Then seating herself and taking the child on her lap, "What is wrong with my dear little daughter ?" she asked.
"O, mamma, mamma, I'm so sorry, so sorry!" cried the child, bursting into a passion of tears and sobs, putting her arms about her mother's neck and hiding her face on her breast.
"Mamma is sorry, too, dear, sorry for anything that makes her Vi unhappy.

What is it?
what can mother do to comfort you." "Mamma I don't deserve for you to be so kind, and you'll have to punish, 'stead of comforting.

But I just want to tell about my own self; you know I can't tell tales, mamma." "No, daughter, I do not ask, or wish it; but tell me about yourself." "Mamma, it will make you sorry, ever so sorry." "Yes, dear, but I must bear it for your sake." "O mamma, I don't like to make you sorry I--I wish I hadn't, hadn't been naughty, oh so naughty, mamma! for I played with some of your mamma's things that you forbade us to touch, and--and one lovely plate got broken all up." "I am very sorry to hear that," returned the mother, "yet far more grieved by my child's sin.

But how did you get the door open and the plates off the shelf ?" "I didn't, mamma: they were out." "Some one else did it ?" "Yes, mamma; but you know I can't tell tales.

It wasn't any of our children, though, none of them were naughty but just me." "Were you playing with the plate?
did you break it ?" "No mamma, I didn't touch the plates, but I was dressing one of the dollies.