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Title: Home Scenes, and Home Influence

Author: T.S. Arthur

Edition: 10

Language: English

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HOME SCENES, AND HOME INFLUENCE.

A Series of Tales and Sketches.

T. S. ARTHUR.

PHILADELPHIA:

1854.






PREFACE.

MANY of the scenes presented in this volume are such as show the
mother's influence with her children; a few include the marriage
relation; and a few give other domestic pictures. In all will be
found, we trust, motives for self-denial and right action in the
various conditions of social life. Home is the centre of good as
well as of bad influence. How much, then, depends on those to whom
have been committed the sacred trust of giving to the home-circle
its true power over the heart!

This volume makes the fifth in "ARTHUR'S LIBRARY FOR THE HOUSEHOLD."






CONTENTS.





TAKING COMFORT.
CHILDREN--A FAMILY SCENE.
LOSING ONE'S TEMPER.
TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS.
HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.
OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN.
THE MOTHER AND BOY.
THE CHRISTMAS PARTY.
IS SHE A LADY?
GOING INTO MOURNING.
IF THAT WERE MY CHILD.
I WILL!
A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE.
THE POWER OF PATIENCE.
AN OLD MAN'S RECOLLECTIONS.






HOME SCENES.

TAKING COMFORT.





"REALLY, this is comfortable!" said I, glancing around the
handsomely furnished parlour of my young friend Brainard, who had, a
few weeks before, ventured upon matrimony, and was now making his
first experiments in housekeeping.

"Yes, it is comfortable," replied my friend. "The fact is, I go in
for comforts."

"I'm afraid George is a little extravagant," said the smiling bride,
as she leaned towards her husband and looked tenderly into his face.

"No, not extravagant, Anna," he returned; "all I want is to have
things comfortable. Comfort I look upon as one of the necessaries of
life, to which all are entitled. Don't you?"

I was looking at a handsome new rose-wood piano when this question
was addressed to me, and thinking about its probable cost.

"We should all make the best of what we have," I answered, a little
evasively; "and seek to be as comfortable as possible under all
circumstances."

"Exactly. That's my doctrine," said Brainard. "I'm not rich, and
therefore don't expect to live in a palace, and have every thing
around me glittering with silver and gold; but, out of the little I
possess, shall endeavour to obtain the largest available dividend of
comfort. Ain't I right?"

"Perhaps so."

"You speak coldly," said my friend. "Don't you agree with me? Should
not every man try to be as comfortable as his means will permit?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Of course he should. Some men set a value upon money above every
thing else, and sacrifice all comfort to its accumulation; but I
don't belong to that class. Money is a good gift, because it is the
means of procuring natural blessings. I receive it thankfully, and
use it wisely. You see how I am beginning life."

"I do."

"Well, what do you think of it?"

By this time my observation of things had become more particular,
and I saw many evidences of expenditures that indicated a lavish
spirit.

"What rent do you pay?" I asked.

"Three hundred."

I shook my head.

"Too much?" said Brainard.

"I think so."

"Perhaps it is a little high. But you can't get a genteel,
comfortable house, in a good neighbourhood, for any thing less."

As it was my first visit to the young couple, who were but a few
weeks past their honey-moon, I did not feel like questioning the
propriety of my friend's conduct to the serious extent he was about
involving himself; and so evaded replying to this excuse for taking
at least a hundred dollars more rent upon himself than he was
justified in doing by his circumstances, he being simply a clerk,
with a salary of one thousand dollars.

"Rents are high," was my apparently indifferent answer.

"Too high," said he. "A man who wants a pleasant house has to pay
for it. This is my experience."

The subject of conversation changed; I passed an agreeable evening;
at the close of which I left my friend and his lovely young bride in
their comfortable home.

What I had seen and heard during the few hours spent with Brainard
made me fear that he was about committing a too common error. His
ideas of comfort were not in keeping with his circumstances. Some
days subsequently I saw my friend and his wife riding out in a
handsome vehicle, drawn by a gay horse.

"Taking their comfort," said I, as I paused and looked upon the
happy young couple.

Not long after, I saw them dashing off again to enjoy an afternoon's
ride. Next, I met them at a fashionable concert.

"Have you been to the opera yet?" asked Brainard, leaning forward to
the seat that I occupied just in front of him.

"No," was my answer.

"Then there is a treat in store for you. We go twice, and sometimes
oftener, every week. Truffi, Benedetti, Rosi--oh! they are
enchanting."

"Rather expensive," said I.

"It does cost something," and Brainard shrugged his shoulders. "But
I think it's money well spent. You know that I go in for the
comforts of life."

And he leaned back, while I thought I perceived a slight shadow flit
across his face. A singer came forward at the moment, and no more
was said.

"It is possible," thought I, "in seeking after comfort, to get into
the wrong road. I am afraid my young friends are about committing
this error."

I not only suggested as much to Brainard soon afterwards, but
actually presented a serious remonstrance against the course of life
he had adopted. But he only smiled at the fears I expressed, and
said he understood perfectly the nature of the ground he was
treading. Thus it is with most young persons. Be their views true or
false, they act upon them, in spite of all counsel from the more
experienced, and in the end reap their harvest of trouble or
pleasure, as the ease may be. Pride, which stimulates the desire to
make a certain appearance in the world, is generally more at fault
than a wish to secure the comforts of which my friend talked so
much.

I had another acquaintance, by the name of Tyler, who was married
about the same time with Brainard. His tastes were as well
cultivated as those of the former, and his income was as large; yet,
in beginning the world, he had shown more prudence and a wise
forecast. I found him in a small, neat house, at a rent of one
hundred and seventy dollars. His furniture was not costly, but in
good taste and keeping with the house and his circumstances. As for
real comfort, as far as I could see, the preponderance was rather in
his favour.

"This is really comfortable," said I, glancing around the room in
which he received me on the occasion of my first visit.

"We think so," replied my friend, smiling.

"Nothing very elegant, but as good as we can afford, and with that
we have made up our minds to be content."

"If all the world were as wise, all the world would be happier," I
remarked.

"Perhaps so," returned Tyler. "Brainard tried to get me into a house
like the one he occupies; but I thought it more prudent to cut my
garment according to my cloth. The larger your house, the more
costly your furniture and the higher your regular expenses. He
talked about having things comfortable, as he called it, and
enjoying life as he went along; but it would be poor comfort for me
to know that I was five or six hundred dollars in debt, and all the
while living beyond my income."

"In debt? What do you mean by that?" said I. "It isn't possible that
Brainard has gone in debt for any of his fine furniture?"

"It is very possible."

"To the extent of five or six hundred dollars?"

"Yes. The rose-wood piano he bought for his wife cost four hundred
dollars. It was purchased on six months' credit."

"Foolish young man!" said I.

"You may well say that. He thinks a great deal about the comforts of
life; but he is going the wrong way to secure them, in my opinion.
His parlour furniture, including the new piano, cost nearly one
thousand dollars; mine cost three hundred; and I'm sure I would not
exchange comforts with him. It isn't what is around us so much as
what is within us, that produces pleasure. A contented mind is said
to be a continual feast. If, in seeking to have things comfortable,
we create causes of disquietude, we defeat our own ends."

"I wish our friend Brainard could see things in the same light,"
said I.

"Nothing but painful experience will open his eyes," remarked Tyler.

And he was correct in this. Brainard continued to take his comfort
for a few months, although there was a gradual sinking in the
thermometer of his feelings as the time approached when the notes
given for a part of his furniture would fall due. The amount of
these notes was six hundred dollars, but he had not saved fifty
towards meeting the payments. The whole of his income had been used
in taking his comfort.

"Why, Brainard!" said I, in a tone of surprise, on meeting him one
day, nearly six months after his marriage. "What has happened?"

"Happened? Nothing. Why do you ask?" replied the young man.

"You look troubled."

"Do I?" He made an effort to smile.

"Yes, you certainly do. What has gone wrong with you?"

"Oh, nothing." And he tried to assume an air of indifference; but,
seeing me look incredulous, he added--

"Nothing particularly wrong. I'm only a little worried about money
matters. The fact is, I've got two or three notes to pay next week."

"You have?"

"Yes; and what is more, I haven't the means to lift them."

"That is trouble," said I, shaking my head.

"It's trouble for me. Oh, dear! I wish my income were larger. A
thousand dollars a year is too little."

"Two persons ought to live on that sum very comfortably," I
remarked.

"We can't, then; and I'm sure we are not extravagant. Ah, me!"

"I spent the evening with our friend Tyler last week," said I. "His
salary is the same as yours, and he told me that he found it not
only sufficient for all his wants, but that he could lay by a couple
of hundred dollars yearly."

"I couldn't live as he does," said Brainard, a little impatiently.

"Why not?"

"Do you think I would be cooped up in such a pigeon-box of a place?"

"The house he lives in has six rooms, and he has but three in
family--your own number, I presume"--

"I have four," said Brainard, interrupting me.

"Four?"

"Yes. We have a cook and chambermaid."

"Oh! Mrs. Tyler has but one domestic."

"My wife wasn't brought up to be a household drudge," said Brainard,
contemptuously.

"Your house has ten rooms in it, I believe?" said I, avoiding a
reply to his last remark.

"It has."

"But why should you pay rent for ten rooms, when you have use for
only five or six? Is not that a waste of money that might be applied
to a better purpose?"

"Oh, I like a large house," said my friend, tossing his head, and
putting on an air of dignity and consequence. "A hundred dollars
difference in rent is a small matter compared with the increase of
comfort it brings."

"But the expense doesn't stop with the additional rent," said I.

"Why not?"

"The larger the house, the more expensive the furniture. It cost you
a thousand dollars to fit up your handsome parlour?" said I.

"Yes, I presume it did."

"For what amount did you give your notes?"

"For six hundred dollars."

"On account of furniture?"

"Yes."

"Tyler furnished his parlour for three hundred."

There was another gesture of impatience on the part of my young
friend, as he said--

"And such furnishing!"

"Every thing looks neat and comfortable," I replied.

"It may do for them, but it wouldn't suit us."

"Whatever is accordant with our means should be made to suit us,"
said I, seriously. "You are no better off than Tyler."

"Do you think I could content myself in such a place?" he replied.

"Contentment is only found in the external circumstances that
correspond to a man's pecuniary ability," was my answer to this.
"Which, think you, is best contented? Tyler, in a small house,
neatly furnished, and with a hundred dollars in his pocket; or you,
in your large house, with a debt of six hundred dollars hanging over
you?"

There was an instant change in my friend's countenance. The question
seemed to startle him. He sighed, involuntarily.

"But all this won't lift my notes," said he, after the silence of a
few minutes. "Good morning!"

Poor fellow! I felt sorry for him. He had been buying comfort at
rather too large a price.

The more Brainard cast about in his mind for the means of lifting
his notes, the more troubled did he become.

"I might borrow," said he to himself; "but how am I to pay back the
sum?"

To borrow, however, was better than to let his notes be dishonoured.
So Brainard, as the time of payment drew nearer and nearer, made an
effort to get from his friends the amount of money needed.

But the effort was not successful. Some looked surprised when he
spoke of having notes to meet; others ventured a little good advice
on the subject of prudence in young men who are beginning the world,
and hinted that he was living rather too fast. None were prepared to
give him what he wanted.

Troubled, mortified, and humbled, Brainard retired to his
comfortable home on the evening before the day on which his note
given for the piano was to fall due. Nearly his last effort to raise
money had been made, and he saw nothing but discredit, and what he
feared even worse than that before him. Involved as he was in debt,
there was no safety from the sharp talons of the law. They might
strike him at any moment, and involve all in ruin.

Poor Brainard! How little pleasure did the sight of his large and
pleasant house give him as it came in view on his return home. It
stood, rather as a monument of extravagance and folly, than the
abode of sweet contentment.

"Three hundred dollars rent!" he murmured. "Too much for me to pay."
And sighed deeply.

He entered his beautiful parlour, and gazed around upon the elegant
furniture which he had provided as a means of comfort. All had lost
its power to communicate pleasure. There stood the costly piano,
once coveted and afterwards admired. But it possessed no charm to
lay the troubled spirit within him. He had bought it as a marriage
present for his wife, who had little taste for music, and preferred
reading or sewing to the blandishment of sweet sounds. And for this
toy--it was little more in his family--a debt of four hundred
dollars had been created. Had it brought him an equivalent in
comfort? Far, very far from it.

As Brainard stood in his elegant parlour, with troubled heart and
troubled face, his wife came in with a light step.

"George!" she exclaimed on seeing him, her countenance falling and
her voice expressing anxious concern. "What is the matter? Are you
sick?"

"Oh, no!" he replied, affecting a lightness of tone.

"But something is the matter, George," said the young wife, as she
laid her hand upon him and looked earnestly into his face.
"Something troubles you."

"Nothing of any consequence. A mere trifle," returned Brainard,
evasively.

"A mere trifle would not cloud your brow as it was clouded a moment
since, George."

"Trifles sometimes affect us, more seriously than graver matters."
As Brainard said this, the shadows again deepened on his face.

"If you have any troubles, dear, let me share them, and they will be
lighter." Anna spoke with much tenderness.

"I hardly think your sharing my present trouble will lighten it,"
said Brainard, forcing a smile, "unless, in so doing, you can put
some four hundred dollars into my empty pockets."

Anna withdrew a pace from her husband, and looked at him doubtingly.

"Do you speak in earnest?" said she.

"In very truth I do. To-morrow I have four hundred dollars to pay;
but where the money is to come from, is more than I can tell."

"How in the world has that happened?" inquired Mrs. Brainard.

Involuntarily the eyes of her husband wandered towards the piano.
She saw their direction. Her own eyes fell to the floor, and she
stood silent for some moments--silent, but hurriedly thoughtful.
Then looking up, she said, in a hesitating voice--

"We can do without that." And she pointed towards the piano.

"Without what?" asked Brainard, quickly.

"The piano. It cost four hundred dollars. Sell it."

"Never!"

"Why not?"

"Don't mention it, Anna. Sell your piano! It shall never be done."

"But, George"--

"It's no use to talk of that, Anna; I will not listen to it."

And so the wife was silenced.

Little comfort had the young couple that evening in their finely
furnished house. Brainard was silent and thoughtful, while Anna felt
the pressure of a heavy weight upon her feelings.

How different was it in the smaller and more plainly attired
dwelling of Tyler! There was comfort, and there were peace and
contentment, her smiling handmaids.

On the next morning, Brainard found it impossible to conceal from
his wife the great anxiety he felt. She said very little to him, for
his trouble was of a kind for which she could suggest no remedy.
After he parted with her at the door, she returned and sat down in
one of the parlours to think. The piano was before her, and back to
that her thoughts at length came. It was not only a beautiful
instrument, but one of great excellence. Often had it been admired
by her friends, and particularly by a lady who had several times
expressed a wish to own one exactly like it in every respect.

"I wish you would let me have that piano," the lady had said to her
not a week before; and said it as much in earnest as in jest.

"I wonder if she really would buy it?" mused Mrs. Brainard. "I don't
want so fine an instrument. My old piano is a very good one, and is
useless at father's. Oh! if I could only get George the four hundred
dollars he wants so badly!"

And she struck her hands together as her thoughts grew earnest on
the subject. For more than an hour the mind of Mrs. Brainard gave
itself up to this one idea. Then she dressed herself and went out.
Without consulting any one, she called upon the lady to whom
reference has been made.

"Mrs. Aiken," said she, coming at once to the point, "you have often
remarked that you would like to own that piano of mine. Were you
really in earnest?"

"In earnest? Certainly I was." Mrs. Aiken smiled, at the same time
that a slight expression of surprise came into her face. "It's one
of the finest instruments I ever touched."

"It's for sale," said Mrs. Brainard, in a firm, business-like way.
"So there is a chance for you to call it your own."

"For sale! Why do you say that, Anna?"

"It's too costly an instrument for me to own. My old piano is a very
good one--quite good enough for all my purposes."

"But this is your husband's wedding-gift, if I remember rightly?"

"I know it is; but the gift was too costly a one for a young man
whose salary is only a thousand dollars a year."

"Then he wishes to sell it."

"No, indeed, not he!"

"And would you sell it without consulting him?" said Mrs. Aiken.

"Such is my intention."

"He might be very much displeased."

"No matter; I would soon smooth his frowning brow. But, Mrs. Aiken,
we won't discuss that matter. The instrument is to be sold. Do you
want it?"

"I do."

"Very well. Are you prepared to buy it?"

"Perhaps so. It cost four hundred dollars?"

"Yes."

"What is your price?"

"The same."

"Then you make no deduction?" said Mrs. Aiken, smiling.

"I wouldn't like to do that. It's as good as new. If I can sell it,
I want to be able to put in my husband's hands just what he paid for
it."

"Oh, then you want the money for your husband?"

"Certainly, I do. What use have I for four hundred dollars?"

"You've come just in time, Anna," said Mrs. Aiken. "I arranged with
my husband to meet him this morning, at his store, to go and look at
some pianos. But if yours is really for sale, we have no occasion to
take any further trouble."

"It is for sale, Mrs. Aiken. Understand this."

"Very well. When do you want the money?"

"This morning."

"I don't know about that. However, I will see Mr. Aiken
immediately."

"Shall I wait here for you?"

"You may do so, or I will call at your house."

"Do that, if you please."

"Very well. In an hour, at most, I will see you."

The two ladies then parted.

When Mr. Brainard left his house that morning, he felt wretched.
Where--how was he to get four hundred dollars? To go to the party
from whom he had bought the piano, and confess that he was not able
to pay for it, had in it something so humiliating, that he could not
bear the thought for a moment. But if the note was not paid,--what
then? Might not the instrument be demanded? And how could he give it
up now? Or, worse, might it not be seized under execution?

"Oh, that I had never bought it!" he at length exclaimed, mentally,
in the bitterness of his feelings. And then he half chid himself for
the extorted declaration.

Nearly the whole of the morning was spent in the vain attempt to
borrow the needed sum. But there was no one to lend him four hundred
dollars. At length, in his desperation, he forced himself to apply
for a quarter's advance of salary.

"No doubt," said he, within himself, "that the holder of the note
will take two hundred and fifty dollars on account, and give me time
on the balance."

About the ways and means of living for the next three months, after
absorbing his salary in advance, he did not pause to think. He was
just in that state of mind in which he could say, with feeling,
"Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." Unhappily, his effort
to raise money by this expedient failed. His application was
received coldly, and in a way to mortify him exceedingly.

Half desperate, and half despairing, Brainard started for his home
about one o'clock, his usual hour for dining. What was he to do? He
turned his thoughts to the right and to the left, groping about like
a man in the dark. But no light broke in upon his mental vision.

"It will not do to meet Anna in this way," said he, as he approached
his own door. "I left her with a troubled countenance in the
morning. Now I must force an assumed cheerfulness."

He entered, and was moving along the passage, when Anna came out
through one of the parlour doors to meet him, and drawing her arm
through his, said, in a lively tone,--

"Come, George, I want to play for you a favourite piece. I've been
practising it for the last hour."

And she drew him into the parlour, and, taking her seat at the
piano, commenced running her fingers over the keys. Brainard stood
and listened to the music until the piece was finished, trying, but
in vain, to feel an interest in the performance.

"How do you like that?" said the wife, with animation, lifting her
sparkling eyes to the face of her husband, which was serious, in
spite of all he could do to give it a better expression.

"Beautifully performed," replied Brainard.

"And do you really think so?" said Anna, as she arose and leaning on
his arm again, drew him into the next room.

"Certainly, I do."

"Didn't you think the instrument a little out of tune?" asked Anna.

"No; it struck me as being in better tune than when you played last
evening."

"It's a fine instrument, certainly. I prize it very much."

Brainard sighed faintly.

"Oh! How about your four hundred dollars?" said Anna, as if the
thought had just occurred to her. "Did you get the money?"

A change was apparent in the manner of Brainard.

"No, Anna," he replied, with assumed calmness.

"Do you want it badly?"

"Yes, dear. I have four hundred dollars due in the bank to-day, and
every effort to obtain the sum has failed."

"What if I lend it to you?" said the young wife, looking archly into
his troubled face.

"You!" he exclaimed, quickly.

"Yes, me. Would you take it as a very great favour?"

"The greatest you could do me just at this time!"

"Very well; here is the money."

And Anna drew a purse of gold from her pocket, and held it before
his eyes.

"Anna! What does this mean?"

And Brainard reached his hand to grasp the welcome treasure. But she
drew it away quickly, saying, as she did so,--

"Certain conditions must go with the loan."

"Name them," was promptly answered by the husband, into whose face
the sunshine had already come back.

