In a beautiful and retired part of England lived Mrs. Villars, a lady whose accurate understanding, benevolent heart, and steady temper, peculiarly fitted her for the most difficult, as well as most important of all occupations ­the education of youth.  This task she had undertaken; and twenty young persons were put under her care, with the perfect confidence of their parents.  No young people could be happier; they were good and gay, emulous, but not envious of each other; for Mrs. Villars was impartially just.  Her praise they felt to be the reward of merit, and her blame they knew to be the necessary consequence of ill conduct; to the one, therefore, they patiently submitted, and in the other consciously rejoiced.  They rose with fresh cheerfulness in the morning, eager to pursue their various occupations; they returned in the evening with renewed ardour to their amusements, and retired to rest satisfied with themselves and pleased with each other.

Nothing so much contributed to preserve a spirit of emulation in this little society as a small honorary distinction given annually, as the prize of successful application.  The prize this year was peculiarly dear to each individual, as it was the picture of a friend whom they all dearly loved ­it was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small bracelet.  It wanted neither gold, pearls, nor precious stones, to give it value.

The two foremost candidates for the prize were Cecilia and Leonora.  Cecilia was the most intimate friend of Leonora, but Leonora was only the favourite companion of Cecilia.

Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterprising disposition; more eager in the pursuit than happy in the enjoyment of her wishes.  Leonora was of a contented, unaspiring, temperate character, not easily roused to action, but indefatigable when once excited.  Leonora was proud, Cecilia was vain.  Her vanity made her more dependent upon the approbation of others, and therefore more anxious to please, than Leonora; but that very vanity made her, at the same time, more apt to offend.  In short, Leonora was the most anxious to avoid what was wrong, Cecilia the most ambitious to do what was right.  Few of their companions loved, but many were led by Cecilia, for she was often successful; many loved Leonora, but none were ever governed by her, for she was too indolent to govern.

On the first day of May, about six o’clock in the evening, a great bell rang, to summon this little society into a hall, where the prize was to be decided.  A number of small tables were placed in a circle in the middle of the hall; seats for the young competitors were raised one above another, in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table; and the judges’ chairs, under canopies of lilacs and luburnums, forming another semicircle, closed the amphitheatre.  Every one put their writings, their drawings, their works of various kinds, upon the tables appropriated for each.  How unsteady were the last steps to these tables!  How each little hand trembled as it laid down its claims!  Till this moment every one thought herself secure of success, but now each felt an equal certainty of being excelled; and the heart which a few minutes before exulted with hope, now palpitated with fear.

The works were examined, the preference adjudged; and the prize was declared to be the happy Cecilia’s.  Mrs. Villars came forward smiling, with the bracelet in her hand.  Cecilia was behind her companions, on the highest row; all the others gave way, and she was on the floor in an instant.  Mrs. Villars clasped the bracelet on her arm; the clasp was heard through the whole hall, and a universal smile of congratulation followed.  Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia’s little hand; and “now,” said she, “go and rejoice with your companions; the remainder of the day is yours.”

Oh! you whose hearts are elated with success, whose bosoms beat high with joy, in the moment of triumph, command yourselves; let that triumph be moderate, that it may be lasting.  Consider that, though you are good, you may be better, and though wise, you may be weak.

As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the bracelet, all Cecilia’s little companions crowded round her, and they all left the hall in an instant.  She was full of spirits and vanity ­she ran on, running down the flight of steps which led to the garden.  In her violent haste, Cecilia threw down the little Louisa.  Louisa had a china mandarin in her hand, which her mother had sent her that very morning; it was all broke to pieces by the fall.

“Oh! my mandarin!” cried Louisa, bursting into tears.  The crowd behind Cecilia suddenly stopped.  Louisa sat on the lowest step, fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces; then turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon the step above her.  In turning, Louisa threw down the remains of the mandarin; the head, which she had placed in the socket, fell from the shoulders, and rolled bounding along the gravel-walk.  Cecilia pointed to the head and to the socket, and burst out laughing; the crowd behind laughed too.  At any other time they would have been more inclined to cry with Louisa; but Cecilia had just been successful, and sympathy with the victorious often makes us forget justice.  Leonora, however, preserved her usual consistency.  “Poor Louisa!” said she, looking first at her, and then reproachfully at Cecilia.  Cecilia turned sharply round, colouring, half with shame and half with vexation.  “I could not help it, Leonora,” said she.

