say right out I'm a silly, selfish wretch, and want to enjoy every
minute, and not worry about other people. Isn't it shameful?"

Maggie Bradford looked such a sweet little sinner as she boldly made
this sad confession, that no one could scold her, though Ida
Standish, her bosom friend, shook her head, and Anna said, with a
sigh: "I'm afraid we all feel very much as Maggie does, though we
don't own it so honestly. Last spring, when I was ill and thought I
might die, I was so ashamed of my idle, frivolous winter, that I
felt as if I'd give all I had to be able to live it over and do
better. Much is not expected of a girl of eighteen, I know; but oh!
there were heaps of kind little things I MIGHT have done if I hadn't
thought only of myself. I resolved if I lived I'd try at least to be
less selfish, and make some one happier for my being in the world. I
tell you, girls, it's rather solemn when you lie expecting to die,
and your sins come up before you, even though they are very small
ones. I never shall forget it, and after my lovely summer I mean to
be a better girl, and lead a better life if I can."

Anna was so much in earnest that her words, straight out of a very
innocent and contrite heart, touched her hearers deeply, and put
them into the right mood to embrace her proposition. No one spoke
for a moment, then Maggie said quietly,--

"I know what it is. I felt very much so when the horses ran away,
and for fifteen minutes I sat clinging to Mamma, expecting to be
killed. Every unkind, undutiful word I'd ever said to her came back
to me, and was worse to bear than the fear of sudden death. It
scared a great deal of naughtiness out of me, and dear Mamma and I
have been more to each other ever since."