"One is, that you are not to be angry with me for any thing that I
have done to-day."

"What have you done?"

And Brainard glanced around the room with an awakened suspicion.

"I want your promise first."

"You have it."

"But mind you, I am in earnest," said Anna.

"So am I. Now make your confession."

"I sold the piano."

"What?"

There was an instant change in the expression of Brainard's face.

"Your promise. Remember," said Anna, in a warning voice.

"Sold the piano!"

And he walked into the next room, Anna moving by his side.

"Yes, I sold it to Mrs. Aiken for four hundred dollars. I had my old
instrument brought over from father's. This is as good a piano as I
want, or you either, I should think, seeing that you perceived no
difference in its tones from the one I parted with. Now, take this
purse, and if you don't call me the right sort of a wife you are a
very strange man--that is all I have to say."

Surprise kept Brainard silent for some moments. He looked at the
piano, then at his wife, and then at the purse of gold, half
doubting whether all were real, or only a pleasant dream.

"You are the right sort of a wife, Anna, and no mistake," said he,
at length, drawing his arm around her neck and kissing her. "You
have done what I had not the courage to do, and, in the act, saved
me from a world of trouble. The truth is, I never should have bought
that piano. A clerk, with a salary of only a thousand dollars, is
not justified in expending four hundred dollars for a piano."

"Nor in having so much costly furniture," said Anna, glancing round
the room.

Brainard sighed, for the thought of two hundred dollars yet to pay
flitted through his mind.

"Nor in paying three hundred dollars for rent," added Anna.

"Why do you say that?" asked Brainard.

"Because it's the truth. The fact is, George, I'm afraid we're in
the wrong road for comfort."

"Perhaps we are," was the young man's constrained admission.

"Then the quicker we get into the right way the better. Don't you
think so?"

"If we, are wrong, we should try to get right," said Brainard.

"It was wrong to buy that piano. This is your own admission."

"Well?"

"We are right again in that respect."

"Yes, thanks to my dear wife's good resolution and prompt action."

"It was wrong to take so costly a house," said Anna.

"I couldn't find a cheaper one that was genteel and comfortable."

"I'm sure I wouldn't ask any thing more genteel and comfortable than
Mrs. Tyler's house."

"That pigeon-box!"

Brainard spoke in, a tone of contempt.

"Why, George, how you talk! It's a perfect gem of a house, well
built and well finished in every part, and big enough for a family
twice as large as ours. I think it far more comfortable than this
great barn of a place, and would a thousand times rather live in it.
And then it is cheaper by a hundred and twenty dollars a year."

A hundred and twenty dollars! What a large sum of money. Ah, if he
had a hundred and twenty dollars in addition to the four hundred
received from Anna, how happy he would be! These were the thoughts
that were flitting through the mind of Brainard at the mention of
the amount that could be saved by taking a smaller house.

"Well, Anna, perhaps you are right. Oh, dear!"

"Why do you sigh so heavily, George?" asked Mrs. Brainard, looking
at her husband with some surprise.

"Because I can't help it," was frankly answered.

"You've got the money you needed?"

"Not all."

"Why, George! Didn't you say that you had only four hundred dollars
to pay?"

"I didn't say only."

"How much more?"

"The fact is, Anna, I have two hundred dollars yet to meet."

"To-day?"

Anna's face became troubled.

"No, not until the day after to-morrow."

The young wife's countenance lighted up again.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, thank Heaven, that is all. But how the payment is to be made,
is more than I can tell."

Dinner was now announced.

"I shall have to turn financier again," said Anna, smiling, as she
drew her arm within that of her husband, and led him away to the
dining-room.

"I'm a little afraid of your financiering," returned her husband,
shaking his head. "You might sell me next as a useless piece of
furniture."

"Now, George, that is too bad," replied Anna, looking hurt.

"I only jested, dear," said Brainard, repairing the little wrong
done to her feelings with a kiss. "Your past efforts at financiering
were admirable, and I only hope your next attempt may be as
successful."

Two days more passed, during which time neither Brainard nor his
wife said any thing to each other about money, although the thoughts
of both were busy for most of the time on that interesting subject.
Silently sat Brainard at the breakfast-table on the morning of the
day when his last note fell due. How was he to meet the payment? Two
hundred dollars! He had not so much as fifty dollars in his
possession, and as to borrowing, that was a vain hope. Must he go to
the holder of the note, and ask a renewal? He shrunk from the
thought, murmuring to himself--"Any thing but that."

As for getting the required sum through Anna, he did not permit
himself to hope very strongly. She had looked thoughtful since their
last interview on the subject, and at times, it seemed to him,
troubled. It was plain that she had been disappointed in any efforts
to get money that she might have made.

"That she, too, should be subject to mortification and painful
humiliation!" said he, as his mind dwelt on the subject. "It is too
bad--too bad!--Oh, to think that my folly should have had this
reaction!"

Anna looked sober as Brainard parted with her after breakfast, and
he thought he saw tears in her eyes. As soon as he was gone she
dressed herself, and taking from a handsome jewel-box the present of
her husband, a gold watch and chain, a bracelet, diamond pin, and
some other articles of the same kind, left the house.

Two hours afterward, as Brainard sat at his desk trying to fix his
mind upon the accounts before him, a note was handed in bearing his
address. He broke the seal, and found that it enclosed one hundred
and seventy dollars, with these few words from Anna:

"This is the best I can do for you, dear husband. Will it be
enough?"

"God bless her!" came half audibly from the lips of Brainard, as he
drew forth his pocket-book, in which were thirty dollars. "Yes, it
will be enough."

"There is no comfort in owing, or in paying after this fashion,"
said the young man to himself, as he walked homeward at dinner-time,
with his last note in his pocket. "There will have to be a change."

And there was a change. When next I visited my young friend, I found
him in a smaller house, looking as comfortable and happy as I could
have wished to see him. We talked pleasantly about the errors of the
past, and the trouble which had followed as a natural result.

"There is one thing," said Brainard, during the conversation,
glancing at his wife as he spoke, "that I have not been able to make
out."

"What is that?" asked Mrs. Brainard, smiling.

"Where the last one hundred and seventy dollars you gave me came
from."

"Have you missed nothing?" said she, archly.

"Nothing," was his reply.

"Been deprived of no comfort?"

"So far from it, I have found a great many new ones."

"And been saved the trouble of winding up and regulating that pretty
eight-day clock for which you gave forty dollars."

Brainard fairly started to his feet as he turned to the mantel, and,
strange to say, missed, for the first time, the handsome timepiece
referred to by his wife.

"Why, Anna, is it possible? Surely that hasn't been gone for two
months!"

"Oh, yes, it has."

"Well, that beats all."

And Brainard resumed his chair.

"You've been just as comfortable," said the excellent young woman.

"But you didn't get a hundred and seventy dollars for the
timepiece?"

"No. Have you lost no other comfort? Think."

Brainard thought, but in vain. Anna glided from the room, and
returned in a few moments with her jewel-box.

"Do you miss any thing?" said she, as she raised the lid and placed
the box in his hands.

"Your watch and chain!"

Anna smiled.

"You did not sell them?"

"Yes."

"Why, Anna! Did you set no value on your husband's gifts?"

There was a slight rebuke in the tone of Brainard. Tears sprang to
Anna's eyes, as she answered--"I valued them less than his
happiness."

Brainard looked at her for a few moments with an expression of deep
tenderness. Then turning to me, he said, in a voice that was
unsteady from emotion--"You shall be my judge. Has she done wrong or
right?"

"Right!" I responded, warmly. "Right! thank Heaven, my friend, for
giving you a true woman for a wife. There is some hope now of your
finding the comfort you sought so vainly in the beginning."

And he has found it--found it in a wise appropriation, of the good
gifts of Providence according to his means.






CHILDREN--A FAMILY SCENE.





"MOTHER!"

"As I was saying"--

"Mother!"

"Miss Jones wore a white figured satin"--

"Oh! mother!"

"With short sleeves"--

"Mother! mother!"

"Looped up with a small rosebud"--

"I say! mother! mother!"

The child now caught hold of her mother's arm, and shook it
violently, in her effort to gain the attention she desired, while
her voice, which at first was low, had become loud and impatient.
Mrs. Elder, no longer able to continue her account of the manner in
which Miss Jones appeared at a recent ball, turned angrily toward
little Mary, whose importunities had sadly annoyed her, and, seizing
her by the arm, took her to the door and thrust her roughly from the
room, without any inquiry as to what she wanted. The child screamed
for a while at the door, and then went crying up-stairs.

"Do what you will," said Mrs. Elder, fretfully, "you cannot teach
children manners. I've talked to Mary a hundred times about
interrupting me when I'm engaged in conversation with any one."

"It's line upon line and precept upon precept," remarked the (sic)
visiter. "Children are children, and we mustn't expect too much from
them."

"But I see other people's children sit down quietly and behave
themselves when there is company."

"All children are not alike," said the (sic) visiter. Some are more
restless and impetuous than others. We have to consult their
dispositions and pay regard thereto, or it will be impossible to
manage them rightly. I find a great difference among my own
children. Some are orderly, and others disorderly. Some have a
strong sense of propriety, and others no sense of propriety at all."

"It's a great responsibility; is it not, Mrs. Peters?"

"Very great."

"It makes me really unhappy. I am sometimes tempted to wish them all
in heaven; and then I would be sure they were well off and well
taken care of. Some people appear to get along with their children
so easy. I don't know how it is. I can't."

Mrs. Peters could have given her friend a useful hint or two on the
subject of managing children, if she had felt that she dared to do
so. But she knew Mrs. Elder to be exceedingly sensitive, and
therefore she thought it best not to say any thing that might offend
her.

There was a quiet-looking old gentleman in the room where the two
ladies sat conversing. He had a book in his hand, and seemed to be
reading; though, in fact, he was observing all that was said and
done. He had not designed to do this, but the interruption of little
Mary threw his mind off his book, and his thoughts entered a new
element. This person was a brother of Mrs. Elder, and had recently
become domesticated in her family. He was a bachelor.

After the (sic) visiter had retired, Mrs. Elder sat down to her
work-table in the same room where she had received her company, and
resumed her sewing operations, which the call had suspended. She had
not been thus engaged long, before Mary came back into the room,
looking sad enough. Instead of going to her mother; she went up to
the old gentleman, and looking into his face with her yet tearful
eyes, said--

"Uncle William?"

"What, dear?" was returned in a kind voice.

"Something sticks my neck. Won't you see what it is?"

Uncle William laid down his book, and, turning down the neck of
Mary's frock, found that the point of a pin was fretting her body.
There was at least a dozen little scratches, and an inflamed spot
the size of a dollar.

"Poor child!" he said, tenderly, as he removed the pin. "There now!
It feels better, doesn't it?"

"Yes, it feels better; thank you, dear uncle!" and Mary put up her
sweet lips and kissed him. The old gentleman was doubly repaid for
his trouble. Mary ran lightly away, and he resumed his book.

In about ten minutes, the child opened the door and came in pulling
the dredging-box, to which she had tied a string, along the floor,
and marking the progress she made by a track of white meal.

"You little torment!" exclaimed the mother, springing up, and
jerking the string and box angrily from Mary's hand. "It is too bad!
you know well enough that you had no business to touch this. Just
see what a condition the floor is in! Oh dear! Shall I never teach
the child any thing?"

Mrs. Elder took the dredging-box out into the kitchen, and gave the
cook a sound scolding for permitting the child to have it. When she
got back, Mary had her work-basket on the floor, rummaging through
it for buttons and spools of cotton.

"Now just see that!" she exclaimed again. "There now!" And little
Mary's ears buzzed for half an hour afterwards from the sound box
she received.

After the child was thrust from the room, Mrs. Elder said,
fretfully, "I'm out of all heart! I never saw such children. They
seem ever bent on doing something wrong. Hark! what's that?"

There was the crash of something falling over head, followed by a
loud scream.

Uncle William and Mrs. Elder both started from the room and ran
up-stairs. Here they found Henry, a boy two years older than Mary,
who was between three and four, lying on the carpet with a bureau
drawer upon him, which he had, while turning topsy-turvy after
something or other, accidentally pulled out upon him. He was more
frightened than hurt, by a great deal.

"Now just look at that!" ejaculated the outraged mother when the
cause of alarm became apparent. "Just look at that, will you? Isn't
it beyond all endurance! Haven't I told you a hundred times not to
go near my drawers, ha? No matter if you'd been half killed! There,
march out of the room as quick as you can go." And she seized Henry
by the arm with a strong grip, and fairly threw him, in her anger,
from the chamber.

While she was yet storming, fretting, and fuming over the drawer,
Uncle William retired from the apartment and, went down-stairs
again. On entering the room he had left but a few minutes before, he
found Mary at her mother's work-basket again, notwithstanding the
box she had received only a short time before for the same fault.

"Mary," said Uncle William to the child, in a calm, earnest, yet
kind voice.

The child took its hands from the basket and came up to her uncle.

"Mary, didn't your mother tell you not to go to her basket?"

"Yes, sir," replied Mary, looking steadily into her uncle's face.

"Then why did you go?"

"I don't know."

"It was very wrong." Uncle William spoke seriously, and the child's
face assumed a serious expression.

"Will you do it any more?"

"No, sir." Mary shrink close to her uncle, and her reply was in a
whisper.

"Be sure and not forget, Mary. Mother sews with her spools of
cotton, and uses her scissors to make little Mary frocks and aprons,
and if Mary takes any thing out of her work-basket, she can't do her
sewing good. Will you remember?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now don't forget."

"No, sir."

"And just see, Mary, how you have soiled the carpet with the
dredging-box! Didn't you know the flour would come out and be
scattered all over the floor?"

"No, sir."

"But now you know it."

"Yes, sir."

"You won't get the dredging-box any more?"

"No, sir."

While this conversation was going on, Mrs. Elder came down, still
feeling much excited. After Uncle William had said what he
considered enough to Mary, he took up his book and commenced
reading. The child stood leaning against him for five or ten
minutes, and then ran out of the room.

"How long do you suppose she will remember what you have said?"
remarked Mrs. Elder, with a lightness of tone that showed her
contempt for all such measures of reform.

"Much longer than she will remember your box on the ear," was the
blunt reply.

"I doubt it. Words make no impression on children."

"Harsh words make very little impression, I admit. For these close
up, instead of entering the avenues to the mind. Kind words, and
reasons for things, go a great way even with children. How long did
Mary remember and profit by your sound rating and box on the ear
(still red with the blow) into the bargain? Not over ten minutes;
for when I came down-stairs, she had both hands into your basket
again."

"The little huzzy! It's well for her that I did not catch her at
it!"

"It is well indeed, Sarah, for you would, by your angry and unjust
punishment, have done the little creature a serious injury. Did you
ever explain to her the use of your work-basket and the various
things in it, and make her comprehend how necessary it was to you to
have every thing in order there, just as you placed it?"

"Gracious, William! Do you think I haven't something else to do
besides wasting time in explaining to children the use of every
thing in my work-basket? What good would it do, I wonder?"

"It would do a great deal of good, Sarah, you may rely upon it, and
be a great saving of time into the bargain; for if you made your
children properly comprehend the use of every thing around them, and
how their meddling with certain things was wrong, because it would
incommode you, you would find them far less disposed than now to put
their hands into wrong places. Try it."

"Nonsense! I wonder if I haven't been trying all my life to make
them understand that they were not to meddle with things that didn't
belong to them! And what good has it done?"

"Very little, I must own; for I never saw children who had less
regard to what their mother says than yours have."

This touched Mrs. Elder a little. She didn't mind animadverting upon
the defects of her children, but was ready to stand up in their
defence whenever any one else found fault with them.

"I reckon they are not the worst children in the world," she
replied, rather warmly.

"I should be sorry if they were. But they are not the best either,
by a long way, although naturally as good children as are seen
anywhere. It is your bad management that is spoiling them."

"My management!"

"Frankly, Sarah, I am compelled to affirm that it is. I have been in
your house, now, for three or four months, and must say that I am
surprised that your children are as good as they are. Don't be
angry! Don't be fretted with me as you are with every thing in them
that doesn't please you. I am old enough to hear reason as well as
to talk reason. Let us go back to a point on which I wished to fix
your attention, but from which we digressed. In trying to correct
Mary's habit of rummaging in your work-basket, you boxed her ears,
and stormed at her in a most unmotherly way. Did it do any good? No;
for in ten minutes she was at the same work again. For this I talked
to her kindly, and endeavoured to make her sensible that it was
wrong to disturb your basket."

"And much good it will do!" Mrs. Elder did not feel very amiable.

"We shall see," said Uncle William, in his calm way. "Now I propose
that we both go out of this room, and let Mary come into it, and be
here alone for half an hour. My word for it, she doesn't touch your
work-basket."

"And my word for it, she goes to it the first thing."

"Notwithstanding you boxed her ears for the same fault so recently?"

"Yes, and notwithstanding you reasoned with her, and talked to her
so softly but a few moments since."

"Very well. The experiment is worth making, not to see who is right,
but to see if a gentler mode of government than the one you have
adopted will not be much better for your children. I am sure that it
will."

As proposed, the mother and Uncle William left the room, and Mary
was allowed to go into it and remain there alone for half an hour.
Long before this time had expired, Mrs. Elder's excited feelings had
cooled off, and been succeeded by a more sober and reflective state
of mind. At the end of the proposed period, Uncle William came down,
and joining his sister, said--

"Now, Sarah, let us go and see what Mary has been doing; but before
we enter the room, let me beg of you not to show angry displeasure,
nor to speak a harsh or loud word to Mary, no matter what she may
have been about; for it will do no good, but harm. You have tried it
long enough, and its ill effects call upon you to make a new
experiment."

Mrs. Elder, who was in a better state than she was half an hour
before, readily agreed to this. They then went together into the
room. As they entered, Mary looked up at them from the floor where
she was, sitting, her face bright with smiles at seeing them.

"You lit"--

Uncle William grasped quickly the hand of his sister to remind her
that she was not to speak harshly to Mary, no matter what she was
doing, and was thus able to check the storm of angry reproof that
was about to break upon the head of the child, who had been up to
the book-case and taken, therefrom two rows of books, with which she
was playing on the floor.

"What are you doing, dear?" asked Uncle William, kindly.

"Building a house," replied the child, the smiles that the sudden
change in the mother's countenance had driven from her face, coming
back and lighting up her beautiful young brow. "See here what a
pretty house I have, uncle! And here is the fence, and these are
trees."

"So it is, a very pretty house," replied the uncle, while the mother
could scarcely repress her indignation at the outrage Mary had
committed upon the book-case.

The uncle glanced toward the table, upon which the, work-basket
remained undisturbed. He then sat down, and said--"Come here, love."

Mary got up and ran quickly to him.

"You didn't touch mother's work-basket?" he said.

"No, sir," replied Mary.

"Why?"

Mary thought a moment, and then said--"You told me not to do it any
more."

"Why not?"

"Because if I take the cotton and scissors, mother can't make aprons
and frocks for Mary."

"And if you go into her work-basket, you disturb every thing and
make her a great deal of trouble. You won't do it any more?"

"No, sir." And the child shook her head earnestly.

"Didn't you know that it was also wrong to take the books out of the
book-case? It not only hurts the books, but throws the room and the
book-case into disorder."

"I wanted to build a house," said Mary.

"But books are to read, not to build houses with."

"Won't you ask papa to buy me a box of blocks, like Hetty Green's,
to build houses with?"

"I'll buy them for you myself the next time I go out," replied Uncle
William.

"Oh, will you?" And Mary clapped her hands joyfully together.

"But you must never disturb the books in the book-case any more."

"No, sir," replied the child, earnestly.

Mrs. Elder felt rebuked. To hide what was too plainly exhibited in
her countenance, she stooped to the floor and commenced taking up
the books and replacing them in the book-case.

"Now go up into my room, Mary, and wait there until I come. I want
to tell you something."

The child went singing up-stairs as happy as she could be.

"You see, Sarah, that kind words are more effective than harsh names
with children. Mary didn't touch your work-basket."

"But she went to the book-case, which was just as bad. Children must
be in some mischief."

"Not so bad, Sarah; for she had been made to comprehend why it was
wrong to go to your basket, but not so of the book-case."

"I'm sure I've scolded her about taking down the books fifty times,
and still, every chance she can get, she's at them again."

"You may have scolded her; but scolding a child and making it
comprehend its error are two things. Scolding darkens the mind by
arousing evil passions, instead of enlightening it with clear
perceptions of right and, wrong. _No child is ever improved by
scolding, but always injured_."

"There are few children who are not injured, then. I should like to
see a mother get along with a parcel of children without scolding
them."