“But you could have helped laughing, Cecilia.”  “I didn’t laugh at Louisa; and I surely may laugh, for it does nobody any harm.”  “I am sure, however,” replied Leonora, “I should not have laughed if I had ­” “No, to be sure you wouldn’t, because Louisa is your favourite.  I can buy her another mandarin the next time that old pedlar comes to the door, if that’s all.  I can do no more. Can I?” said she, turning round to her companions.  “No, to be sure,” said they, “that’s all fair.”

Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora.  Leonora let go her hand; she ran on, and the crowd followed.  When she got to the end of the garden, she turned round to see if Leonora had followed her too; but was vexed to see her still sitting on the steps with Louisa.  “I’m sure I can do no more than buy her another! Can I?” said she, again appealing to her companions.

“No, to be sure,” said they, eager to begin their plays.  How many did they begin and leave off before Cecilia could be satisfied with any.  Her thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was running upon something else; no wonder then that she did not play with her usual address.  She grew still more impatient; she threw down the nine-pins:  “Come, let us play at something else ­at threading the needle,” said she, holding out her hand.  They all yielded to the hand which wore the bracelet.  But Cecilia, dissatisfied with herself, was discontented with everybody else; her tone grew more and more peremptory, ­one was too rude, another too stiff; one was too slow, another too quick; in short, everything went wrong, and everybody was tired of her humours.

The triumph of success is absolute, but short.  Cecilia’s companions at length recollected that, though she had embroidered a tulip and painted a peach better than they, yet that they could play as well, and keep their tempers better:  she was thrown out.  Walking towards the house in a peevish mood, she met Leonora; she passed on.

“Cecilia!” cried Leonora.  “Well, what do you want with me?” “Are we friends?” “You know best.”  “We are; if you will let me tell Louisa that you are sorry ­” Cecilia, interrupting her, “O! pray let me hear no more about Louisa!” “What! not confess that you were in the wrong!  Oh, Cecilia!  I had a better opinion of you.”  “Your opinion is of no consequence to me now; for you don’t love me.”  “No, not when you are unjust, Cecilia.”  “Unjust!  I am not unjust; and if I were, you are not my governess.”  “No, but am I not your friend?” “I don’t desire to have such a friend, who would quarrel with me for happening to throw down little Louisa ­how could I tell that she had a mandarin in her hand? and when it was broken, could I do more than promise her another?  Was that unjust?” “But you know, Cecilia ­” “I know,” ironically, “I know, Leonora, that you love Louisa better than you do me; that’s the injustice!” “If I did,” replied Leonora gravely, “it would be no injustice, if she deserved it better.”  “How can you compare Louisa to me!” exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly.

Leonora made no answer, for she was really hurt at her friend’s conduct; she walked on to join the rest of her companions.  They were dancing in a round upon the grass.  Leonora declined dancing, but they prevailed upon her to sing for them; her voice was not so sprightly, but it was sweeter than usual.  Who sung so sweetly as Leonora? or who danced so nimbly as Louisa?

Away she was flying, all spirits and gayety, when Leonora’s eyes full of tears, caught hers.  Louisa silently let go her companions’ hands, and quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to inquire what was the matter with her.

“Nothing,” replied she, “that need interrupt you, ­Go, my dear, and dance again.”

Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, and pulling off her little straw hat, she lined it with the freshest strawberry leaves, and was upon her knees before the strawberry bed when Cecilia came by.  Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons:  because she was jealous of her, and because she had injured her.  The injury, however, Louisa had already forgotten; perhaps, to tell things just as they were, she was not quite so much inclined to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the fall of her mandarin, but this was the utmost extent of her malice, if it can be called malice.

