” asked another anxious voice. It was the children’s mother. “Kitty here!” she added, very much amazed.

      “Yes, ma’am. Johnnie was sleeping like a lamb, he was. I slipped down just for a bit of supper. When I came up, there’s Miss Kitty, and there’s Johnnie, all awake and in a fever.”

      “Oh, Kitty! what have you done? what have you done?” said the poor mother as she knelt down by the bedside and with straining eyes gazed at the little boy muttering and talking to himself.

      A fear came over Kitty at her mother’s words and at the look in her eyes. She began to cry, but nurse in a moment had taken her in her arms, carried her upstairs, and put her into bed. She did not say a word, but she looked very grim.

      “Oh, nurse, have I done Johnnie any harm?” cried Kitty, springing out of bed and clutching at nurse’s skirt as she was leaving the room.

      “Harm!” repeated nurse, twitching her dress out of Kitty’s grasp. “The doctor said Johnnie might get well if he slept to-night and was kept quiet, and you went and waked him. It is the second time you—”

      Nurse paused. Then she jerked out, “That is the harm you have done,” and left the room.

      At those dreadful words Kitty felt cold: she stole back to bed, and turned her face to the wall. “Might Johnnie have got well if she had not waked him? Would he die now?” She did not sob, but she kept moaning to herself in the dark; and her heart sent up a prayer like a cry: “Pray God, do not let Johnnie die! Do not let Johnnie die!”

      “Hush, Kitty!” said her mother’s gentle voice. “Johnnie seems to be going to sleep; he is quieter now. Perhaps he will be better to-morrow.”

      “Oh, mamma! mamma!” cried Kitty, throwing herself into her mother’s arms. “I had so longed to see him! I had so longed to see him!”

      Her mother made Kitty lie down: she sat down by her bedside, and taking her two hands she spoke soothingly to her little girl. When Kitty’s sobs were quieter she told her how easy it is to get naughtier and naughtier unless we resist temptation. In every