"It is a sad truth, as you say, that there are but few children who
are not injured by scolding. No cause is so active for evil among
children as their mother's impatience, which shows itself from the
first, and acts upon them through the whole period in which their
minds are taking impressions and hardening into permanent forms.
Like you, Sarah, our own mother had but little patience among her
children, and you can look back and remember, as well as I, many
instances in which this impatience led her into hasty and ill-judged
acts and expressions that did us harm rather than good."

"It's an easy thing to talk, William. An easy thing to say--Have
patience."

"I know it is, Sarah; and a very hard thing to compel ourselves to
have patience. But, if a mother's love for her children be not
strong enough to induce her to govern herself for their sakes, who
shall seek their good? Who will make any sacrifice for them?"

"Are you not afraid to trust Mary up in your room?" said Mrs. Elder,
recollecting at the moment that Mary was alone there for a longer
time than she felt to be prudent.

"No. She will not trouble any thing."

"I'd be afraid to trust her. She's a thoughtless, impulsive child,
and might do some damage."

"No danger. She understands perfectly what may be and what may not
be touched in my room, and so do all the children in the house. I
wouldn't be afraid to leave them all there for an hour."

"You'd be afraid afterwards, I guess, if you were to try the
experiment."

"I am willing to try it."

"You are welcome."

"Henry! William!" Uncle William went to the door and called the
children.

Two boys came romping into the room.

"Boys," he said, "Mary is up in my room, and I want you to go up and
stay with her until I come."

Away scampered the little fellows as merry as crickets.

"They'll make sad work in your room, brother; and if they do, you
mustn't blame me for it."

"Oh, no, I shall not blame you, nor scold them, but endeavour to
apply some corrective that will make them think, and determine never
to do so again. However, I am pretty well satisfied that nothing
will be disturbed."

In less than an hour, Mrs. Elder and her brother went up to see what
the children were about. They found them seated on the floor, with
two or three loose packs of plain cards about them, out of which
they were forming various figures, by laying them together upon the
floor.

"Why, children! How could you take your uncle's cards?" said Mrs.
Elder reprovingly.

"He lets us play with them, mother," replied the oldest boy, turning
to his uncle with an appealing look.

"You haven't touched any thing else?" said Uncle William.

"No, sir, nothing else. We found Mary playing with the cards when we
came up, and we've been playing with them ever since. You don't
care, do you, Uncle William?"

"No; for I've told you, you remember, that you might play with the
cards whenever you wanted to."

"Can't we play with them longer, Uncle William?" asked Mary.

"Yes, my dear, you can play with them as long as you choose."

Mrs. Elder and her brother turned away and went down-stairs.

"I don't know how it is, William, that they behave themselves so
well in your room, and act like so many young Vandals in every other
part of the house."

"It is plain enough, Sarah," replied her brother. "I never scold
them, and never push them aside when they come to me, no matter what
I'm engaged in doing. I never think a little time taken from other
employments thrown away when devoted to children; and, therefore, I
generally hear what they have to say, let them come to me when they
will. Sometimes I am engaged in such a way that I must not be
interrupted, and then I lock my door. I have explained this to them,
and now the children, when they find my door locked, immediately go
away. On admitting them into my room at first, I was very careful to
tell them that such and such things must on no account be touched,
and explain the reason why; at the same time I gave them free
permission to play with other things that could sustain no serious
injury. Only once or twice has any of them ventured to trespass on
forbidden ground. But, instead of scolding, or even administering a
reprimand, I forbade the one who had done wrong coming to my room
for a certain time. In no case have I had to repeat the
interdiction. If I can thus govern them in my room, I am sure you
can do it in the whole house, if you go the right way about it."

"You say that you always attend to them when they come to you?" said
Mrs. Elder.

"Yes. I try to do so, no matter how much I am engaged."

"If I were to do that, I would be attending to them all the time. I
couldn't sit a moment with a visitor, nor say three words to
anybody. You saw how it was this morning. The moment I sat down to
talk with Mrs. Peters, Mary came and commenced interrupting me at
every word, until I was forced to put her from the room."

"Yes, I saw it," replied the brother in a voice that plainly enough
betrayed his disapproval of his sister's conduct in that particular
instance.

"And you think I ought to have neglected my visitor to attend to an
ill-mannered child?"

"I think, when Mary came to you, as she did, that you should have
attended to her at once. If you had done so, you would have relieved
her from pain, and saved yourself and visitor from a serious
annoyance."

"How do you mean?"

"Don't you know what Mary wanted?"

"No."

"Is it possible! I thought you learned it when she came to me after
Mrs. Peters had left.

"No, I didn't know. What was the matter with her?"

The brother stepped to the door and called for Mary, who presently
came running down-stairs.

"What do you want, uncle?" said she, as she came up to him and
lifted her sparkling blue eyes to his face.

"What were you going to ask your mother to do for you when Mrs.
Peters was here this morning?"

"A pin stuck me," replied the child, artlessly. "Don't you know that
you took it out?"

"Yes, so I did. Let me look at the place," and he turned down Mary's
frock so that her mother could see the scratched and inflamed spot
upon her neck.

"Poor child!" said Mrs. Elder, the tears springing to her eyes as
she stooped down and kissed the wounded place.

"Are you playing with the cards yet, dear?" asked Uncle William.

"Yes, sir."

"Do you want to play more?"

"Yes, sir."

"Run along then." And Mary tripped lightly away.

"When the child first spoke to you, Sarah, if you had paused to see
what she wanted, all would have been right in a few minutes. Even if
her request had been frivolous, by attending to it you would have
satisfied her, and been in a much better frame of mind to entertain
your friend."

Mrs. Elder was silent. There was conviction in Mary's inflamed neck
not to be resisted; and the conviction went to her heart.

"We," said the old gentleman, "who have attained to the age of
reason, expect children, who do not reflect, to act with all the
propriety of men and women, and that too, without mild and correct
instruction as to their duties. Are we not most to blame? They must
regard our times, seasons, and conveniences, and we will attend to
their ever active wants, when our leisure will best permit us to do
so. Is it any wonder, under such a system, that children are
troublesome? Would it not be a greater wonder were they otherwise?
We must first learn self-government and self-denial before we can
rightly govern children. After that, the task will be an easy one."

Mrs. Elder stayed to hear no more, but, rising abruptly, went up
into her chamber to think. When she appeared in her family, her
countenance was subdued, and when she spoke, her voice was lower and
more earnest. It was remarkable to see how readily her children
minded when she spoke to them, and how affectionately they drew
around her. Uncle William was delighted. In a few days, however, old
habits returned, and then her brother came to her aid, and by timely
uttered counsel gave her new strength. It was wonderful to see what
an improvement three months had made, and at the end of a year no
more loving and orderly household could be found. It took much of
Mrs. Elder's time, and occupied almost constantly her thoughts; but
the result well paid for all.

Thinking that this every-day incident in the history of a friend
would appeal strongly to some mother who has not yet learned to
govern herself, or properly regard the welfare of her children, we
have sketched it hastily, and send it forth in the hope that it may
do good.






LOSING ONE'S TEMPER.





I WAS sitting in my room one morning, feeling all "out of sorts"
about something or other, when an orphan child, whom I had taken to
raise, came in with a broken tumbler in her hand, and said, while
her young face was pale, and her little lip quivered,--

"See, Mrs. Graham! I went to take this tumbler from the dresser to
get Anna a drink of water, and I let it fall."

I was in a fretful humour before the child came in, and her
appearance, with the broken tumbler in her hand, did not tend to
help me to a better state of mind. She was suffering a good deal of
pain in consequence of the accident, and needed a kind word to quiet
the disturbed beatings of her heart. But she had come to me in an
unfortunate moment.

"You are a careless little girl!" said I, severely, taking the
fragments of glass from her trembling hands. "A very careless little
girl, and I am displeased with you!"

I said no more; but my countenance expressed even stronger rebuke
than my words. The child lingered near me for, a few moments, and
then shrunk away from the room. I was sorry, in a moment, that I had
permitted myself to speak unkindly to the little girl; for there was
no need of my doing so; and, moreover, she had taken my words, as I
could see, deeply to heart. I had made her unhappy without a cause.
The breaking of the tumbler was an accident likely to happen to any
one and the child evidently felt bad enough about what had occurred,
without having my displeasure added thereto.

If I was unhappy before Jane entered my room I was still more
unhappy after she retired. I blamed myself, and pitied the child;
but this did not in the least mend the matter.

In about half an hour, Jane came up very quietly with Willy, my dear
little, curly-haired, angel-face boy, in her arms. He had fallen
asleep, and she had, with her utmost strength, carried him
up-stairs. She did not lift her eyes to mine as she entered, but
went, with her burden, to the low bed that was in the room, where
she laid him tenderly, and then sat down with her face turned partly
away from me, and with a fan kept off the flies and cooled his moist
skin.

Enough of Jane's countenance was visible to enable me to perceive
that its expression was sad. And it was an unkind word from my lips
that had brought this cloud over her young face!

"So much for permitting myself to fall into a fretful mood," said I,
mentally. "In future I must be more watchful over my state of mind.
I have no right to make others suffer from my own unhappy temper."

Jane continued to sit by Willy and fan him; and every now and then I
could hear a very low sigh come up, as if involuntarily, from her
bosom. Faint as the sound was, it smote upon my ear, and added to my
uncomfortable frame of mind.

A friend called, and I went down into the parlour, and sat
conversing there for an hour. But all the while there was a weight
upon my feelings. I tried, but in vain, to be cheerful. I was too
distinctly aware of the fact, that an individual--and that a
motherless little girl--was unhappy through my unkindness; and the
consciousness was like a heavy hand upon my bosom.

"This is all a weakness," I said to myself, after my friend had
left, making an effort to throw off the uncomfortable feeling. But
it was of no avail. Even if the new train of thought, awakened by
conversation with my friend, had lifted me above the state of mind
in which I was when she came, the sight of Jane's sober face, as she
passed me on the stairs, would have depressed my feelings again.

In order both to relieve my own and the child's feelings, I thought
I would refer to the broken tumbler, and tell her not to grieve
herself about it, as its loss was of no consequence whatever. But
this would have been to have made an acknowledgment to her that I
had been in the wrong, and instinctive feeling of pride remonstrated
against that.

"Ah me!" I sighed. "Why did I permit myself to speak so unguardedly?
How small are the cause that sometimes destroy our peace! How much
good or evil is there in a single word!"

Some who read this may think that I was very weak to let a hastily
uttered censure against a careless child trouble me. What are a
child's feelings?

I have been a child; and, as a child, have been blamed severely by
those whom I desired to please, and felt that unkind words fell
heavier and more painfully, sometimes, than blows. I could,
therfore, understand the nature of Jane's feelings, and sympathize
with her to a certain extent.

All through the day, Jane moved about more quietly than usual. When
I spoke to her about any thing--which I did in a kinder voice than I
ordinarily used--she would look into my face with an earnestness
that rebuked me.

Toward evening, I sent her down-stairs for a pitcher of cool water.
She went quickly, and soon returned with the pitcher of water, and a
tumbler, on a waiter. She was coming towards me, evidently using
more than ordinary caution, when her foot tripped against something,
and she stumbled forward. It was in vain that she tried to save the
pitcher. Its balance was lost, and it fell over and was broken to
pieces at my feet, the water dashing upon the skirt of my dress.

The poor child became instantly as pale as ashes, and the frightened
look she gave me I shall not soon forget. She tried to speak, and
say that it was an accident, but her tongue was, paralyzed for the
moment, and she found no utterance.

The lesson I had received in the morning served me for purposes of
self-control now, and I said, instantly, in a mild, voice--

"Never mind, Jane; I know you couldn't help it. I must tack down
that loose edge of the carpet. I came near tripping there myself
to-day. Go and get a floor-cloth and wipe up the water as quickly as
you can, while I gather up the broken pieces."

The colour came back instantly to Jane's face. She gave me one
grateful look, and then ran quickly away, to do as I had directed
her. When she came back, she blamed herself for not having been more
careful, expressed sorrow for the accident, and promised over and
over again that she would be more guarded in future.

The contrast between both of our feelings now and what they were in
the morning, was very great. I felt happier for having acted justly
and with due self-control; and my little girl, though troubled on
account of the accident, had not the extra burden of my displeasure
to bear.

"Better, far better," said I to myself, as I sat and reflected upon
the incidents just related--"better, far better is it, in all our
relations in life, to maintain a calm exterior, and on no account
speak harshly to those who are below us. Angry words make double
wounds. They hurt those whom they are addressed, while they leave a
sting behind them. Above all, should we guard against a moody
temper. Whenever we permit any thing to fret our minds, we are not
in a state to exercise due self-control, and if temptation comes
then we are sure to fall."






TROUBLE WITH SERVANTS





"OH, dear Mrs. Graham!" said my neighbour Mrs. Jones to me one day,
"what shall I do for good help? I am almost worried out of my
senses. I wish somebody would invent a machine to cook, wash, scrub,
and do housework in general. What a blessing it would be! As for the
whole tribe of flesh and blood domestics, they are not worth their
salt."

"They are all poorly educated," I replied, "and we cannot expect
much of them. Most of them have nearly every thing to learn when
they come into our houses, and are bad scholars into the bargain.
But we must have patience. I find it my only resource."

"Patience!" ejaculated Mrs. Jones, warmly. It would require more
patience than Job ever possessed to get along with some of them."

"And yet," said I, "we accomplish little or nothing by impatience.
At least such is my experience."

"I don't know, ma'am," replied Mrs. Jones. "If you go to being
gentle and easy with them, if you don't follow them up at every
point, you will soon have affairs in a pretty condition! They don't
care a fig for your comfort nor interest--not they! In fact, more
than half of them would, a thousand times, rather make things
disagreeable for you than otherwise."

"I know they are a great trial, sometimes," I answered, not feeling
at liberty to say to my (sic) visiter all I thought. "But we must
endeavour to bear it the best we can. That is my rule; and I find,
in the long run, that I get on much better when I repress all
exhibition of annoyance at their carelessness, short-comings,
neglect, or positive misdeeds, than I do when I let them see that I
am annoyed, or exhibit the slightest angry feeling."

Not long after this, we accepted an invitation to take tea with Mr.
and Mrs. Jones, and I then had an opportunity of seeing how she
conducted herself towards her domestics. I was in no way surprised,
afterwards, that she found difficulty in getting along with
servants.

Soon after my husband and myself went in, and while we were sitting
in the parlour, Mrs. Jones had occasion to call a servant. I noticed
that, when she rung the bell, she did so with a quick jerk; and I
could perceive a tone of authority in the ting-a-ling of the bell,
the sound of which was distinctly heard. Nearly two minutes passed
before the servant made her appearance, in which time the bell
received a more vigorous jerk. At last she entered, looking flushed
and hurried.

"What's the reason you did not come when I first rung?" inquired our
lady hostess, in a severe tone.

"I--I--came as quick as I could," replied the girl, with a look of
mortification at being spoken to before strangers.

"No, you didn't! It's your custom to wait until I ring twice. Now
let this be the last time!"

And then, in a low voice, Mrs. Jones gave the direction for which
she had summoned her.

"Such a set!" ejaculated the lady, as the girl left the room. Her
words were intended to reach other ears besides ours; and so they
did. "That girl," she continued, addressing me, "has a habit of
making me ring twice. It really seems to give them pleasure, I
believe, to annoy you. Ah, me! this trouble with servants is a never
ending one. It meets you at every turn."

And, for some time, she animadverted upon her favourite theme--for
such it appeared to be,--until her husband, who was evidently
annoyed, managed to change the subject of discourse. Once or twice
she came back to it before tea-time.

At last the tea bell rung, and we ascended to the dining-room. We
were but fairly seated, when a frown darkened suddenly on the brow
of our hostess, and her hand applied itself nervously to the
table-bell.

The girl who had set the table came up from the kitchen.

"There is no sugar in the bowl," said Mrs. Jones sharply. "I wish
you would learn to set the table while you are about it. I'm sure I
have spoken to you often enough."

As the girl took the sugar-bowl to fill it, the frown left the face
of our hostess, and she turned to me with a bland smile, and asked
whether I used sugar and cream in my tea. I replied in the
affirmative; but did not smile in return, for I could not. I knew
the poor girl's feelings were hurt at being spoken to in such a way
before strangers, and this made me extremely uncomfortable.

"Do you call this cream?" was the angry interrogation of Mrs. Jones,
as the girl returned with the sugar, pushing towards her the
cream-jug, which she had lifted from the table as she spoke.

"Yes, ma'am," was replied.

"Look at it, and see, then."

"It's the cream," said the girl.

"If that's cream, I never want to see milk. Here! take it away and
bring me the cream."

The girl looked confused and distressed. But she took the cream-jug
and went down-stairs with it.

"That's just the way they always do!" said Mrs. Jones; leaning back
in her chair. "I really get out of all patience, sometimes."

In a little while the girl returned.

"It's the cream, ma'am, as I said. Here's the milk." And she
presented two vessels.

Mrs. Jones took both from her hands with an ill-natured jerk. Sure
enough, it was as the girl had said.

"Such cream!" fell from the lips of our hostess, as she commenced
pouring it into the cups already filled with tea.

The girl went down-stairs to take back the milk she had brought up,
but she was scarcely at the bottom of the stairs, when the bell was
rung for her.

"Why don't you stay here? What are you running off about?" said Mrs.
Jones, as she came in hurriedly. "You know I want you to wait on the
table."

And so it was during the whole meal. The girl was not once spoken to
except in a tone of anger or offensive authority.

I was no longer surprised that Mrs. Jones found it difficult to keep
good domestics, for no one of feeling can long remain with a woman
who speaks to them always in a tone of command, or who reproves them
in the presence of visitors.

My husband was very severe upon Mrs. Jones after we returned home.
"No lady," said he, "ever spoke in anger or reproof to a domestic
before a visitor or stranger. Nothing more surely evinces a vulgar
and unfeeling mind."

I did not attempt to gainsay his remark, for he expressed but my own
sentiment. So far from uttering a reproof in the presence of a
visitor, I am careful not to speak to my domestics about any fault
even in the presence of my husband. They have a certain respect for
themselves, and a certain delicacy of feeling, which we should
rather encourage than break down. Nearly all domestics are careful
to appear as well as possible in the eyes of the head of the family,
and it hurts them exceedingly to be reproved, or angrily spoken to,
before him. This every woman ought to know by instinct, and those
who do not are just so far deficient in the aggregate of qualities
that go to make up the true lady.

I was by no means surprised to hear from Mrs. Jones, a few days
afterwards, that the "good-for-nothing creature" who waited upon the
table on the occasion of our taking tea at her house, had gone away
and left her. I thought better of the girl for having the spirit to
resent, in this way, the outrage committed upon her feelings.
Domestics have rights and feelings; and if people were to regard
these more, and treat them with greater kindness and consideration
than they do, there would be fewer complaints than there are at
present. This is my opinion, and I must be pardoned for expressing
it.






HAVEN'T THE CHANGE.





IT was house-cleaning time, and I had an old coloured woman at work
scrubbing and cleaning paint.

"Polly is going, ma'am," said one of my domestics, as the twilight
began to fall.

"Very well. Tell her that I shall want her tomorrow."

"I think she would like to have her money for to-day's work," said
the girl.

I took out my purse, and found that I had nothing in it less than a
three-dollar bill.

"How much does she have a day?"

"Six shillings, ma'am."

"I haven't the change this evening. Tell her that I'll pay for both
days to-morrow."

The girl left the room, and I thought no more of Polly for an hour.
Tea-time had come and passed, when one of my domestics, who was
rather communicative in her habits, said to me:

"I don't think old Polly liked your not paying her this evening."

"She must be very unreasonable, then," said I, without reflection.
"I sent her word that I had no change. How did she expect I could
pay her?"

"Some people are queer, you know, Mrs. Graham," remarked the girl
who had made the communication, more for the pleasure of telling it
than any thing else.

I kept thinking over what the girl had said, until other suggestions
came into my mind.

"I wish I had sent and got a bill changed," said I, as the idea that
Polly might be really in want of money intruded itself. "It would
have been very little trouble."

This was the beginning of a new train of reflections, which did not
make me very happy. To avoid a little trouble, I had sent the poor
old woman away, after a hard day's work, without her money. That she
stood in need of it was evident from the fact that she had asked for
it.

"How very thoughtless in me," said I, as I dwelt longer and longer
on the subject.

"What's the matter?" inquired my husband, seeing me look serious.

"Nothing to be very much troubled at," I replied.

"Yet you are troubled."