“What are you doing there, little one?” said Cecilia in a sharp tone.  “Are you eating your early strawberries here all alone?” “No,” said Louisa, mysteriously; “I am not eating them.”  “What are you doing with them ­can’t you answer then?  I’m not playing with you, child!” “Oh! as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not answer you unless I choose it; not but what I would, if you would only ask me civilly ­and if you would not call me child.”  “Why should not I call you child?” “Because ­because ­I don’t know; ­but I wish you would stand out of my light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon all my strawberries.”  “I have not touched one, you covetous little creature!” “Indeed ­indeed, Cecilia, I am not covetous.  I have not eaten one of them ­they are all for your friend Leonora.  See how unjust you are.”  “Unjust! that’s a cant word you learned of my friend Leonora, as you call her, but she is not my friend now.”  “Not your friend now!” exclaimed Louisa.  “Then I am sure you must have done something very naughty.”  “How!” said Cecilia, catching hold of her.  “Let me go ­Let me go!” cried Louisa, struggling.  “I won’t give you one of my strawberries, for I don’t like you at all.”  “You don’t, don’t you?” said Cecilia, provoked; and catching the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries over the hedge.  “Will nobody help me!” exclaimed Louisa, snatching her hat again, and running away with all her force.

“What have I done?” said Cecilia, recollecting herself.  “Louisa!  Louisa!” She called very loud, but Louisa would not turn back! she was running to her companions.

They were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the grass, whilst Leonora, sitting in the middle, sang to them.

“Stop! stop! and hear me!” cried Louisa, breaking through them; and rushing up to Leonora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting for breath ­

“It was full ­almost full of my own strawberries,” said she, “the first I ever got out of my own garden.  They should all have been for you, Leonora, but now I have not one left.  They are all gone!” said she; and she hid her face in Leonora’s lap.

“Gone! gone where?” said every one at once, running up to her.  “Cecilia!  Cecilia!” said she, sobbing.  “Cecilia!” repeated Leonora; “what of Cecilia?” “Yes, it was ­it was.”

“Come along with me,” said Leonora, unwilling to have her friend exposed; “come, and I will get you some more strawberries.”  “Oh, I don’t mind the strawberries, indeed; but I wanted to have had the pleasure of giving them to you.”

Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her away, but it was too late.

“What, Cecilia!  Cecilia, who won the prize!  It could not surely be Cecilia,” whispered every busy tongue.

At this instant the bell summoned them in.

“There she is! ­There she is!” cried they, pointing to an arbour, where Cecilia was standing, ashamed and alone; and as they passed her, some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonishment, others whispered and huddled mysteriously together, as if to avoid her.  Leonora walked on, her head a little higher than usual.

“Leonora!” said Cecilia, timorously, as she passed.

“Oh, Cecilia! who would have thought that you had a bad heart?”

Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into tears.

“Oh no, indeed, she has not a bad heart,” cried Louisa, running up to her, and throwing her arms round her neck; “she’s very sorry! ­are not you, Cecilia?  But don’t cry any more, for I forgive you with all my heart; and I love you now, though I said I did not when I was in a passion.”

“O, you sweet-tempered girl! how I love you,” said Cecilia, kissing her.

“Well then, if you do, come along with me, and dry your eyes, for they are so red.”

“Go, my dear, and I’ll come presently.”

“Then I will keep a place for you next to me; but you must make haste, or you will have to come in when we have all set down to supper, and then you will be so stared at!  So don’t stay now.”

Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she was out of sight.  “And is Louisa,” said she to herself, “the only one who would stop to pity me?  Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be mine; she little thought how it would end!” Saying these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon the ground; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf which she had raised in the morning, and which in the pride and gayety of her heart, she had called her throne.

At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy the serenity of the evening, and passing by the arbour where Cecilia lay, she started; Cecilia rose hastily.

“Who is there?” said Mrs. Villars.  “It is I, madam.”  “And who is I?” “Cecilia.”  “Why, what keeps you here, my dear ­where are your companions? this is, perhaps, one of the happiest days of your life.”

“O no, madam!” said Cecilia, hardly able to repress her tears.

“Why, my dear, what is the matter?”

Cecilia hesitated.

