"
Thus in the morning Dora sowed her seed, the "good seed" for an
immortal harvest; and soon the tender blade began to appear--a most
ungainly thing in the eyes of her mother; for the first fruit of Dora's
good seed, as shown by little Emma, was a great love of truth--a love
which as yet she knew not how to regulate or apply. She was a beautiful
child; and for a time her mother's vanity was gratified by having her
brought from the nursery to her drawing-rooms, to be caressed, admired,
and praised for her smart speeches; but after a time her truth-telling
propensity became too evident. The polite occupants of the drawing-room
began to whisper among themselves that Miss Emma was a spoiled child,
and had better be kept in the nursery.
Mrs. Lindsay was soon of the same opinion; for scarcely a day passed
when Emma's truthfulness did not prove a nettle to her own vanity.
"The child is rude," she would say to Dora,--"insufferably so. She told
Madame A. that she looked like an apple-tree; which might have been
taken for a compliment, had not the saucy little sprite explained
herself by pointing to that old tree in the garden which the flowering
shrubbery has decked with every variety of blossom: Mrs. A. is
extremely fond of fancy colors. And when I took her to Bowker's the
other day, that sick Miss Ellenwood was examining his new French goods,
and called my attention to a splendid piece of muslin, and asked if it
was not of beautiful texture.
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