"I am; and cannot help it. You will, perhaps, smile at me, but small
causes sometimes produce much pain. Old Polly has been at work all
day, scrubbing and cleaning. When night came, she asked for her
wages, and I, instead of taking the trouble to get the money for
her, sent her word that I hadn't the change. There was nothing less
than a three-dollar bill in my purse. I didn't reflect that a poor
old woman who has to go out to daily work must need her money as
soon as it is earned. I am very sorry."

My husband did not reply for some time. My words appeared to have
made considerable impression on his mind.

"Do you know where Polly lives?" he inquired at length.

"No; but I will ask the girl." And immediately ringing the bell, I
made inquiries as to where Polly lived; but no one in the house
knew.

"It cannot be helped now," said my husband, in a tone of regret.
"But I would be more thoughtful in future. The poor always have need
of their money. Their daily labour rarely does more than supply
their daily wants. I can never forget a circumstance that occurred
when I was a boy. My mother was left a widow when I was but nine
years old--and she was poor. It was by the labour of her hands that
she obtained shelter and food for herself and three little ones.

"Once, I remember the occurrence as if it had taken place yesterday,
we were out of money and food. At breakfast-time our last morsel was
eaten, and we went through the long day without a mouthful of bread.
We all grew very hungry by night; but our mother encouraged us to be
patient a little and a little while longer, until she finished the
garment she was making, when she would take that and some other work
home to a lady who would pay her for the work. Then, she said, we
should have a nice supper. At last the work was finished, and I went
with my mother to help carry it home, for she was weak and sickly,
and even a light burden fatigued her. The lady for whom she had made
the garment was in good circumstances, and had no want unmet that
money could supply. When we came into her presence, she took the
work, and, after glancing at it carelessly, said,

"'It will do very well.'

"My mother lingered; perceiving which, the lady said, rather rudely,

"'You want your money, I suppose. How much does the work come to?'

"'Two dollars,' replied my mother. The lady took out her purse; and,
after looking through a small parcel of bills, said,

"'I haven't the change this evening. Call over anytime, and you
shall have it.'

"And without giving my mother time more earnestly to urge her
request, turned from us and left the room. I never shall forget the
night that followed. My mother's feelings were sensitive and
independent. She could not make known her want. An hour after our
return home, she sat weeping with her children around her, when a
neighbour came in, and, learning our situation, supplied the present
need."

This relation did not make me feel any the more comfortable.
Anxiously I waited, on the next morning, the arrival of Polly. As
soon as she came I sent for her, and, handing her the money she had
earned on the day before, said,

"I'm sorry I hadn't the change for you last night, Polly. I hope you
didn't want it very badly."

Polly hesitated a little, and then replied,

"Well, ma'am, I did want it very much, or I wouldn't have asked for
it. My poor daughter Hetty is sick, and I wanted to get her
something nice to eat."

"I'm very sorry," said I, with sincere regret. "How is Hetty this
morning?"

"She isn't so well, ma'am. And I feel very bad about her."

"Come up to me in half an hour, Polly," said I.

The old woman went down-stairs. When she appeared again, according
to my desire, I had a basket for her, in which were some wine,
sugar, fruit, and various little matters that I thought her daughter
would relish, and told her to go at once and take them to the sick
girl. Her expressions of gratitude touched my feelings deeply. Never
since have I omitted, under any pretence, to pay the poor their
wages as soon as earned.






OLD MAIDS' CHILDREN.





"IF that were my child, I'd soon break him of such airs and capers.
Only manage him right, and he'll be as good a boy as can be found
anywhere."

"Very few people appear to have any right government over their
children."

"Very few. Here is my sister; a sensible woman enough, and one would
think the very person to raise, in order and obedience, a family of
eight children. But she doesn't manage them rightly; and, what is
remarkable, is exceedingly sensitive, and won't take kindly the
slightest hint from me on the subject. If I say to her, 'If that
were my child, Sarah, I would do so and so,' she will be almost sure
to retort something about old maids' children."

"Yes, that's the way. No matter how defective the family government
of any one may be, she will not allow others to suggest
improvements."

"It would not be so with me. If I had a family of children, I should
not only see their faults, but gladly receive hints from all sides
as to their correction."

"It's the easiest thing in the world to govern children, if you go
the right way about it."

"I know. There is nothing easier. And yet my sister will say,
sometimes, that she is perfectly at a loss what to do. But no
wonder. Like hundreds of others, she has let her children get
completely ahead of her. If they don't break her heart in the end, I
shall be glad."

The immediate cause of this conversation between Miss Martha Spencer
and a maiden lady who had been twenty-five for some ten or fifteen
years--Miss Spencer could not be accused of extensive
juvenility--was the refractory conduct of Mrs. Fleetwood's oldest
child, a boy between six and seven years of age, by which a pleasant
conversation had been interrupted, and the mother obliged to leave
the room for a short period.

"I think, with you," said Miss Jones, the visitor, "that Mrs.
Fleetwood errs very greatly in the management of her children."

"Management! She has no management at all," interrupted Miss
Spencer.

"In not managing her children, then, if you will."

"So I have told her, over and over again, but to no good purpose.
She never receives it kindly. Why, if I had a child, I would never
suffer it to cry after it was six months old. It is the easiest
thing in the world to prevent it. And yet, one of Sarah's children
does little else but fret and cry all the time. She insists upon it
that it can't feel well. And suppose this to be the case?--crying
does it no good, but, in reality, a great deal of harm. If it is
sick, it has made itself so by crying."

"Very likely. I've known many such instances," remarked Miss Jones.

Mrs. Fleetwood, returning at the moment, checked this train of
conversation. She did not allude to the circumstance that caused her
to leave the room, but endeavoured to withdraw attention from it by
some pleasant remarks calculated to interest the visitor and give
the thoughts of all a new direction.

"I hope you punished Earnest, as he deserved to be," said her
sister, as soon as Miss Jones had retired. "I never saw such a
child!"

"He certainly behaved badly," returned Mrs. Fleetwood, speaking in
an absent manner.

"He behaved outrageously! If I had a child, and he were to act as
Earnest did this morning, I'd teach him a lesson that he would not
forget in a year."

"No doubt your children will be under very good government, Martha,"
said Mrs. Fleetwood, a little sarcastically.

"If they are not under better government than yours, I'll send them
all to the House of Refuge," retorted Miss Martha.

The colour on Mrs. Fleetwood's cheeks grew warmer at this remark,
but she thought it best not to reply in a manner likely to provoke a
further insulting retort, and merely said--

"If ever you come to have children of your own, sister, you will be
able to understand, better than you now do, a mother's trials,
doubts, and difficulties. At present, you think you know a great
deal about managing children, but you know nothing."

"I know," replied Martha, "that I could manage my own children a
great deal better than you manage yours."

"If such should prove to be the case, no one will be more rejoiced
at the result than I. But I look, rather, to see your children, if
you should ever become a mother, worse governed than most people's."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do."

"And why, pray?"

"Because my own observation tells me, that those persons who are
most inclined to see defects in family government, and to find fault
with other people's management of their children, are apt to have
the most unruly young scape-graces in their houses to be found
anywhere."

"That's all nonsense. The fact that a person observes and reflects
ought to make that person better qualified to act."

"Right observation and reflection, no doubt, will. But right
observation and reflection in regard to children will make any one
modest and fearful on the subject of their right government, rather
than bold and boastful. Those who, like you, think themselves so
well qualified to manage children, usually make the worst managers."

"It's all very well for you to talk in that way," said Martha,
tossing her head. "But, if I ever have children of my own, I'll show
you whether I have the worst young scape-graces to be found
anywhere."

A low, fretful cry, or rather whine, had been heard from a child
near the door of the room, for some time. It was one of those
annoying, irritating cries, that proceed more from a fretful state
of mind than from any adequate external exciting cause. Martha
paused a moment, and then added--

"Do you think I would suffer a child to cry about the house half of
its time, as Ellen does? No, indeed. I'd soon settle that."

"How would you do it?"

"I'd make her stop crying."

"Suppose you couldn't?"

"Couldn't! That's not the way for a mother to talk."

"Excuse me, Martha," said Mrs. Fleetwood, rising. "I would rather
not hear such remarks from you, and now repeat what I have before
said, more than once, that I wish you to leave me free to do what I
think right in my own family; as I undoubtedly will leave you
free, if ever you should have one."

And Mrs. Fleetwood left the room, and taking the little girl who was
crying at the door by the hand, led her up stairs.

"What is the matter, Ellen?" she asked as calmly and as soothingly
as the irritating nature of Ellen's peculiar cry or whine would
permit her.

"Earnest won't play with me," replied the child, still crying.

"Come up into my room, and see if there isn't something pretty there
to play with."

"No--I don't want to," was the crying answer.

"Yes; come." And Mrs. Fleetwood led along the resisting child.

"No--no--no--I don't want to go. I want Earnest to play with me."

"Humph! I'd stop that pretty quick!" remarked Miss Spencer to
herself, as the petulant cry of the child grew louder. "I'd never
allow a child of mine to go on like that."

Mrs. Fleetwood felt disturbed. But experience had taught her that
whenever she spoke from an irritated state, her words rather
increased than allayed the evil she sought to correct. So she drew
the child along with her, using some force in order to do it, until
she reached her chamber. Her strongest impulse, on being alone with
Ellen, who still continued crying, was to silence her instantly by
the most summary process to which parental authority usually has
resort in such cases; but her mother's heart suggested the better
plan of diverting Ellen's mind, if possible, and thus getting it
into a happier state. In order to do this, she tried various means,
but without effect. The child still cried on, and in a manner so
disturbing to the mother, that she found it almost impossible to
keep from enforcing silence by a stern threat of instant punishment.
But, she kept on, patiently doing what she thought to be right, and
was finally successful in soothing the unhappy child. To her
husband, with whom she was conversing on that evening about the
state into which Ellen had fallen, she said--

"I find it very hard to get along with her. She tires my patience
almost beyond endurance. Sometimes it is impossible to bear with her
crying, and I silence it by punishment. But I observe that if I can
produce a cheerful state by amusing her and getting her interested
in some play or employment, she retains her even temper much longer
than when she has been stopped from crying by threats or punishment.
If I only had patience with her, I could get along better. But it is
so hard to have patience with a fretful, ever crying child."

Of the mental exercises through which Mrs. Fleetwood passed, Miss
Martha Spencer knew nothing. She saw only the real and supposed
errors of her mode of government, and strongly condemned them. Her
doctrine was, in governing children, "implicit obedience must be had
at all hazards." At all hazards, as she generally expressed or
thought it was only meant for extreme or extraordinary cases.
Obedience she believed to be a thing easily obtained by any one who
chose to enforce it. No where, it must be owned, did she see
children as orderly and obedient as she thought they should be. But
that she did not hesitate to set down to the fault of the parents.
Her influence in the family of her sister was not good. To some
extent she destroyed the freedom of Mrs. Fleetwood, and to some
extent disturbed the government of her children by interfering with
it, and attempting to make the little ones do as she thought best.
Her interference was borne about as well as it could be by her
sister, who now and then gave her a "piece of her mind," and in
plain, straight forward terms. Mrs. Fleetwood's usual remark, when
Martha talked about what she would do, if she had children, was a
good humoured one, and generally something after this fashion--

"Old maids' children are the best in the world, I know. They never
cry, are never disobedient, and never act disorderly."

Martha hardly relished this mode of "stopping her off," but it was
generally effective, though sometimes it produced a slight
ebullition.

At last, though the chances in favour of matrimony had become
alarmingly few, Martha was wooed, won, and married to a gentleman
named Laurie, who removed with her to the West.

"There is some prospect at last," Mrs. Fleetwood said to her
husband, with a smile, on the occasion of Martha's wedding, "of
sister's being able to bring into practice her theories in regard to
family government. I only hope the mother's children may be as good
as the old maid's."

"I doubt if they will," remarked the husband, smiling in turn.

"We shall see."

Years passed, and Martha, now Mrs. Laurie, remained in the West. Her
sister frequently heard from her by letter, and every now and then
received the announcement of a fine babe born to the proud mother;
who as often spoke of her resolution to do her duty towards her
children, and especially in the matter of enforcing obedience. She
still talked eloquently of the right modes of domestic government,
and the high and holy duties of parents.

"Let me be blamable in what I may," said she, in one of these
letters, "it shall not be a disregard to the best interests of my
children."

"I hope not, indeed," said Mrs. Fleetwood, after reading the passage
to her husband. "But those who really understand the true character
of children, and are sensible of the fact that they inherit from
their parents all the evil and disorderly tendencies not fully
overcome in themselves, feel too deeply the almost hopeless task
they assume, to boast much of what they will do with _their_
children. A humble, reserved, even trembling consciousness of the
difficulties in the way of the parent, is the most promising state
in which a parent can assume his or her responsibilities. To look
for perfect order and obedience is to look for what never comes. Our
duty is to sow good seed in the minds of our children, and to see
that the ground be kept as free from evil weeds as possible. The
time of fruit is not until reason is developed; and we err in
expecting fruit at an early period. There will come the tender
blade, green and pleasant to the eye, and the firm, upright stalk,
with its leaves and its branches; and flowers, too, after a while,
beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers; but the fruit of all our labour,
of all our careful culture, appears not until reason takes the place
of mere obedience, and the child becomes the man. This view saves me
from many discouragements; and leads me, in calm and patient hope,
to persevere, even though through months, and, I might almost say,
years, little prospect of ultimate fruit becomes apparent. But, good
seed must bring forth good fruit."

After a while, Mrs. Laurie ceased to write in her old strain. She
sometimes spoke of her two eldest sons as fine boys, and of her two
little girls as dear, sweet creatures; but generally omitted saying
any thing more about her family than that all were in good health.

Ten years after Martha's marriage and removal to the West, during
which time the sisters had not met, business required Mr. Fleetwood
to go to Cincinnati, and he proposed that his wife should accompany
him, and pay a visit to Mrs. Laurie, who lived in Springfield, Ohio.
Mrs. Fleetwood readily consented, and they started in the pleasant
month of October.

On arriving at Springfield, they were met by Mr. Laurie at the
stage-office and taken to his house, where the sisters met,
overjoyed at seeing each other once more.

"Is that one of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood, after she had
laid aside her bonnet and riding-dress, and seated herself in her
sister's chamber. A red-faced boy, with pouting lips, and a brow
naturally or artificially so heavy as almost to conceal his organs
of vision, stood holding on to one side of the door, and swinging
himself in and out, all the while eyeing fixedly his aunt, of whose
intended visit he had been advised.

"Yes, that is my oldest. Henry, come here and speak to your aunty."

But Henry did not change either attitude, motion, nor expression,
any more than if he had been a swinging automaton.

"Did you hear me?" Mrs. Laurie spoke with a slight change in her
voice and manner.

The boy remained as impassive as before.

"Come, dear, and shake hands with me," said Mrs. Fleetwood.

Henry now put one of his thumbs into his mouth, but neither looked
nor acted less savagely than at first.

Mrs. Laurie was fretted at this unfavourable exhibition of himself
by her son. She felt as if she would like to get hold of him and box
his ears until they burned for a week.

"Henry! Come here!" She spoke in a tone of command. The door was
quite as much impressed as her son.

"Either come and speak to your aunty, or go down-stairs
immediately."

The boy moved not.

This was too much for Mrs. Laurie, and she started towards him.
Henry let go of the door, and went down-stairs about as quietly as a
horse would have gone.

"He's such a strange, shy boy," said Mrs. Laurie, apologetically.
"But he has a good heart, and you can do almost any thing with him.
How is Earnest? the dear little fellow."

"Earnest is almost a man. He is as large as I am," replied Mrs.
Fleetwood.

"Indeed! I can't think of him as any thing but a bright little boy,
not so large as my Henry."

As she said this, her Henry, who had gone clattering down-stairs a
few moments before, presented himself at the door again, and
commenced swinging himself, and taking observations of the state of
affairs within the chamber. The mother and aunt both concluded
within their own minds that it was as well not to take any notice of
him, and therefore went on with their conversation. Presently a
happy, singing voice was heard upon the stairs.

"There comes my little Martha, the light of the whole house," said
Mrs. Laurie. In a few moments, a sweet-faced child presented
herself, and was about entering, when Henry stepped into the door,
and, putting a foot against each side, blocked up the way. Martha
attempted to pass the rude boy, and, in doing so, fell over one of
his feet, and struck her face a severe blow upon the floor. The loud
scream of the hurt child, the clattering of Henry down-stairs, and
the excited exclamation of the mother as she sprang forward, were
simultaneous. Mr. Laurie and Mr. Fleetwood came running up from the
room below, and arrived in time to see a gush of blood from the nose
of Martha, as her mother raised her from the floor.

"Isn't it too much!" exclaimed Mrs. Laurie. "I think that it is the
worst boy I ever saw in my life!"

The application of a little cold water soon staunched the flow of
blood, and a few kind words soothed the feelings of the child, who
sat in her mother's lap, and answered her aunt when she spoke to
her, like a little lady, as she was.

"Where are the rest of your children?" asked Mrs. Fleetwood. The
gentlemen were now seated with the ladies.

"You've had a pretty fair sample of them," replied Mr. Laurie,
smiling good humouredly, "and may as well be content with that for
the present. To say the best of them, they are about as wild a set
of young scape-graces as ever made each other miserable, and their
parents, too, sometimes."

"Why, Mr. Laurie!" exclaimed his wife, who had not forgotten her old
opinions, freely expressed, about the ease with which children could
be governed. "I'm sure you needn't say that. I think our children
quite as good as other people's, and a little better than some I
could name."

"Well, perhaps they are, and nothing to brag of at that," replied
Mr. Laurie. "Children are children, and you can't make any thing
more out of them."

"But children should be made orderly and obedient," said Mrs.
Laurie, with some dignity of expression.

"If they can," pleasantly returned the father. "So far, we, at
least, have not succeeded to our wishes in this respect. As to order
and obedience, they seem to be cardinal sins rather than cardinal
virtues, at present. But I hope better things after a while."

As this was said, some one was heard tumbling rather than walking
up-stairs, and, in a moment after, in bolted a boy about seven years
old, crying out--

"Hen' says Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood have come! Have they, mom?"

The boy stopped short on perceiving that strangers were present.

"Yes, my son, your Uncle and Aunt Fleetwood are here," said Mr.
Fleetwood, reaching out his hand to the little fellow. Remembering
Martha's former rigid notions about the government of children, he
felt so much amused by what he saw, that he could hardly help
laughing out immoderately. "Come here," he added, "and let me talk
to you."

The boy went without hesitation to his uncle, who took him by the
hand and said, with a half wicked glance at the mother, yet with a
broad good humoured smile upon his face,

"That must be a very knowing hen of yours. I should like to have
some of her chickens."

"What hen?" asked the boy, with a serious air.

"Why, the hen that told you we were here."

"No hen told me that." The boy looked mystified.

"Oh! I thought you said Hen' told you so."

"No, it was Henry."

"Say, no _sir_, my son." Mrs. Laurie's face was not pale, certainly,
as she said this.

The boy did not think it worth while to repeat the formality.

"Oh! it was your brother Henry," replied Mr. Fleetwood, with
affected seriousness. "I thought that must have been a very knowing
hen." The boy, and his sister who had recovered from the pain of her
fall, laughed heartily. "Now tell me your name?"

"John."

"Say John, _sir_. Where are your manners?" spoke up the mother, who
remembered that, with all her sister's imperfect management of her
children, she had succeeded in teaching them to be very respectful
in their replies to older persons, and that Earnest, when she last
saw him, was a little gentleman in his manners when amy one spoke to
him.

"Mo-_ther_!" came now ringing up the stairs, in a loud, screeching
little voice. "Mo-_ther_! Hen' won't let me come up."

"I declare! That boy is too bad! He's a perfect torment!" said Mrs.
Laurie, fretfully. "I'm out of all heart with him."

The father stepped to the head of the stairs, and spoke rather
sternly to the rebellious Henry. Little feet, were soon heard
pattering up, and the youngest of the young hopefuls made her
appearance, and, soon after, Henry pushed his really repulsive face
into the door and commenced grimacing at the other children, thereby
succeeding in what he desired to do, viz., starting little Maggy,
the youngest, into a whining, fretful cry, because "Hen' was making
faces" at her. This cry, once commenced, was never known to end
without the application of something more decided in its effects
than words. It was in vain that the mother used every persuasive,
diverting and soothing means in her power: the crying, loud enough
to drown all conversation, continued, until, taking the child up
hurriedly in her arms, she bore her into another room, where she
applied some pretty severe silencing measures, which had, however,
the contrary effect to that desired. The child cried on, but louder
than before. For nearly ten minutes, she sought by scolding and
whipping to silence her, but all was in vain. It is doubtful, after
the means used to enforce silence, whether the child could have
stopped if she had tried. At last, the mother locked her in a
closet, and came, with a flushed face and mortified feelings, back
to the room from which she had retired with Maggy.