“Speak, my dear.  You know that when I ask you to tell me any thing as your friend, I never punish you as your governess; therefore you need not be afraid to tell me what is the matter.”

“No, madam, I am not afraid, but ashamed.  You asked me why I was not with my companions.  Why, madam, because they have all left me, and ­” “And what, my dear?” “And I see that they all dislike me.  And yet I don’t know why they should, for I take as much pains to please as any of them.  All my masters seem satisfied with me; and you yourself, ma’am, were pleased this very morning to give me this bracelet; and I am sure you would not have given it to any one who did not deserve it.”  “Certainly not.  You did deserve it for your application ­for your successful application.  The prize was for the most assiduous, not for the most amiable.”  “Then if it had been for the most amiable it would not have been for me?”

Mrs. Villars, smiling ­“Why, what do you think yourself, Cecilia?  You are better able to judge than I am.  I can determine whether or no you apply to what I give you to learn; whether you attend to what I desire you to do, and avoid what I desire you not to do.  I know that I like you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should like you as a companion, unless I were your companion; therefore I must judge of what I should do by seeing what others do in the same circumstances.”

“O, pray don’t, ma’am; for then you would not love me neither.  And yet I think you would love me; for I hope that I am as ready to oblige, and as good-natured, as ­” “Yes, Cecilia, I don’t doubt but that you would be very good-natured to me, but I am afraid that I should not like you unless you were good-tempered too.”  “But, ma’am, by good-natured I mean good-tempered ­it’s all the same thing.”  “No, indeed, I understand by them two very different things.  You are good-natured, Cecilia, for you are desirous to oblige and serve your companions, to gain them praise and save them from blame, to give them pleasure, and to relieve them from pain; but Leonora is good-tempered, for she can bear with their foibles, and acknowledge her own.  Without disputing about the right, she sometimes yields to those who are in the wrong.  In short, her temper is perfectly good, for it can bear and forbear.”

“I wish that mine could,” said Cecilia, sighing.

“It may,” replied Mrs. Villars; “but it is not wishes alone which can improve us in any thing.  Turn the same exertion and perseverance which have won you the prize to-day to this object, and you will meet with the same success; perhaps not on the first, the second, or the third attempt, but depend upon it that you will at last; every new effort will weaken your bad habits and strengthen your good ones.  But you must not expect to succeed all at once; I repeat it to you, for habit must be counteracted by habit.  It would be as extravagant in us to expect that all our faults could be destroyed by one punishment, were it ever so severe, as it was in the Roman emperor we were reading of a few days ago to wish that all the heads of his enemies were upon one neck, that he might cut them off by one blow.”

Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and they began to walk home.  Such was the nature of Cecilia’s mind, that, when any object was forcibly impressed on her imagination, it caused a temporary suspension of her reasoning faculties.  Hope was too strong a stimulus for her spirits; and when fear did take possession of her mind, it was attended with total debility.  Her vanity was now as much mortified as in the morning it had been elated.  She walked on with Mrs. Villars in silence until they came under the shade of the elm-tree walk, and then, fixing her eyes upon Mrs. Villars, she stopped short.  “Do you think, madam,” said she, with hesitation, “do you think, madam, that I have a bad heart?”

“A bad heart, my dear! why, what put that into your head?”

“Leonora said that I had, ma’am, and I felt ashamed when she said so.”

“But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether your heart be good or bad?  However, in the first place, tell me what you mean by a bad heart.”

“Indeed, I do not know what is meant by it, ma’am; but it is something which every body hates.”

“And why do they hate it?”

“Because they think that it will hurt them, ma’am, I believe; and that those who have bad hearts take delight in doing mischief; and that they never do any body good but for their own ends.”

“Then the best definition which you can give me of a bad heart is that it is some constant propensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the sake of doing wrong.”

“Yes, ma’am, but that is not all neither; there is still something else meant; something which I cannot express ­which, indeed, I never distinctly understood; but of which, therefore, I was the more afraid.”

“Well, then, to begin with what you do understand, tell me, Cecilia, do you really think it possible to be wicked merely for the love of wickedness?  No human being becomes wicked all at once; a man begins by doing wrong because it is, or because he thinks it is for his interest; if he continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of shame, and lose his love of virtue.  But how can you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong sense of shame, and such an eager desire to improve, imagine that you have a bad heart?”

