“Derry, Derry!” I shouted. “I was trying to work your sewing machine, and it fell out through the window, and I’m sure it’s all broken.”

My mother and Derry came running, and we all dashed into the garden and surveyed the pitiful remains of the little machine. Derry began to cry. I was very much upset. After all, it was my first murder.

My mother stooped down and gathered up the pieces. “How did it happen to fall out of the window, Maeve?” she asked.

“I don’t know, I was only holding it in my hand and out it went. Isn’t it a good thing I didn’t fall out, too?”

My mother refused to be diverted by the picture of me following the machine down onto the cement.

“Are you sure you did nothing to make it fall out, Maeve?”

“Oh, no!” I cried. “No, I didn’t!” and tears of real grief filled my eyes, to think that she would believe me capable of such an act.

My mother looked perplexed and sad, but she promised Derry a new machine, and we all went back into the house, where peace soon descended on us. As a matter of fact, Derry got very much interested in the workings of the machine, which had been somewhat mysterious to her till then, and she spent a good deal of time examining the broken parts. I tried to forget about the whole incident, and succeeded until the following Saturday, when I had to go to confession.

I told the priest that I had flown into a bad temper, and he nodded. Then I told him that I had been envious of my younger sister.

“Envy is a serious sin, my child,” he said. “You must beware of that.”

I told him I had smashed my sister’s sewing machine.

“Deliberately?” he asked.

“Yes, Father.”

“You broke one of her toys because you were envious of her?”

“Yes, Father.”

“That is a very serious matter, to do a thing like that,” the priest said. “If you don’t learn to curb yourself, you may do something you’ll be very sorry for, one of these days. Did you tell her you were sorry?”

“Yes, Father.”

I then told him I had lied to my mother.

“You told a lie to your mother?” He went on to say that lying is a serious sin in itself, but that one who told a lie to her mother had taken a very bad turn on life’s road.

“For a penance,” he concluded, “you can say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys.”

Much shaken, I left the confession box, said my penance, and went home, feeling very free and glad it was all over, and full of love and contrition and good resolutions.

I arrived home just as tea was being put on the table, and we all sat down and started to talk.