The moment Mrs. Laurie left, her husband, with a word and a look,
brought the three children into order and quietness. Henry was told,
in a low voice, and in a tone of authority, that he never thought of
questioning, to go up into the garret and remain there until he sent
for him. The boy retired without the slightest hesitation.

When Mrs. Laurie returned, Mr. Fleetwood, who was a man of frank,
free, and pleasant manners, could not resist the temptation he felt
to remind her of the past; he, therefore, said, laughingly,

"You have doubtless found out, by this time, Martha, that old maids'
children are the best."

This sally had just the effect he designed it to have. It was an
apology for the children, as it classed them with other real
children, in contradistinction to the imaginary offspring of the
unmarried, that are known by every one to be faultless specimens of
juvenility.

"Come! That is too bad, Mr. Fleetwood," replied Mrs. Laurie, feeling
an immediate sense of relief. "But, I own to the error I committed
before marriage. It seemed to me the easiest thing in the world to
manage children, when I thought about it, and saw where parents
erred, or appeared to err, in their modes of government. I did not
then know what was _in_ children. All their perverseness I laid to
the account of bad management. Alas! I have had some sad experiences
in regard to my error. Still, I cannot but own that children are
made worse by injudicious treatment, and also, that mine ought to be
a great deal better than they are."

"Like the rest of us," returned Mr. Fleetwood, "you have no doubt
discovered, that it is one thing to _think_ about the government of
children, and another thing to be in the midst of their disturbing
sphere, and yet act as if you did not feel it. Theory and practice
are two things. It seems, when we think coolly, that nothing can be
easier than to cause the one exactly to correspond to the other. But
whoever makes the trial, especially where the right government of
children is concerned, will find it a most difficult matter. What
makes the government of their children so hard a thing for parents,
is the fact that the evils of the children have been inherited from
them, and therefore the reaction of these evils upon themselves is
the more disturbing. We haven't as much patience with the faults of
our own children, often, as other people have. They fret and annoy
us, and take away our ability to speak in a proper tone and act with
becoming dignity toward them, and thus destroy their respect for
us."

"Nothing can be truer," said Mrs. Laurie. "I stand rebuked. I am
self-condemned, every day, on this very account. I used to think
that your government and that of Sarah's over your children very
defective. But it was far better than the government that I have
been able to exercise over mine. Ah me!"

"Don't sigh over the matter so terribly, Martha," spoke up the
husband. "We shall get them right in the end. Never give up the
ship, is my motto in this and every thing else. But I wouldn't have
our brother and sister here think for a moment that the scenes they
have witnessed are enacted every day. Their visit is an occasion of
some excitement to our young folks, and they had to show off a
little. They will cool down again, and we shall get on pleasantly
enough."

"That is all very true," said Mrs. Laurie, more cheerfully. "I never
saw them act quite so outrageously before, when any one came in.
There is much good in them, and you will see it before you leave
us."

"No doubt in the world of that," replied Mr. Fleetwood; "there is
good in all children, and it is our duty to exercise great
forbearance towards their evils, and be careful lest, by what we do
or say, we strengthen, rather than break them."

And the good that was in Mrs. Laurie's children was clearly seen by
Mr. and Mrs. Fleetwood during their stay; but, that good was, alas!
not strengthened as it might have been, nor were the evils they
inherited kept quiescent, as they would to a great extent have
remained, had the mother been more patient and forbearing--had her
practice been as good as her theory.

It is easy for us to see how others ought to act toward their
children, but very hard for us to act right toward our own.






THE MOTHER AND BOY.





"TOM, let that alone!" exclaimed a mother, petulantly, to a boy
seven years old, who was playing with a tassel that hung from one of
the window-blinds, to the imminent danger of its destruction.

The boy did not seem to hear, but kept on fingering the tassel.

"Let that be, I tell you! Must I speak a hundred times? Why don't
you mind at once?"

The child slowly relinquished his hold of the tassel, and commenced
running his hand up and down the venitian blind.

"There! there! Do for gracious sake let them blinds alone. Go 'way
from the window this moment, and try and keep your hands off of
things. I declare! you are the most trying child I ever saw."

Tom left the window and threw himself at full length into the
cradle, where he commenced rocking himself with a force and rapidity
that made every thing crack again.

"Get out of that cradle! What do you mean? The child really seems
possessed!" And the mother caught him by the arm and jerked him from
the cradle.

Tom said nothing, but, with the most imperturbable air in the world,
walked twice around the room, and then pushing a chair up before the
dressing-bureau, took therefrom a bottle of hair lustral, and,
pouring the palm of his little hand full of the liquid, commenced
rubbing it upon his head. Twice had this operation been performed,
and Tom was pulling open a drawer to get the hair-brush, when the
odour of the oily compound reached the nostrils of the lad's mother,
who was sitting with her back toward him. Turning quickly, she saw
what was going on.

"You!" fell angrily from her lips, as she dropped the baby in the
cradle. "Isn't it too much!" she continued, as she swept across the
room to where Tom was standing before the bureau-dressing-glass.

"There, sir!" and the child's ear rang with the box he received.
"There, sir!" and the box was repeated. "Haven't I told you a
hundred times not to touch that hair-oil? Just see what a spot of
grease you've made on the carpet! Look at your hands!"

Tom looked at his hands, and, seeing them full of oil, clapped them
quickly down upon his jacket, and tried to rub them clean.

"There! stop! mercy! Now see your new jacket that you put on this
morning. Grease from top to bottom! Isn't it too bad! I am in
despair!" And the mother let her hands fall by her side, and her
body drop into a chair.

"It's no use to try," she continued; "I'll give up. Just see that
jacket! it's totally ruined; and that carpet, too. Was there ever
such a trying boy! Go down-stairs this instant, and tell Jane to
come up here."

Tom had reason to know that his mother was not in a mood to be
trifled with, so he went off briskly and called Jane, who was
directed to get some fuller's earth and put upon the carpet where
oil had been spilled.

Not at all liking the atmosphere of his mother's room, Tom, being
once in the kitchen, felt no inclination to return. His first work
there, after delivering his message to Jane, was to commence turning
the coffee-mill.

"Tommy," said the cook, mildly, yet firmly, "you know I've told you
that it was wrong to touch the coffee-mill. See here, on the floor,
where you have scattered the coffee about, and now I must get a
broom and sweep it up. If you do so, I can't let you come down
here."

The boy stood and looked at the cook seriously, while she got the
broom and swept up the dirt he had made.

"It's all clean again now," said the cook, pleasantly. "And you
won't do so any more, will you?"

"No, I won't touch the coffee-mill." And, as Tom said this, he
sidled up to the knife-box that stood upon the dresser, and made a
dive into it with his hand.

"Oh, no, no, no, Tommy! that won't do, either," said the cook. "The
knives have all been cleaned, and they are to go on the table to eat
with."

"Then what can I play with, Margaret?" asked the child, as he left
the dresser. "I want something to play with."

The cook thought a moment, and then went to a closet and brought out
a little basket filled with clothes-pins. As she held them in her
hand, she said--"Tommy, if you will be careful not to break any of
these, nor scatter them about, you may have them to play with. But
remember, now, that as soon as you begin to throw them around the
room, I will put them up again."

"Oh, no, I won't throw them about," said the little fellow, with
brightening eyes, as he reached out for the basket of pins.

In a little while he had a circle formed on the table, which he
called his fort; and inside of this he had men, cannon,
sentry-boxes, and other things that were suggested to his fancy.

"Where's Thomas?" asked his mother, about the time he had become
fairly interested in his fort.

"I left him down in the kitchen," replied Jane.

"Go down and tell him to come up here instantly."

Down went Jane.

"Come along up-stairs to your mother," said she.

"No, I won't," replied the boy.

"Very well, mister! You can do as you like; but your mother sent for
you."

"Tell mother I am playing here so good. I'm not in any mischief. Am
I, Margaret?"

"No, Tommy; but your mother has sent for you, and you had better
go."

"I don't want to."

"Just as you like," said Jane, indifferently, as she left the
kitchen and went up-stairs.

"Where's Thomas?" was the question with which she was met on
returning to the chamber.

"He won't come, ma'am."

"Go and tell him that if he doesn't come up to me instantly, I will
put on his night-clothes and shut him up in the closet."

The threat of the closet was generally uttered ten times where it
was executed once; it made but little impression upon the child, who
was all absorbed in his fort.

Jane returned. In a few moments afterward, the quick, angry voice of
the mother was heard ringing down the stairway.

"You, Tom! come up here this instant."

"I'm not troubling any thing, mother."

"Come up, I say!"

"Margaret says I may play with the clothes-pins. I'm only building a
fort with them."

"Do you hear me?"

"Mother!"

"Tom! if you don't come to me this instant, I'll almost skin you.
Margaret! take them clothes-pins away. Pretty playthings, indeed,
for you to give a boy like him! No wonder I have to get a dozen new
ones every two or three months."

Margaret now spoke.

"Tommy, you must go up to your mother."

She now took the clothes-pins and commenced putting them into the
basket where they belonged. Her words and action had a more instant
effect than all the mother's storm of passion. The boy left the
kitchen in tears, and went slowly up-stairs.

"Why didn't you come when I called you? Say!"

The mother seized her little boy by the arm the moment he came in
reach of her, and dragged rather than led him up-stairs, uttering
such exclamations as these by the way:

"I never saw such a child! You might as well talk to the wind! I'm
in despair! I'll give up! Humph! clothes-pins, indeed! Pretty
playthings to give a child! Every thing goes to rack and ruin!
There!"

And, as the last word was uttered, Tommy was thrust into his
mother's room with a force that nearly threw him prostrate.

"Now take off them clothes, sir."

"What for, mother? I haven't done any thing! I didn't hurt the
clothes-pins; Margaret said I might play with them."

"D'ye hear? take off them clothes, I say!"

"I didn't do any thing, mother."

"A word more, and I'll box your ears until they ring for a month.
Take off them clothes, I say! I'll teach you to come when I send for
you! I'll let you know whether I am to be minded or not!"

Tommy slowly disrobed himself, while his mother, fretted to the
point of resolution, eyed him with unrelenting aspect. The jacket
and trousers were removed, and his night-clothes put on in their
stead, Tommy all the while protesting tearfully that he had done
nothing.

"Will you hush?" was all the satisfaction he received for his
protestations.

"Now, Jane, take him up-stairs to bed; he's got to lie there all the
afternoon."

It was then four, and the sun did not set until near eight o'clock.
Up-stairs the poor child had to go, and then his mother found some
quiet. Her babe slept soundly in the cradle, undisturbed by Tommy's
racket, and she enjoyed a new novel to the extent of almost entirely
forgetting her lonely boy shut up in the chamber above.

"Where's Tommy?" asked a friend, who dropped in about six o'clock.

"In bed," said the mother, with a sigh.

"What's the matter? Is he sick?"

"Oh, no. I almost wish he were."

"What a strange wish! Why do you wish so?"

"Oh, because he is like a little angel when he is sick--as good as
he can be. I had to send him to bed as a punishment for
disobedience. He is a hard child to manage; I think I never saw one
just like him; but, you know, obedience is every thing. It is our
duty to require a strict regard to this in our children."

"Certainly. If they do not obey their parents as children, they will
not obey the laws as men."

"That is precisely the view I take; and I make it a point to require
implicit obedience in my boy. This is my duty as a parent; but I
find it hard work."

"It is hard, doubtless. Still we must persevere, and, in patience,
possessing our souls."

"To be patient with a boy like mine is a hard task. Sometimes I feel
as if I should go wild." said the mother.

"But, under the influence of such a feeling," remarked the friend,
"what we say makes little or no impression. A calmly uttered word,
in which there is an expression of interest in and sympathy for the
child, does more than the sternest commands. This I have long since
discovered. I never scold my children; scolding does no good, but
harm. My oldest boy is restless, excitable, and impulsive. If I were
not to provide him with the means of employing himself, or in other
ways divert him, his hands would be on every thing in the house, and
both he and I made unhappy."

"But how can you interest him?"

"In various ways. Sometimes I read to him; sometimes I set him to
doing things by way of assisting me. I take him out when I can, and
let him go with the girls when I send them on errands. I provide him
with playthings that are suited to his age. In a word, I try to keep
him in my mind; and, therefore, find it not very difficult to meet
his varying states. I never thrust him aside, and say I am too busy
to attend to him, when he comes with a request. If I cannot grant
it, I try not to say 'no,' for that word comes too coldly upon the
eager desire of an ardent-minded boy."

"But how can you help saying 'no,' if the request is one you cannot
grant?"

"Sometimes I ask if something else will not do as well; and
sometimes I endeavour to create a new interest in his mind. There
are various ways in which it may be done, that readily suggest
themselves to those desirous for the good of their children. It is
affection that inspires thought. The love of children always brings
a quick intelligence touching their good."

Much more was said, not needful here to repeat. When the friend went
away, Tommy's mother, whose heart convicted her of wrong to her
little boy, went up to the room where she had sent him to spend four
or five lonely hours as a punishment for what was, in reality, her
own fault, and not his. Three hours of the weary time had already
passed. She did not remember to have heard a sound from him, since
she drove him away with angry words. In fact, she had been too
deeply interested in the new book she was reading, to have heard any
noise that was not of an extraordinary character.

At the door of the chamber she stood and listened for a moment. All
was silent within. The mother's heart beat with a heavy motion. On
entering, she found the order of the room undisturbed; not even a
chair was out of place. Tommy was asleep on the bed. As his mother
bent over him, she saw that tears were upon his cheeks and eyelids,
and that the pillow was wet. A choking sigh struggled up from her
bosom; she felt a rebuking consciousness of having wronged her
child. She laid her hand upon his red cheek, but drew it back
instantly; it was hot with fever. She caught up his hand; it was
also in a burning glow. Alarm took the place of grief for having
wronged her boy. She tried to awaken him, but he only moaned and
muttered. The excitement had brought on a fever.

When the father came home and laid his hand upon the hot cheek of
his sleeping boy, he uttered an exclamation of alarm, and started
off instantly for a physician. All night the wretched mother watched
by her sick child, unable, from fear and self-reproaches, to sleep.
When the morning broke, and Thomas looked up into her face with a
gleam of trusting affection, his fever was gone and his pulse was
calm. The mother laid her cheek thankfully against that of her boy,
and prayed to Heaven for strength to bear with him, and wisdom to
guide her feet aright; and as she did so, in the silence of her
overflowing heart, the lad drew his arms around her neck, and,
kissing her, said--"Mother, I do love you!"

That tears came gushing over the mother's face is no cause of
wonder, nor that she returned, half wildly, the embrace and kiss of
her child.

Let us hope that, in her future conduct towards her ardent, restless
boy, she may be able to control herself; for then she will not find
it hard to bring him under subjection to what is right.






THE CHRISTMAS PARTY.





CHRISTMAS had come round again--merry old Christmas, with his
smiling face and wealth of good cheer; and every preparation had
been made by the Arlingtons for their annual Christmas party, which
was always a gay time for the young friends of the family.

Some hundreds of miles away, in a quiet New-England village, lived
Mr. Archer, an uncle of Mr. Arlington. He was a good man; but being
a minister of the old school, and well advanced in years, he was
strongly prejudiced against all "fashionable follies," as he called
nearly every form of social recreation. Life was, in his eyes, too
solemn a thing to be wasted in any kind of trifling. In preaching
and praying, in pious meditation, and in going about to do good,
much of his time was passed; and another portion of it was spent in
reflecting upon and mourning over the thoughtless follies of the
world. He had no time for pleasure-taking; no heart to smile at the
passing foibles or merry humours of his fellow-men.

Such was the Rev. Mr. Jason Archer--a good man, but with his mind
sadly warped through early prejudices, long confirmed. For years he
had talked of a journey to the city where his niece, to whom he was
much attached, resided. This purpose was finally carried out. It was
the day before Christmas, when Mrs. Arlington received a letter from
the old gentleman, announcing the fact that she might expect to see
him in a few hours, as he was about starting to pay her and her
family the long-intended visit.

"Uncle Archer will be here to-morrow," said Mrs. Arlington to her
husband, as soon as she met him after receiving her letter.

"Indeed! And so the good old gentleman has made a move at last?"

"Yes; he's going to eat his Christmas dinner with us, he says."

"So much the better. The pleasure of meeting him will increase the
joy of the occasion."

"I am not so sure of that," replied Mrs. Arlington, looking a little
serious. "It would have been more pleasant to have received this
visit at almost any other time in the year."

"Why so?"

"You know his strong prejudices?"

"Oh, against dancing, and all that?"

"Yes; he thinks it a sin to dance."

"Though I do not."

"No; but it will take away half my pleasure to see him grieved at
any thing that takes place in my house."

"He'll not be so weak as that."

"He thinks it sin, and will be sadly pained at its occurrence. Is it
not possible to omit dancing for once?"

"At the party to-morrow night?"

"Yes."

Mr. Arlington shook his head, as he replied--

"Don't think of such a thing. We will receive him with true
kindness, because we feel it towards the good old man. But we must
not cease to do what we know to be right, thus disappointing and
marring the pleasure of many, out of deference to a mere prejudice
of education in a single person. When we go to see him, we do not
expect that any change will be made out of deference to our
prejudices or peculiar opinions; and when he comes to see us, he
must be willing to tolerate what takes place in our family, even if
it does not meet his full approval. No, no; let us not think for a
moment of any change in affairs on this account. Uncle Archer hasn't
been present at a gay party nor seen dancing for almost half a
century. It may do him good to witness it now. At any rate, I feel
curious to see the experiment tried."

Mrs. Arlington still argued for a little yielding in favour of the
good parson's prejudices, but her husband would not listen to such a
thing for a moment. Every thing, he said, must go on as usual.

"A guest who comes into a family," he remarked, "should always
conform himself to the family order; then there is no reaction upon
him, and all are comfortable and happy. He is not felt as a thing
foreign and incongruous, but as homogeneous. To break up the usual
order, and to bend all to meet his personal prejudices and
peculiarities, is only to so disturb the family sphere as to make it
actually repellent. He is then felt as an unassimilated foreign
body, and all secretly desire his removal."

"But something is due to old age!" urged Mrs. Arlington.

"Yes; much. But, if age have not softened a man's prejudices against
a good thing in itself, I doubt very much if a deference to his
prejudice, such as you propose, will in the least benefit him.
Better let him come in contact with a happy circle, exhilarated by
music and dancing; and the chances are, that his heart will melt in
the scene rather than grow colder and harder. The fact is, as I
think of it more and more, the better pleased am I that Uncle Archer
is coming just at this time."

But Mrs. Arlington felt troubled about the matter. Early on
Christmas morning, the old gentleman arrived, and was welcomed with
sincere affection by every member of the family. Mr. and Mrs.
Arlington had a daughter, named Grace, who was just entering her
eighteenth year. She was gentle and affectionate in disposition, and
drew to the side of Uncle Archer in a way that touched the old man's
feelings. He had not seen her before this, since she was a little
girl; and now, he could not keep his eyes off of her as she sat by
him, or moved about the room in his presence.

"What a dear girl that is!" was his remark to her mother, many times
through the day.

"She's a good girl," would simply reply Mrs. Arlington, speaking
almost without thought. Grace was a good girl; her mother felt this,
and from her heart her lips found utterance.

It seemed, all through the day, that Grace could not do enough for
the old man's comfort. Once she drew him into her room, as he was
passing her door, to show him some pictures that she had painted. As
he sat looking at them, he noticed a small, handsomely bound Bible
on her table. Taking it up, he said--

"Do you read this, Grace?"

"Oh, yes," she replied, "every day." And there was such a light of
goodness in her eyes, as she looked up into his face, that Mr.
Archer felt, for a moment or two, as if the countenance of an angel
was before him.

"Why do you read it?" he continued after a pause.

"It teaches us the way to heaven," said Grace.

"And you are trying to live for heaven?"

"I try to shun all evil as sin. Can I do more?"

All the minister's creeds, and doctrines, and confessions of faith,
which he had ever considered the foundations upon which Christian
life was to be built, seemed, for a moment or two, useless lumber
before the simple creed of this loving, pure-hearted maiden. To seek
to disturb this state of innocence and obedience by moody polemics,
he felt, instinctively, to be wrong.

"Perhaps not," was his half abstracted reply; "perhaps not. Yes,
yes; shun what is evil, and the Lord will adjoin the good."