“Indeed, madam, I never did, until every body told me so, and then I began to be frightened about it.  This very evening, ma’am, when I was in a passion, I threw little Louisa’s strawberries away; which, I am sure, I was very sorry for afterwards; and Leonora and every body cried out that I had a bad heart; but I am sure that I was only in a passion.”

“Very likely.  And when you are in a passion, as you call it, Cecilia, you see that you are tempted to do harm to others; if they do not feel angry themselves, they do not sympathize with you; they do not perceive the motive which actuates you, and then they say that you have a bad heart.  I dare say, however, when your passion is over, and when you recollect yourself, you are very sorry for what you have done and said; are not you?”

“Yes, indeed, madam, very sorry.”

“Then make that sorrow of use to you, Cecilia, and fix it steadily in your thoughts, as you hope to be good and happy, that, if you suffer yourself to yield to your passion upon every trifling occasion, anger and its consequences will become familiar to your mind; and in the same proportion your sense of shame will be weakened, till what you began with doing from sudden impulse you will end with doing from habit and choice; and then you would, indeed, according to our definition, have a bad heart.”

“Oh, madam!  I hope ­I am sure I never shall.”

“No, indeed, Cecilia; I do, indeed, believe that you never will; on the contrary, I think that you have a very good disposition, and, what is of infinitely more consequence to you, an active desire of improvement.  Show me that you have as much perseverance as you have candour, and I shall not despair of your becoming every thing that I could wish.”

Here Cecilia’s countenance brightened, and she ran up the steps in almost as high spirits as she ran down them in the morning.

“Good night to you, Cecilia,” said Mrs. Villars, as she was crossing the hall.  “Good night to you, madam,” said Cecilia; and she ran up stairs to bed.

She could not go to sleep, but she lay awake reflecting upon the events of the preceding day, and forming resolutions for the future; at the same time, considering that she had resolved, and resolved without effect, she wished to give her mind some more powerful motive; ambition she knew to be its most powerful incentive.

“Have I not,” said she to herself, “already won the prize of application, and cannot the same application procure me a much higher prize?  Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been promised to the most amiable it would not have been given to me; perhaps it would not yesterday ­perhaps it might not to-morrow; but that is no reason that I should despair of ever deserving it.”

In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia formed a design of proposing to her companions that they should give a prize, the first of the ensuing month (the first of June), to the most amiable.  Mrs. Villars applauded the scheme, and her companions adopted it with the greatest alacrity.

“Let the prize,” said they, “be a bracelet of our own hair;” and instantly their shining scissors were procured, and each contributed a lock of her hair.  They formed the most beautiful gradation of colours, from the palest auburn to the brightest black.  Who was to have the honour of plaiting them was now the question.

Caroline begged that she might, as she could plait very neatly, she said.

Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she could do it much better, and a dispute would inevitably have ensued, if Cecilia, recollecting herself just as her colour rose to scarlet, had not yielded ­yielded with no very good grace indeed, but as well as could be expected for the first time.  For it is habit which confers ease; and without ease, even in moral actions, there can be no grace.

The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner by Caroline, finished round the edge with silver twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest silver letters, this motto, to the most amiable.  The moment it was completed, every body begged to try it on.  It fastened with little silver clasps, and as it was made large enough for the eldest girls, it was too large for the youngest; of this they bitterly complained, and unanimously entreated that it might be cut to fit them.

“How foolish!” exclaimed Cecilia.  “Don’t you perceive that, if you win it, you have nothing to do but to put the clasps a little further from the edge? but if we get it, we can’t make it larger.”

“Very true,” said they, “but you need not to have called us foolish, Cecilia!”

It was by such hasty and unguarded expressions as these that Cecilia offended; a slight difference in the manner makes a very material one in the effect.  Cecilia lost more love by general petulance than she could gain by the greatest particular exertions.

How far she succeeded in curing herself of this defect, how far she became deserving of the bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given, shall be told in the history of the first of June.