"Yes, yes; she _is_ a good girl, as her mother says," was frequently
repeated by Uncle Archer during the day, when he would think of
Grace.

Evening came, and young and old began to gather in the parlours. The
minister was introduced to one and another, as they arrived, and was
much gratified with the respect and attention shown to him by all.
Grace soon drew around him three or four of her young friends, who
listened to what he had to say with an interest that gratified his
feelings. Nothing had been said to Grace of her uncle's prejudice
against dancing; she was, therefore, no little surprised to see the
sudden change in his manner, when she said to a young lady in the
group around him--

"Come! you must play some cotillions for us. We're going to have a
dance."

After going with the young lady to the piano, and opening it for
her, Grace went back to her uncle, whose face she found deeply
clouded.

"A'n't you well, uncle?" she asked, affectionately.

"Oh yes, child, I am well enough in body," was replied.

"But something troubles you, uncle--what is it?"

By this time a number of couples were on the floor, and at the
moment, a young man came up to Grace, and said--

"Shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you this evening?"

"Not in the first set," replied Grace; "but I will consider myself
engaged for the second, unless you can find a more agreeable
partner."

"Do you dance, then?" asked Uncle Arthur, gravely, after the young
man had turned away.

"Dance?" Grace was in doubt whether she had clearly understood him.

"Yes, dear."

"Certainly I do, uncle. You don't think there is harm in dancing?"

"I do, my child. And, I am sure that, after what you said about
reading your Bible and trying to live for heaven, your admission
greatly surprises me. Religion and dancing! How can they have an
affinity?"

"Good and evil can have no affinity," said Grace, in reply to this
remark. "Evil, I have always understood to be in a purpose to do
wrong. Now, I can dance with a good purpose; and, surely, then,
dancing cannot be evil to me."

"Dance with a good purpose! How can you do that, my dear?"

"I have often danced with the sole end of contributing my share to
the general enjoyment of a company."

"Strange enjoyment!" sighed the old parson.

"The timing of steps, and the orderly movement of the body in
concert with musical harmonies, often affects the mind with
exquisite delight, uncle. I have enjoyed this over and over again,
and have felt better and happier afterwards."

"Child! child!" replied the old man; "how it grieves me to hear you
say this."

"If there is sin in dancing, uncle," said Grace, seriously, "tell me
wherein it lies. Look at the countenances of those now on the floor;
do they express evil or good affection?--here, as I have been
taught, lies the sin."

"It is a foolish waste of time," returned the old man; "a foolish
waste of time; and it is an evil thing to waste the precious time
that God has given to us."

"We cannot always work or read. Both mind and body become wearied."

"Then we have time for meditation."

"But even thought will grow burdensome at times, and the mind sink
into listlessness and inactivity. Then we need recreation, in order
that we may afterwards both work and think better. Music and
dancing, in which mind and body find an innocent delight, effect
such a recreation. I know it is so in my case; and I know it is so
in the case of others. You do not say that dancing is a thing evil
in itself?"

"No." This was admitted rather reluctantly.

"Then if it be made to serve a good end, it is a good thing."

"But is often made to serve evil," said the minister.

"Then it is an evil thing," promptly answered Grace; "and so every
good gift of heaven may be made an evil thing to those who use it
for an evil purpose. You know it is said that a spider extracts
poison from the same flower where the bee gets honey. The deadly
nightshade draws life from the same rain and sunshine that nourishes
and matures the wheat, from which our bread is made. It is the
purpose, uncle, that makes a thing evil."

"Could you pray on going to bed, after an evening spent in dancing?"
asked the old man, confident that he had put a question that would
clearly show his niece her error. To his surprise, Grace answered,
with a beautiful smile on her face--

"Oh, yes; and I have so prayed, many and many a time; not failing to
return thanks for the pleasure I had been permitted to enjoy."

"Thanks for mere carnal pleasure!"

"All things are good that are filled with good affections," said
Grace. "We are in a natural world, where all pleasure and pain
affect us in the natural degree most sensibly. We must come down,
that we may go up. We must let our natural joy and gladness have
free course, innocently, that they may be changed into a joy that is
higher and spiritual. Is it not so, uncle?"

Now, the old man had not expected to find such a nice head on so
young a body; nor did he expect to be called upon to answer a
question, which came in a form that he was not prepared either to
negative or affirm. He had put all natural pleasures under the ban,
as flowing from the carnal mind; and, therefore, evil. As to filling
natural pleasures with spiritual life, that was a new position in
theology. He had preached against natural pleasures as evil, and,
therefore, to be abandoned by all who would lead a heavenly life.
Before he could collect his thoughts for an answer satisfactory to
himself, two or three ladies gathered around them, and he discreetly
forebore to make any further remarks on the subject. But he felt, as
may be supposed, very uncomfortable.

After the first set was danced, one of the young ladies who had been
on the floor, and who had previously been introduced to the old
gentleman by Grace, came, with colour heightened by excitement, and
her beautiful face in a glow of pleasure, and sat down by his side.
Mr. Archer would have received her with becoming gravity, had it
been in his power to, do so; but the smile on her face was so
innocent, and she bent towards him so kindly and affectionately,
that he could not find it in his heart to meet her with even a
silent reproof. This young lady was really charming his ear, when a
gentleman came up to her, and said--

"Anna, I want you to dance with me."

"With pleasure," replied the girl. "You will excuse me for a while,
Mr. Archer," said she, and she was about rising as she spoke, but
the old man placed his hand upon her arm, and gently detained her.

"You're not going to leave me?"

"No, not if my company will give you any pleasure," replied the
young girl, with a gentle smile. "Please excuse me." This she
addressed to the person who had asked her to dance. He bowed, and
turned away.

"I am glad to keep you by my side," said Mr. Archer, with some
seriousness in his manner.

"And I am glad to stay here," was promptly answered, "if my company
will give you any pleasure. It does me good to contribute to others'
happiness."

The old man was touched by this reply, for he felt that it was from
the heart. It sounded strangely to his ears from the lips of one who
had just been whirling in the mazy dance.

"There is no real pleasure in any thing selfish," he remarked. "Yes,
you say truly, it does us good to contribute to the happiness of
others."

"For this reason," said Anna, "I like dancing as a social
recreation. It is a mutual pleasure. We give and receive enjoyment."

The old minister's face grew serious.

"I have been to three or four parties," continued the young girl,
"where dancing was excluded, under some strange idea that it was
wrong; and I must say that so much evil-speaking and censoriousness
it has never been my lot to encounter in any company. The time,
instead of being improved as a season of mental and bodily
recreation, was worse than wasted. I know that I was worse instead
of better on returning from each of these companies, for I
insensibly fell into the prevailing spirit."

"That was very bad, certainly," remarked Mr. Archer, before whose
mind arose some pictures of social gatherings, in which had
prevailed the very spirit condemned by his young companion. "But I
don't see how you are going to make dancing a sovereign remedy for
the evil."

"It is not a sovereign remedy," was answered, "but it is a concert
of feeling and action, in which the mind is exhilarated, and in
which a mutual good-will is produced. You cannot dance without being
pleased, to a greater or less extent, with your partners on the
floor. Often and often have I had a prejudice against persons wear
off as we moved together in the dances, and I have afterwards
discovered in them good qualities to which I was before blinded."

"Uncle," said Grace to the old man, just at this moment, bending to
his ear as she spoke, and taking his hand in hers,--"come! I want to
show you something."

Grace drew him into the adjoining parlour, where another set was on
the floor. Two children, her younger brother and sister, were in it.

"Now, just look at Ada and Willy," whispered Grace in his ear, as
she brought him in view of the young dancers. Ada was a lovely
child, and the old uncle's heart had already taken her in. She was a
graceful little dancer, and moved in the figures with the lightness
of a fairy. It was a beautiful sight, and in the face of all the
prejudices which half a century had worn into him, he felt that it
was beautiful. As he looked upon it, he could keep the dimness from
his eyes only by a strong effort.

"Is there evil in that, uncle?" asked Grace, drawing her arm within
that of the old man's.

"Is it good?" he replied.

"Yes; it is good," said Grace, emphatically, as she lifted her eyes
to his.

Mr. Archer did not gainsay her words. He at least felt that it was
not evil, though he could not admit that it was good.

Spite of the dancing, which soon ceased to offend the good old man,
he passed a pleasant evening. Perhaps, he enjoyed the Christmas
party as much as any one there.

Nothing was said, on the next day, by any one, on the subject of
dancing; though Mr. Archer, especially, thought a great deal about
the matter. Some ideas had come into his mind that were new there,
and he was pondering them attentively. On the third day of his
arrival, he had a severe attack of rheumatism, from which he
suffered great pain, besides a confinement to his room for a couple
of weeks. During that time, the untiring devotion and tender
solicitude of Grace touched the old man's heart deeply. When the
pain had sufficiently abated to let his mind attain composure, she
sought to interest him in various ways. Sometimes she would read to
him by the hour; sometimes she would entertain him with cheerful
conversation; and sometimes she would bring in one or two of her
young friends whom he had met at the Christmas party.

With these, he had more than one discussion, in his sick room, on
the subject of dancing, and the old minister found these gay young
girls rather more than a match for him. During a discussion of this
kind, Grace left the room. In her absence, one of her companions
said to him--

"Grace is a good girl."

A quick light went over the old man's countenance; and he replied,
with evident feeling--

"Good? Yes; I look at her, sometimes, and think her almost an
angel."

"She dances."

The old man sighed.

"She is a Christian."

"I wish there were more such in the world," said he, unhesitatingly.

"And yet she dances."

"My dear child," said Mr. Archer, turning with an affectionate smile
towards his young interlocutor, "don't take such an advantage of me
in the argument."

"Then it is settled," was continued, in triumph, "that if dancing is
not a Christian grace, a maiden may dance and yet be a Christian?"

"God bless you, and keep you from all the evil of the world," said
the old man, fervently, as he took the young girl's hand and pressed
it between his own. "It may be all right! it may be all right!"

Grace came back at the moment, and he ceased speaking.

From that time the venerable minister said no more on the subject,
and it is but fair to believe that when he returned home he had very
serious doubts in regard to the sin of dancing, which had once been
as fairly held as if it had been an article in the Confession of
Faith.






IS SHE A LADY?





"MRS. TUDOR is a perfect lady," said my wife, Mrs. Sunderland, to me
one day, after having received a visit from the individual she
named.

"She may have the manners of a lady," I replied, "when abroad; but
whether she be a lady at home or not, is more than I can tell. It is
easy to put on the exterior of a lady; but to be a lady is a very
different thing."

"All that is true enough; but why do you connect such remarks with
the name of Mrs. Tudor? Do you know any thing to the contrary of her
being a lady?--a lady at home, as you say, for instance?"

"No, I can't say that I do; but, somehow or other, I am a little
inclined to be doubtful of the genuineness of Mrs. Tudor's claims to
being a lady. Once or twice I have thought that I perceived an air
of superciliousness to persons who were considered inferior. This is
a rigid but true test of any one's claims to being either a lady or
a gentleman. No true lady is less careful of the feelings of those
below her than she is of those who are upon an equality."

"But you only thought you saw this," said Mrs. Sunderland.

"True, and my thought may be only a thought," I returned, "and
unjust to Mrs. Tudor, who may be as much of a lady at home and under
all circumstances, as she appears to be when abroad."

"What she is, I have not the least doubt," said my wife.

I never altogether fancied this Mrs. Tudor, although Mrs. Sunderland
liked her very much. Before we built our new house, Mrs. Tudor did
not know us, notwithstanding the fact that our pews had adjoined for
two or three years. But after that event, Mrs. Tudor found out that
we had an existence, and became uncommonly gracious with my wife.

Not long after I had spoken out my mind in regard to Mrs. Tudor,
that lady, in company with her husband, paid us a visit one evening,
and after sitting an hour, invited us to come around and take tea
with them on a certain evening in the ensuing week.

When the time came, as we had accepted the invitation, we went. We
found about a dozen persons assembled, half of whom were entire
strangers to us. Among these I soon perceived that there were two or
three who, in the eyes of Mrs. Tudor, were a little superior to her
other guests. On our entrance, we were introduced to them first, and
with particular formality, our lady hostess pronouncing their names
in a very distinct manner, while her articulation of ours was so low
that they were scarcely, if at all, heard. During the hour that
passed before tea was announced, Mrs. Tudor confined her attentions
almost exclusively to these two or three individuals, who were
evidently persons of more consequence than the rest of us. So
apparent was all this, that most of those who were in the room,
instead of joining in the conversation, sat looking at the more
favoured guests.

"They must be persons of some importance," I could not help saying
to my wife in an undertone, in which her quick ear detected
something of sarcasm.

"For mercy's sake, Mr. Sunderland!" she replied, in a voice that
only reached my own ears, "don't make remarks upon any of the
company."

If she had said, "It is not gentlemanly to do so," she could not
have conveyed what she wished to utter more distinctly than she did.

I felt the force of her reproof, but could not resist the
inclination I felt to reply.

"We have so good an example of what is polite and genteel, that it
is not to be wondered if we profit a little."

"Mr. Sunderland! Why, will you!" My wife seemed distressed.

I said no more on the subject, content with having let her know that
I was noticing the conduct of her perfect lady. I believe, if I
could have seen her thoughts, that among them I would have detected
this one among the rest; that it was not exactly fair and
gentlemanly in me to remind her so promptly of the error she had
probably committed in her estimate of Mrs. Tudor's character.

Fully absorbed as she was in showing attentions to her more favoured
guests, Mrs. Tudor did not perceive the cold, uncomfortable,
unsocial feeling that had crept over the rest of her company.

Tea was at last announced. I felt relieved at this, and so, I
perceived, did most of those around me. At the tea-table I expected
to find Mrs. Tudor more general in her attentions. But no. These
favoured ones were served first, and "Mrs.--, will you have this?"
and "Mrs.--, will you have that?" were almost exclusively confined
to three persons at the table. Mr. Tudor, I remarked, noticed this,
for he exerted himself in order to make all the rest feel at ease,
which he succeeded in doing to some extent.

Waiting upon the table was a female domestic, a young girl of good
manners and appearance. To her Mrs. Tudor uniformly spoke in a way
that must have been felt as peculiarly disagreeable. The blandest
smile; and the most winning expression of voice, would instantly
change, when Lucy was addressed, to a cold, supercilious look, and
an undertone of command. Several times I saw the blood mount to the
girl's forehead, as a word or tone more marked and offensive than
usual would be given so loudly as to be perceived by all. Once or
twice, at such times, I could not resist a glance at Mrs.
Sunderland, which was generally met with a slight, rebuking
contraction of her brow.

Through the efforts of Mr. Tudor, who certainly did his part well,
the tea-table party was a good deal more social than had been the
individuals composing it while in the parlour. The favoured guests,
notwithstanding the incense offered them by our hostess, appeared in
no way to esteem themselves as better than the rest, and, as soon as
opportunity was afforded them, tried to be at home with every one.
Once more in the parlours, and arranged there by a kind of social
crystallization, I perceived that Mrs. Tudor was sitting between two
of the ladies who were considered by her worthy of the most marked
attention. There she sat during nearly the whole of the evening,
except when refreshments were introduced, when she accompanied Lucy
round the room, occasionally speaking to her in a tone of offensive
command or cutting rebuke.

For one, I was glad when the time came to go home, and I rather
think that all present were as much relieved, in getting away, as I
was.

"What is your opinion now?" said I, triumphantly, to Mrs.
Sunderland, the moment we were in the street.

"My opinion," she replied, a little sharply, "is, that you did not
act, in several instances, this evening, like a gentleman!"

"I did not!" I spoke with affected surprise only; for I thought I
knew what it was she meant.

"No, I am sorry to say that you did not. Nothing could have been
more improper than the notice you took of what was passing. A true
gentlemanly spirit would have led you to look away from, rather than
at the weakness of our hostess."

"Look away from it, Mrs. Sunderland! How could I do that, pray? It
was before my eyes all the time."

"You ought to have shut your eyes, then."

"Nonsense."

"Very far from it, Mr. Sunderland! You are ready enough to see the
faults of other people!"--(in this, I must confess, my wife did not
err very much)--"but quite willing to shut your eyes to your own.
Now, I think you acted just as bad as Mrs. Tudor; and, in fact,
worse."

"Worse! You are complimentary, Mrs. Sunderland."

"I can't help it if I am. Mrs. Tudor was led by her weakness to
conduct herself in an unlady-like manner; but you, with her example
before your eyes, and in a mood to reflect, permitted yourself to
remark upon her conduct in a way calculated to give pain."

"In the name of wonder, what are you driving at, Mrs. Sunderland? No
one but you heard any remark I made."

"I wish I could think so."

"Who, besides yourself, heard what I said?"

"Mr. Tudor."

"Impossible!"

"He was sitting very near us when you so far forgot yourself as to
notice, verbally, what was passing, and I am well satisfied, either
heard distinctly what was said, or enough to enable him to
understand the nature of all you said."

"You are surely mistaken," said I, feeling a good deal mortified,
and perceiving much more clearly than I did before the nature of my
offence against good manners and propriety of conduct.

"I wish I were. But I fear I am not. I know that Mr. Tudor looked
around toward you suddenly, and I noticed that he was much more
particular afterward in his attentions to the rest of the company.
At table, you may have yourself remarked this."

"Yes, I noticed it."

"And yet, even at the table, when he was doing his best, you again
hurt his feelings."

"Me!"

"Yes, you. When Mrs. Tudor spoke harshly to Lucy, or did something
or other that you thought out of the way, you must look your sarcasm
at me, notwithstanding the eyes of her husband were upon you."

"But he didn't see me, then."

"Yes, but he did. I saw him looking directly at you."

"Oh, no! it cannot be." I was unwilling to believe this.

"I wish it were not so for my husband's sake," returned Mrs.
Sunderland. "But the evidence of my senses I generally find it
necessary to credit."

I must own that I felt considerably cut up, or cut down, whichever
is the most mortifying state to be in. To look and whisper my
censure in company, I had thought no great harm; but now that I had
found I had been discovered in the act, I had a mortifying sense of
its impropriety.

"Well, anyhow," said I, rallying myself, and speaking with some
lightness of tone, "it is clear that Mrs. Tudor is no lady, for all
you thought her such a pattern-card of gentility."

"And I have not the least doubt," retorted my wife, "that it is
equally clear to Mr. Tudor that you are no gentleman. So, on that
score, the account stands fairly balanced between the two families."

This was a pretty hard hit; and I felt a little "riled up," as the
Yankees say, but I concluded that the uttering of a few sharp
sayings to my wife, under the circumstances, would not prove my
claim to being a gentleman, especially against the facts of the
case; so I cooled down, and walked home rather silently, and in not
the best humour with myself.

On the next morning, I took up a little book from my wife's bureau,
and sat down to look over it while waiting for the breakfast bell.
It was a book of aphorisms, and I opened at once to a page where a
leaf was turned down. A slight dot with a pencil directed my eyes to
a particular line, which read--

"_He who lives in a glass house shouldn't throw stones_."

I am not sure that Mrs. Sunderland turned down that leaf in the
book, and marked the sentiment for my especial benefit; though I
strongly suspected her. At any rate, I deemed it best not to ask the
question.






GOING INTO MOURNING.





THE weeping mother bent over the beautiful form of innocent
childhood--beautiful still, though its animating spirit had
fled--and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one. When she
lifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Then
the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled the
emotion that wellnigh mastered him. The sisters came next, with
audible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears. A moment or two they
gazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow,
and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one present
experienced a momentary feeling of suffocation.

As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the family
passed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossiping
neighbours--such as, with no particular acquaintance with the
principal members of a household, know all about the internal
management of every dwelling in the square--assembled close by, and
thus discoursed of the events connected with the burying.

"Poor Mrs. Condy," said one, "how can she bear the loss of that
sweet little fellow!"

"Other people have lost children as well as she," remarked a
sour-looking dame. "Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as well
as we poor folks."

No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentary
silence.

"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker.
"Little Willie only died yesterday morning."

"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth.

"Hardly," said the other.

"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who made
the allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, the
chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to
borrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were all
hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to
attend the funeral in."

"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did
about the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group.

"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any
one," replied the woman who had first spoken.

"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their works
ye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being so
dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a
to-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and long
black veils are truly enough called mourning--they are an excellent
counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all the
money that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, there
would be less misery in the world by a great deal."

And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thus
exercised the privilege of independent thought and free discussion,
carriage after carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the whole
passed out of sight.

It was near the hour of twilight when the afflicted family returned,
and after partaking of supper, sparingly, and in silence, the
different members retired to their chambers, and at an early hour
sought relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep.

On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke the
oppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fifty
dollars.

"What for, Sarah?" said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with an
expression of grave inquiry.

"It's the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time is
to be lost in getting mourning. At any rate, it will be as much as a
bargain to get dresses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have to go
out this morning and buy the goods."

Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and
somewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wife
steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his
countenance--

"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning
cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little
one," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word,
and the moisture dimmed his eyes.

"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put
on mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of
non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to
her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow
awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can you
think of such a thing?"

"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldest
daughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I
were to neglect so binding a duty."

"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived
at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning
garments.

"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have any
thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and
need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments
cannot add to our sorrow."

But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads,
and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy's purse-strings were
loosened, and the required amount of money handed over.

After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary suggested, about
an hour after breakfast, that it would not look well for her and
Jane to be seen shopping, and Willie only buried the day before; and
it was agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed in the
family when there was much to do, and get her to make the purchases.
This determined, Lucy was despatched for Ellen.

The reader will transfer his mental vision to a small but neat and
comfortable room in another part of the town. The inmates are two.
One, with a pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon a
bed. The other is seated by a window, sewing.

"I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen," said the former,
raising herself up with an effort.

"I wouldn't, if I were you, Margaret," replied the other, dropping
her work and coming to the bedside. "You had better keep still, or
that distressing cough may come back again."

"Indeed, sister," returned the invalid, "I feel so restless that it
is almost impossible to lie here. Let me sit up a little while, and
I am sure I shall feel better."

Ellen did not oppose her further, but assisted her to a large
rocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow at her back, resumed her
work.

"I can't help thinking of Mrs. Condy's little Willie," said Ellen,
after a pause. "Dear little fellow! How much they must all feel his
loss."

"He is better off, though," remarked the sister; but even that idea
could not keep her eyes from glistening. The thought of death always
referred itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows and
the dark valley.

"Yes, he is with the angels," was the brief response of Ellen.

Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Condy's chambermaid
entered.

"Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?" said Ellen, rising. "How is
Mrs. Condy and all the family?"

"They are very well, Miss Ellen," replied Lucy. "Mrs. Condy wants
you to come there this morning and go and buy the mourning for the
family. And then they want you to come and sew all this week, and
part of next, too."

Ellen glanced at her sister, involuntarily, and then said--

"I am afraid, Lucy, that I can't go. Margaret is very poorly, and I
don't see how I can possibly leave her."

"O yes, you can go, Ellen," said Margaret. "You can fix me what I
want, and come home every night. I'll do well enough."

Ellen paused a few moments, and then turning to Lucy, said--

"Tell Mrs. Condy that I will come round in the course of half an
hour."

Lucy went away, and Ellen, after sitting irresolute for some
minutes, said--

"I don't think, sister, that I can do any thing more for Mrs. Condy
than her shopping. I wouldn't like to leave you alone. You know how
bad your cough is sometimes."

"I'll do well enough through the day, Ellen," replied Margaret,
though her feeble voice and languid manner told too plainly that she
could not do very well at any time. "You know that our rent will be
due in two weeks, and that you haven't yet got enough to pay it."

"That is very true," said Ellen, somewhat sadly. "Anyhow, I'll go to
Mrs. Condy's, and will think about the matter."

After dressing herself, Ellen insisted that her sister should lie
down. She then placed a small table close to the bed, upon which was
set a few articles of food, and a vial of cough medicine. After
charging Margaret to keep very quiet, and to try to sleep, she
turned upon her a look of deep and yearning affection, and then
hurried away.

The sight of Ellen, and the necessary allusion to the recent
afflicting loss, caused the tears of the mother and sisters to flow
afresh. But these were soon dried up, and so much were the minds of
each interested in the idea of the mourning dresses, and in the
necessary directions to be given, that few traces of the real
affliction which had wrung their hearts remained, for the time,
perceptible. The orders received by Ellen were promptly filled at
the store where the family usually purchased their dry-goods, and
the various articles sent home. The bundles arrived about the same
time that Ellen returned. Then came a careful examination of the
shades of colour and quality of the goods. These proving
satisfactory, Jane said--

"And now, Ellen, mother's dress, and Mary's, and mine must be done
this week. We'll all help you. Mary and I can make the skirts and
bind cord for you, and do a good deal on the dresses. You can get
them done, easily enough?"

"Indeed, Miss Jane," replied Ellen, and her voice was not steady, "I
hardly know what to say. Sister is worse than she has ever been; and
I don't see how I can leave her alone. She coughs terribly; and is
so weak, that she can only sit up a little while. She has failed
very fast within a week."

"But you know this is a case particularly pressing," said Mrs.
Condy. "There seems to be no help for it. There is no one we can get
but you, now; and you know we give you all our sewing, and depend on
you. Lucy says that Margaret is willing to have you come, and says
that she can get on very well."

Ellen paused a moment or two, and then replied, with an expression
of sadness in her voice--"I will make the dresses for you, Mrs.
Condy, but you must all help me as much as you can, so that I can
get home every evening. It won't do to let Margaret be alone all
night, for her cough is much worse in the evening, and before day in
the morning."

Neither Mrs. Condy nor her daughters replied to this. Mentally, they
deemed it impossible for Ellen to go home at night. But they did not
wish to say so. It was Wednesday, and all the afternoon was consumed
in cutting, fitting, and basting the dresses. Night came, and Ellen,
after tea, prepared to go home. Some slight objection was made; but
she was resolute. It was some time after dark when she came in sight
of her chamber window. It showed that there was no light within.
Instantly she sprang forward, and soon bounded up the stairs and
into the room.

"Margaret!--How are you, Margaret?" she said, pressing up to the
bedside, and putting her hand upon the forehead of her sister. It
was cold and clammy. A violent fit of coughing prevented a reply. A
light was obtained in a few minutes, and showed the countenance of
Margaret slightly distorted from difficult breathing, and her
forehead perceptibly corrugated.

"You are worse, sister!" exclaimed Ellen, kissing her damp forehead.

"No, not much worse. My cough is only a little troublesome," was the
quiet reply.

"You have had no supper yet, of course," said Ellen. "A cup of hot
tea will do you good."

This was soon prepared, and Margaret (sic) eat with a keen appetite.
After tea, she was much better. The cold perspiration ceased, and
her skin became dry and warm. A brief conversation passed between
the sisters, when Margaret fell off into a pleasant slumber. On the
next morning, with much reluctance and many misgivings as to whether
it were right to leave her sister alone, Ellen went to Mrs. Condy's.
Before going, however, she asked the kind neighbour who lived below,
to look in occasionally, and to see that Margaret had a good cup of
tea for dinner. This was promised, and she felt lighter at heart.

Ellen worked hard through that day; but when night came, with all
the help she had received, the first dress was not finished. Unless
one dress were finished each day, the three could not be done by
Sunday; and this not being the case on the first day, how could she
go home that night? for if she worked a few hours longer, the
garment would be ready for the wearer.

"I must run home a little while," said she, mentally, "and then come
back again. But how can I leave Margaret all night? She may die!"
The thought caused her to shudder.

At length she said to Mrs. Condy--

"I can't leave sister all night, madam. But I can take your dress
home with me, and by sitting up late, I can easily finish it. You
will have no objection to my doing this, I hope?"

Mrs. Condy paused a moment, for she did feel an objection to this
being done; but humanity prevailed, and she consented. This relieved
Ellen's mind very greatly, and she bundled up the dress, and hurried
away with it. Margaret appeared more feeble than she was in the
morning; and her cough was very troublesome. It was nearly twelve
o'clock when the last stitch was taken in Mrs. Condy's dress. And
then Ellen retired to her bed. But it was a long time before she
could sleep. The nervous excitement, induced by protracted labour
and great anxiety of mind, drove slumber from her eyelids for many
hours. Towards morning she fell into a troubled sleep, and awoke at
daylight unrefreshed.

This day was Friday, and Jane's dress came next in turn. Ellen
applied herself with even greater assiduity than she had used on the
preceding day; but, as Jane's dress required more trimming, and less
assistance was given her on it, the progress she made towards its
completion was in no way promising. After dinner her head began to
ache, and continued its throbbing, almost blinding pain, until the
evening twilight began to fall, and the darkness compelled her to
suspend her work.

"Why, Ellen, Jane's dress isn't nigh done," said Mary, in tones of
surprise, on coming into the room, at the moment Ellen laid the
garment aside.

"No, but I'll finish it to-night," replied Ellen.

"Why, it'll take you pretty much all night to finish this," she
said, lifting and examining her sister's dress. "How in the world
did you get so behindhand, Ellen?"

"This is a harder dress to make than your mother's," replied Ellen;
"and besides having had less help on it, my head has ached very
badly all the afternoon."

Without seeming to notice the last reason given, Mary said--

"Well, if you can possibly get it done to-night, Ellen, you must do
so. It would never answer in the world not to have all the dresses
done by to-morrow night."

"I will have it done," was the brief reply, made in a low tone.

Jane's dress was taken home that night, unfinished by full six or
seven hours' work. As Ellen had feared, she found Margaret suffering
much from her cough. After preparing some food for her sister, whose
appetite still remained good, she drank a cup of tea, and then sat
down to work upon the mourning garment. Towards midnight, Margaret,
who had fallen asleep early in the evening, began to grow restless,
and to moan as if in pain. Every now and then, Ellen would pause in
her work and look towards the bed, with an anxious countenance; and
once or twice she got up, and stood over her sister; but she did not
awake. It was three o'clock when the last stitch was taken, and then
Margaret's cough had awakened her, and she seemed to suffer so much
from that and from difficult breathing, that Ellen, even after lying
down, did not go to sleep for an hour. It was long after sunrise
when she awoke.

"Must you go to-day, too?" inquired Margaret, looking into her
sister's face anxiously, on seeing her, after the hastily prepared
breakfast had been eaten, take up her bonnet and shawl.

"Yes, Margaret, I must go to-day. There is one more dress to be
made, and that must be done. But after to-day, I won't go out
anywhere again until you are better."

"I don't think I shall ever be better again, Ellen," said the sick
girl. "I am getting so weak; and I feel just as if I shouldn't stay
here but a little while. You don't know how strange I feel
sometimes. Oh, I wish you didn't have to go out to-day!" And she
looked so earnestly into the face of her sister, that the tears
sprung into Ellen's eyes.

"If I can persuade them to put this last dress off until next week,
and then get some one else to make it, I will," said the sister:
"but if I can't, Margaret, try and keep up your spirits. I'll ask
Mrs. Ryland, down-stairs, to come and sit with you a little while at
a time through the day; and so if I can't; get off, you won't be
altogether without company."

"I wish you would, sister, for I feel so lonesome sometimes,"
replied Margaret, mournfully.

Mrs. Ryland consented, for she was a kind-hearted woman, and liked
the sisters, and Ellen hurried away to Mrs. Condy's.

"You are very late this morning, ain't you?" said Mary Condy, as
Ellen entered with Jane's finished dress.

"I am a little late, Miss Mary, but I sat up until three o'clock
this morning, and overslept myself in consequence."

"Well, you'll finish my dress to-day, of course?"

"Really, Miss Mary, I hardly know what to say about it. Sister is so
very poorly, that I am almost afraid to leave her alone. Can't you
in any way put yours off until next week? I have been up nearly all
night for two nights, and feel very unwell this morning." And
certainly her pale cheeks, sunken eyes, and haggard countenance
fully confirmed her statement.

"It will be impossible, Ellen," was Mary's prompt and positive
response. "I must go to church to-morrow, and cannot, of course, go
out, without my black dress."

With a sigh, Ellen sat down and resumed her needle. After a while
she said--

"Miss Mary, I cannot finish your dress, unless you and your sister
help me a good deal."

"Oh, we'll do that, of course," replied Mary, getting up and leaving
the room.

It was nearly eleven o'clock before Mary thought of helping Ellen
any, and then two or three young ladies came in to pay a visit of
condolence, and prevented her. Tears were shed at first; and then
gradually a more cheerful tone of feeling succeeded, and so much
interested were the young ladies in each other's company, that the
moments passed rapidly away, and advanced the time near on to the
dinner hour. It was full three o'clock before Mary and Jane sat
themselves down to help Ellen. The afternoon seemed almost to fly
away, and when it was nightfall, the dress was not half finished.

"Will it be possible to get it done to-night?" asked Mrs. Condy.

"It will be hard work, madam," said Ellen, whose heart was with her
sister.

"Oh, it can be finished," said Mary, "if we all work hard for two or
three hours. The fact is, it must be done. I wouldn't miss having it
for the world."

With a sigh, Ellen turned again to her work; though feeble nature
was wellnigh sinking under the task forced upon her. It was past
eleven o'clock when the dress was finished, and Ellen prepared to go
home to her sister.

"But you are not going home to-night?" said Mr. Condy, who was now
present.

"O yes, sir. I haven't seen sister since morning, and she's very
ill."

"What is the matter with your sister?" asked Mr. Condy, in a kind
tone.

"I'm afraid she's got the consump--" It vas the first time Ellen had
attempted to utter the word, and the sound, even though the whole of
it remained unspoken, broke down her feelings, and she burst into
tears.

Instinctively, Mr. Condy reached for his hat and cane, and as he saw
Ellen recover, by a strong effort, her self-possession, he said--

"It is too late for you to go home alone, Ellen, and as we cannot
ask you, under the circumstances, to stay all night, I will go with
you."

Ellen looked her gratitude, for she was really afraid to go into the
street alone at that late hour. As they walked along, Mr. Condy, by
many questions, ascertained that Ellen had been almost compelled to
work day and night to make up mourning garments for his family, and
to absent herself from her sick sister, while she needed her most
careful attention. Arrived at her humble dwelling, his benevolent
feelings prompted him to ascertain truly the condition of Margaret,
for his heart misgave him that her end was very nigh.

On entering the chamber, they found Mrs. Ryland, the neighbour who
lived below, supporting Margaret in the bed, who was gasping for
breath as if every moment in fear of suffocation. Ellen sprung
forward with a sudden exclamation, and, taking Mrs. Ryland's place,
let the head of her sister fall gently upon her bosom. Mr. Condy
looked on for a moment, and then hastily retired. As soon as he
reached home, he despatched a servant for the family physician, with
a special request to have him visit Ellen's sister immediately. He
then went into his wife's chamber, where the daughters, with their
mother, were engaged in looking over their new morning apparel.

"I'm afraid," said he, "that you have unintentionally been guilty of
a great wrong."

"How?" asked Mrs. Condy, looking up with sudden surprise.

"In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, who is, I fear, at
this moment dying."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed the mother and daughters with looks of
alarm.

"It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be done is to try
and make some return. I want you, Mary, and your mother, to put on
your bonnets and shawls and go with me. Something may yet be done
for poor Margaret. I have already sent for the doctor."

On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and the
former put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, and
handed it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour,
to the dwelling of the two sisters. On entering the chamber, they
found no one present but Ellen and Margaret. The latter still
reclined with her head on her sister's bosom, and seemed to have
fallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen looked up
on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw that
her eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood upon
her cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, but did not
rise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement of
her body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast. For nearly
fifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout the
chamber. The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost held
their breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemed
audible, should disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end of
this time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness.
But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanations
which necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent
consciousness. After feeling her pulse for some time, he said--

"It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but if
she becomes restless, a little wine may be given. In the morning I
will see her early," and he made a movement to go.

"Doctor," said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, "tell me
truly--is she not dying?"

For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl,
and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painful
struggle.

"While there is life, there is hope," he replied briefly.

"Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it," she urged appealingly.
"If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it."

"I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is,"
he replied, evasively. "As I have just said, where there is life,
there is hope."

Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the
doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remained
some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he
found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret
exhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her head
upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a few
minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a little
while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name of
Ellen quickly.

"I am here, Margaret," replied the sister, bending over her.

"Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?" she said, looking up
into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the
presence of others. "I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I
waited and waited, and you didn't come home! You won't go away any
more--will you, Ellen?"

"No--no, sister, I won't leave you again," said Ellen, soothingly,
her tears starting afresh.

The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose great
eagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go out
on Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen's long detention from her
sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seated
herself by the window, As she sat there, the image of her
baby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it the
feeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions.
And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind a
distinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had become
interested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, she
had felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed
her, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she sat
thus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceive
that, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire to
commemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, than
to appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She saw
that the black garments were not to remind herself of the dear
departed one, but to show to others that the babe was still
remembered and still mourned. In her present state of keen
perception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled,
and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out for
the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just as
this resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at the
bedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the group
there.

Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eye
fell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had passed upon it;
death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its
import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just as
the day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep that
knows no earthly waking.

After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy and
Mary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return and
remain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condy
so directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they had
been called to witness its true impression upon the minds of his
family. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Mary
should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with her
through the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of which
Mr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanent
home.

The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy's
family. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited her
to come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfully
accepted.

During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by Jane and Mary, was at
work on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy
came into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand.

"Here is a dress for you, Ellen," she said, handing her the piece of
bombazine.

Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face
flushed an instant, and then grew pale.

"You will want a black dress, Ellen," resumed Mrs. Condy, "and I
have bought you one."

"I do not wish to put on black," said she, with a slightly
embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled
and was hardly audible.

"And why not, Ellen?" urged Mrs. Condy.

"I never liked black," she replied evasively. "And, anyhow, it would
do no good," she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason
struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one.

"No, child, it wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Condy, tenderly and
with emotion. "And if you don't care about having it, don't take
it."

Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent
silently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched by
her simple and true remark, "that it would do no good," and each one
respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation
of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And never
did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of
Ellen's unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them.






IF THAT WERE MY CHILD!





"AH, good evening, Mr. Pelby! Good evening, Mr. Manly! I am glad to
see you! Mrs. Little and I were just saying that we wished some
friends would step in."

"Well, how do you do this evening, Mrs. Little?" said Mr. Pelby,
after they were all seated. "You look remarkably well. And how is
your little family?"

"We are all bright and hearty," Mrs. Little replied, smiling.
"Little Tommy has just gone off to bed. If you had come in a few
minutes sooner, you would have seen the dear little fellow. He's as
lively and playful as a cricket."

"How old is he now?" asked Mr. Manly.

"He will be two years and six months old the twenty-third of next
month."

"Just the age of my Edward. How much I should like to see him!"

"I don't think he has gone to sleep yet," said the fond mother of an
only child, rising and going off to her chamber.

"You bachelors don't sympathize much with us fathers of families,"
said Mr. Little, laughing, to Mr. Pelby.

"How should we?"

"True enough! But then you can envy us; and no doubt do."

"It's well enough for you to think so, Little. But, after all, I
expect we are the better off."

"Don't flatter yourself in any such way, Mr. Pelby. I've been"--

"Here's the darling!" exclaimed Mrs. Little, bounding gayly in the
room at the moment, with Tommy, who was laughing and tossing his
arms about in delight at being taken up from his bed, into which he
had gone reluctantly.

"Come to pa, Tommy," said Mr. Little, reaching out his hands. "Now
ain't that a fine little fellow?" he continued, looking from face to
face of his two friends, and showing off Tommy to the best possible
advantage that his night-gown would permit. And he was a sweet
child; with rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and clustering golden
ringlets.

"Indeed he is a lovely child," Mr. Manly said earnestly.

"A very fine child," Mr. Pelby remarked, mechanically.

"We'll match him with the town!" broke in Mrs. Little, unable to
keep down the upswelling, delighted affection of her heart.

By this time, Tommy's bewildered senses were restored, and he began
to look about him with lively interest. His keen eyes soon detected
Mr. Pelby's bright gold chain and swivel, and well knowing that it
betokened a watch, he slid quickly down from his father's lap, and
stood beside the knee of the nice bachelor visitor.

"He's not afraid of strangers," said Mrs. Little, her eyes sparkling
with pleasure, as they followed every movement of her child.

"Tee watch," said Tommy.

"It'll bite" said Mr. Pelby.

"Tee watch!" reiterated the child, grasping the chain.

With not the best grace in the world, Mr. Pelby drew out his
beautiful gold lever, and submitted it to the rude grasp, as he
thought, of Tommy.

"Oh, ma! ma! Tee watch! tee watch!" cried the child, almost wild
with delight--at the same time advancing towards her as far as the
chain would permit, and then tugging at it as hard as he could, to
the no small discomfort of the visitor, who, seeing no movement of
relief on the part of either parent, was forced to slip the chain
over his head, and trust Tommy to carry his favourite time-keeper to
his mother.

"Tommy'll be a watch-maker, I expect. Nothing pleases him so much as
a watch," remarked the father.

Mr. Pelby did not reply. He dared not, for he felt that, were he to
trust himself to speak, he should betray feelings that politeness
required him to conceal.

"There!" suddenly exclaimed the mother, catching eagerly at the
watch, which Tommy had dropped, and recovering it just in time to
save it from injury.

"Gim me! gim me! gim me!" cried Tommy, seizing her hands, and
endeavouring to get possession again of the valuable timepiece,
which had escaped so narrowly.

"There, now," said Mrs. Little, yielding to the child's eager
importunity, and permitting him again to take possession of the
watch. "But you must hold it tighter."

Mr. Pelby was on nettles; but he dared not interfere.

"Open it," said Tommy, endeavouring to loose the hinge of the case
with his tiny thumb-nail.

"Oh, no; you mustn't open it, Tommy."

"Open it!" resumed Tommy, in a higher and more positive tone.

"I can't open it," said the mother, pretending to make an earnest
effort to loose the case.

"_O-pen--it!_" screamed the child, in a loud angry tone.

"Here, take it to Mr. Pelby, he will open it for you." And the watch
was again intrusted to Tommy's care, who bore it, and, as fortune
would have it, safely too, to its owner.

Of course, Mr. Pelby could do no better, and so he displayed the
jewels and internal arrangement of his skeleton lever to the curious
gaze of the child. At first, Tommy was well pleased to look alone:
but soon the ends of his fingers itched to touch, and touch he did,
quite promptly; and, of course, Mr. Pelby very naturally drew back
the hand that held the watch; and just as naturally did Tommy
suddenly extend his and grasp the receding prize. With some
difficulty, Mr. Pelby succeeded in disengaging the fingers of the
child, and then hastily closing the watch, he slipped it into his
pocket.

"There, it's gone!" said he.

"Tee de watch!" replied Tommy.

"It's gone clear off."

"Tee de watch!" said Tommy more emphatically.

"Here, come see mine," said the father.

"No," replied the child, angrily.

Mr. Pelby, to quiet Tommy, now took him upon his lap, and called his
attention to a large cameo breast-pin. This pleased him at once, and
he amused himself with pulling at it, and sadly rumpling the
visitor's snow-white bosom. Next he began to dive into his pockets,
revealing pen-knife, tooth-pick, etc. etc. This was worse than to
let him have the watch; and so, as a lesser evil, the gold lever was
again drawn from its hiding-place. The little fellow was once more
wild with delight.

But Pelby was so evidently annoyed, that Mr. Little could not help
observing it; and he at length said to his wife--

"Hadn't you better take Tommy up-stairs, my dear? He is too
troublesome."

Mr. Pelby had it on his tongue's end to say, "Oh, no, he don't
trouble me at all!" But he was afraid--not to tell a falsehood--but
that the child would be suffered to remain; so he said nothing.

"Come, Tommy," said Mrs. Little, holding out her hands.

"No!" replied the child emphatically.

"Come."

"No!" still louder and more emphatic.

"Yes, come, dear."

"No, I won't!"

"Yes, but you must!" Mrs. Little said, taking hold of him.

At this, Tommy clung around the neck of Mr. Pelby, struggling and
kicking with all his might against the effort of his mother to
disengage him; who finally succeeded, and bore him, screaming at the
top of his voice, from the room.

"If that were my child," said Mr. Pelby, after they had left the
house, "I'd half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him! I
never saw such an ill-behaved, graceless little rascal in my life!"

"Children are children, Mr. Pelby," quietly remarked his auditor,
Mr. Manly, who had half a dozen "little responsibilities" himself.

"Hard bargains at the best, I know. But then I have seen
good-behaved children; and, if parents would only take proper pains
with them, all might be trained to good behaviour and obedience. If
I had a child, it would act different, I know, from what that one
did this evening."

"Old bachelors' children, you know," Mr. Manly said, with a smile.

"O yes, I know. But silly adages don't excuse neglectful parents,"
replied Mr. Pelby, a little touched at the allusion.

"That is true, Mr. Pelby. But what I meant you to understand by the
remark was, that those who have no children of their own are too
often wanting in a due consideration and forbearance towards those
of other people. I have quite a house full and I know that I take
great pains with them, and that the true management of them costs me
much serious consideration; and yet I have known some of mine to act
much worse than Tommy Little did this evening."

"Well, all I have to say in the matter, friend Manly, is this:--If I
had a child that acted as rudely as that young one did to-night, I
would, teach him a lesson that he would not forget for the next
twelve months."

"You don't know what you would do, if you had a child, Pelby. An
active, restless child requires patience and continued forbearance;
and, if it should be your lot to have such a one, I am sure your
natural affection and good sense would combine to prevent your
playing the unreasonable tyrant over it."

"Perhaps it would. But I am sure I should not think my natural
affection and good sense pledged to let my child do as he pleased,
and annoy every one that came to the house."

"You were exceedingly annoyed, then, to-night?"

"Annoyed! Why, I could hardly sit in my chair towards the last. And
when the young imp came pawing me and climbing over me, I could
hardly help tossing him off of my lap upon the floor."

"You did not seem so much worried. I really thought you were pleased
with the little fellow."

"Now, that is too bad, Manly! I'd as lief had a monkey screwing and
twisting about in my lap. It was as much as I could do to be civil
to either his father or mother for suffering their brat to tease me
as he did. First, I must be kissed by his bread and butter mouth;
and then he made me suffer a kind of martyrdom in fear of my elegant
lever. A watch is not the thing for a child to play with, and I am
astonished at Little for suffering his young one to annoy a visitor
in that way."

"Blame them as much as you please, but don't feel unkindly towards
the child," said Manly. "He knows no better. Your watch delighted
him, and of course he wanted it, and any attempt to deprive him of
it was very naturally resisted. His parents are fond of him--and
well they may be--and pet him a great deal; thus he has learned to
expect every visitor to notice him, and also expects to notice and
make free with every visitor. This is all very natural."

"Natural enough, and so is it to steal; but that don't make it
right. Children should be taught, from the first, to be reserved in
the presence of strangers, and never to come near them unless
invited. If I had one, I'll be bound he wouldn't disgrace me as
Little's child did him to-night."

"We'll see, one of these days, perhaps," was Manly's quiet remark;
and the friends parted company.

Ten years often make a great difference in a man's condition,
habits, and feelings. Ten years passed away, and Mr. Pelby was a
husband, and the father of three interesting children,--indulged, of
course, and "pretty considerably" spoiled, yet interesting withal,
and, in the eyes of their father, not to be compared for beauty,
good manners, etc. with any other children inhabiting the same city.
William, the oldest boy, had not quite completed his sixth year.
Emma, a rosy-cheeked, chubby little thing, when asked her age, could
say--

"Four years old last June."

And Henry was just the age that Tommy Little was when he so terribly
annoyed Mr. Pelby. Now, as to Henry's accomplishments, they were
many and various. He could be a good boy when he felt in a pleasant
humour, and could storm, and fret, and pout in a way so well
understood by all parents, that it would be a work of supererogation
to describe it here. But strange mutation of disposition!--Mr. Pelby
could bear these fits of perverseness with a philosophy that would
have astonished even himself, could he have for a moment realized
his former state of mind. When Henry became ill-tempered from any
cause, he had, from loving him, learned that to get into an
ill-humour also would be only adding fuel to flame; and so, on such
occasions, he sought affectionately to calm and soothe his ruffled
feelings. If Henry, or Emma, or William, from any exuberance of
happy feelings, were noisy or boisterous, he did not think it right
to check them suddenly, because he was a little annoyed. He tried,
rather, to feel glad with them--to partake of their joy. In short,
Mr. Pelby had grown into a domestic philosopher. A wife and two or
three children do wonders sometimes!

Now it so happened about this time, that Mr. and Mrs. Manly and Mr.
and Mrs. Little were spending an evening with Mr. and Mrs. Pelby.
William and Emma had their suppers prepared for them in the kitchen,
and then, as usual, were put to bed; but "dear little Henry" was so
interesting to his parents, and they naturally thought must be so
interesting to their company, that he was allowed to sit up and come
to the tea-table. As Mrs. Pelby had no dining-room, the back parlour
was used for this purpose, and so all the progressive arrangements
of the tea-table were visible.

"Oh, dinne weddy! dinne weddy!" cried little Henry, sliding down
from the lap of Mrs. Little--whose collar he had been rumpling so
that it was hardly fit to be seen--as soon as he saw the cloth laid;
and, running for a chair, he was soon perched up in it, calling
lustily for "meat."

"Oh, no, no, Henry! dinner not ready yet!" said Mrs. Pelby, starting
forward, and endeavouring to remove the child from his seat; but
Henry screamed and resisted.

"Oh, let him sit, mother!" interfered Mr. Pelby. "The little dear
don't understand waiting as we do."

"Yes, but, father, it is time that he had learned. Tea isn't near
ready yet; and if he is allowed to sit here, he will pull and haul
every thing about," responded Mrs. Pelby.

"Oh, never mind, mother! Give him some meat, and he'll be quiet
enough. I never like to see little folks made to wait for grown
people; they cannot understand nor appreciate the reason of it."

And so little Henry was permitted to remain at the table, picking
first at one thing and then at another, much to the discomfort and
mortification of his mother, who could not see in this indulgence
any thing very interesting. Mrs. Little was relieved, although her
collar was disfigured for the evening past hope.

After a while tea was announced, and the company sat down.

"Me toffee! me toffee!" cried Henry, stretching out his hands
impatiently. "Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" as soon as Mrs. Pelby
was seated before the tea-tray, and had commenced supplying the cups
with cream and sugar.

"Yes--yes--Henry shall have coffee. H-u-s-h--there--be quiet--that's
a good boy," she said, soothingly. But--

"Me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma! me toffee, ma!" was continued without
a moment's cessation. "Ma! ma! ma! me toffee! me toffee!"

"Yes, yes, yes! you shall have coffee in a moment; only be patient,
child!" Mrs. Pelby now said, evidently worried; for Henry was crying
at the top of his voice, and impatiently shaking his hands and
vibrating his whole body.

But he ceased not a moment until his mother, before any of the
company had been served, prepared him a cup of milk and warm water,
sweetened. Placing his lips to the edge of the cup, Henry drank the
whole of it off before the table was more than half served.

"Me more toffee, ma!"

Mrs. Pelby paused, and looked him in the face with an expression of
half despair and half astonishment.

"Me more toffee, ma!" continued Henry.

"Yes, wait a moment, and I'll give you more," she said.

"More toffee, ma!" in a louder voice.

"Yes, in a moment."

"More toffee, ma!" This time louder and more impatiently.

To keep the peace, a second cup of milk and water had to be
prepared, and then Mrs. Pelby finished waiting on her company. But
it soon appeared that the second cup had not really been wanted, for
now that he had it, the child could not swallow more than two or
three draughts. His amusement now consisted in playing in his saucer
with a spoon, which being perceived by his mother, she said to him--

"There now, Henry, you didn't want that, after all. Come, let me
pour your tea back into the cup, and set the cup on the waiter, or
you will spill it;" at the same time making a motion to do what she
had proposed. But--

"No! no! no!" cried the child, clinging to the saucer, and
attempting to remove it out of his mother's reach. This he did so
suddenly, that the entire contents were thrown into Mrs. Little's
lap.

"Bless me, Mrs. Little!" exclaimed Mrs. Pelby, really distressed;
"that is too bad! Come, Henry, you must go away from the table;" at
the same time attempting to remove him. But he cried--

"No! no! no!" so loud, that she was constrained to desist.

"There, let him sit; he won't do so any more," said Mr. Pelby. "That
was very naughty, Henry. Come, now, if you want your tea, drink it,
or let me put it away."

Henry already knew enough of his father to be convinced that when he
spoke in a certain low, emphatic tone, he was in earnest; and so he
very quietly put his mouth down to his saucer and pretended to
drink, though it would have been as strange as pouring water into a
full cup without overflowing it, as for him to have let any more go
down his throat, without spilling a portion already there out at the
top.

Tea was at last over, and Mrs. Little, on rising from the table, had
opportunity and leisure to examine her beautiful silk, now worn for
the second time. Fortunately, it was of a colour that tea would not
injure, although it was by no means pleasant to have a whole front
breadth completely saturated. Mrs. Pelby made many apologies, but
Mr. Pelby called it a "family accident," and one of a kind that
married people were so familiar with, as scarcely to be annoyed by
them.

"Come here, Henry," said he. "Just see what you have done! Now go
kiss the lady, and say, 'I'm sorry.'"

The little fellow's eye brightened, and going up to Mrs. Little, he
pouted out his cherry lips, and, as she kissed him, he said, with a
suddenly-assumed demure, penitent look--"I torry."

"What's Henry sorry for?" asked Mrs. Little, instantly softening
towards the child, and taking him on her knee.

"I torry," he repeated, but in a much livelier tone, at the same
time that he clambered up and stood in her lap, with his little
hands again crushing her beautiful French collar.

"Come here, Henry," said Mr. Manly, who saw that Mrs. Little was
annoyed at this; but Henry would not move. He had espied a comb in
Mrs. Little's head, and had just laid violent hands upon it,
threatening every moment to flood that lady's neck and shoulders
with her own dishevelled tresses.

"Come and see my watch," said Mr. Manly.

This was enough. Henry slid from Mrs. Little's lap instantly, and in
the next minute was seated on Mr. Manly's knee, examining that
gentleman's time-keeper. Between opening and shutting the watch,
holding it first to his own and then to Mr. Manly's ear, Henry spent
full a quarter of an hour. Even that considerate, kind-hearted
gentleman's patience began to be impaired, and he could not help
thinking that his friend, Mr. Pelby, ought to be thoughtful enough
to relieve him. Once or twice he made a movement to replace the
watch in his pocket, but this was instantly perceived and as
promptly resisted. The little fellow had an instinctive perception
that Mr. Manly did not wish him to have the watch, and for that very
reason retained possession of it long beyond the time that he would
have done if it had been fully relinquished to him.

At last he tired of the glittering toy, and returned to annoy Mrs.
Little; but she was saved by the appearance of a servant with fruit
and cakes.

"Dim me cake! dim me cake!" cried Henry, seizing hold of the
servant's clothes, and pulling her so suddenly as almost to cause
her to let fall the tray that was in her hands.

To keep the peace, Henry was helped first of all to a slice of
pound-cake.

"Mo' cake," he said, in a moment or two after, unable to articulate
with any degree of distinctness, for his mouth was so full that each
cheek stood out, and his lips essayed in vain to close over the
abundant supply within. Another piece was given, and this
disappeared as quickly. Then he wanted an apple, and as soon as he
got one, he cried for a second and a third. Then--

But we will not chronicle the sayings and doings of little Henry
further; more than to say, that he soon, from being allowed to sit
up beyond the accustomed hour, grew fretful and exceedingly
troublesome, preventing all pleasant intercourse between the
visitors and visited, and that at nine o'clock he was carried off
screaming to his bed.

"If that were my child," said Mr. Little, pausing at his own door,
and turning round to Mr. and Mrs. Manly, who had accompanied his
wife thus far on their way home, "I would teach him better manners,
or I would half kill him. I never saw such an ill-conditioned little
imp in my life!"

"Children are children, you know," was Mr. Manly's quiet reply.

"Yes, but children may be made to behave, if any pains at all be
taken with them. It is really unpardonable for any one to let a
child like that worry visitors as he did us this evening."

"Few children of his age, Mr. Little, unless of a remarkably quiet
and obedient disposition, are much better than Pelby's little boy."

"As to that, Mr. Manly," broke in Mrs. Little, "there's our Tommy, a
fine boy of twelve, as you know. He never acted like that when he
was a child. I never had a bit of trouble with him when we had
company. We could bring him down into the parlour when he was of
Henry Pelby's age, and he would go round and kiss all the ladies so
sweetly, and then go off to bed, like a little man, as he was."

"Ah, Mrs. Little, you forget," said Mr. Manly, laughing.

"Oh, no, indeed, Mr. Manly. I don't forget these things. We could do
any thing with Tommy at his age, and it was because we managed him
rightly. You can do any thing with children you please."

"Indeed, then, Mrs. Little, it is more than I can say," remarked
Mrs. Manly. "If my children could be made any thing at all of, they
would have been different from what they are; and yet, I believe,"
she added, with a feeling of maternal pride, "they are not the worst
children I have ever seen."

"Good-nights" were now exchanged, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Manly had
walked a few steps, the former said,

"Well, this is a curious world that we live in. Ten years ago,
Pelby, then a trim bachelor, as nice and particular as any of the
tribe, said, in allusion to Tommy Little--'If that were my child, I
would half kill him but what I'd make a better boy of him!'"

"He did?"

"Yes, those were his very words. We were spending an evening at Mr.
and Mrs. Little's, and when Tommy was about two years old or so; and
Pelby was terribly annoyed by him. He acted pretty much as all
children do--that is, pretty much as Henry did to-night. But Pelby
couldn't endure it with any kind of patience."

"Ha! ha!" laughed out Mrs. Manly, in spite of herself. "How
completely the tables have been turned!"

"Yes, they have been, certainly. But what is a little singular is,
that neither of the parties concerned seem to have gained wisdom by
their experience. Pelby forgets how other people's children once
annoyed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Little seem to be entirely unconscious
that their paragon was very much like all other little boys when he
was only about two or three years old. For my part, I think we
should be careful not to let our children trespass upon visitors.
None can feel the same interest in them that we do, or exercise the
same forbearance towards their faults. Faults they all have, which
need especial care in their correction; and these should be suffered
to appear as rarely as possible under circumstances which prevent a
salutary check being placed upon them. For this reason, you know, we
have made it a matter of concert not to let our children, while, too
young to understand something of propriety, be present, but for a
very short time, when we had company. The moment they become rude or
too familiar, they were quietly taken from the room."

"Yes; and knowing as I do," said Mrs. Manly, "how very restless some
children with active minds are, I am never disposed to look with
unfavourable eyes upon any, even when wild, turbulent, and heedless.
They act as they feel; and so far as evil affections show
themselves, we know they are inherited, and that it is not in the
power of the child to remove them. We should then be moved, it seems
to me, with a purer affection for them; with something of pity mixed
with our love, and, instead of suffering their wrong actions to
repulse us, we should draw towards them with a desire to teach them
what is wrong, and impart to them some power to overcome evil."

"If all thought as you, Mary," said Mr. Manly, as they gained their
own doors, "we should hear no one railing out against other people's
children, while he indulged his own. A fault too common with most
parents."

I WILL!

"YOU look sober, Laura. What has thrown a veil over your happy
face?" said Mrs. Cleaveland to her niece, one morning, on finding
her alone and with a very thoughtful countenance.

"Do I really look sober?" and Laura smiled as she spoke.

"You did just now. But the sunshine has already dispelled the
transient cloud. I am glad that a storm was not portended."

"I felt sober, aunt," Laura said, after a few moments--her face
again becoming serious.

"So I supposed, from your looks."

"And I feel sober still."

"Why?"

"I am really discouraged, aunt."

"About what?"

The maiden's cheek deepened its hue, but she did not reply.

"You and Harry have not fallen out, like a pair of foolish lovers, I
hope."

"Oh, no!" was the quick and emphatic answer.

"Then what has troubled the quiet waters of your spirit? About what
are you discouraged?"

"I will tell you," the maiden replied. "It was only about a week
after my engagement with Harry that I called upon Alice Stacy, and
found her quite unhappy. She had not been married over a few months.
I asked what troubled her, and she said, 'I feel as miserable as I
can be.' 'But what makes you miserable, Alice?' I inquired. 'Because
William and I have quarrelled--that's the reason,' she said, with
some levity, tossing her head and compressing her lips, with a kind
of defiance. I was shocked--so much so, that I could not speak. 'The
fact is,' she resumed, before I could reply, 'all men are arbitrary
and unreasonable. They think women inferior to them, and their wives
as a higher order of slaves. But I am not one to be put under any
man's feet. William has tried that trick with me, and failed. Of
course, to be foiled by a woman is no very pleasant thing for one of
your lords of creation. A tempest in a teapot was the consequence.
But I did not yield the point in dispute; and, what is more, have no
idea of doing so. He will have to find out, sooner or later, that I
am his equal in every way; and the quicker he can be made conscious
of this, the better for us both. Don't you think so?' I made no
answer. I was too much surprised and shocked. 'All men,' she
continued, 'have to be taught this. There never was a husband who
did not, at first, attempt to lord it over his wife. And there never
was a woman, whose condition as a wife was at all above that of a
passive slave, who did not find it necessary to oppose herself at
first, with unflinching perseverance.'

"To all this, and a great deal more, I could say nothing. It choked
me up. Since then, I have met her frequently, at home and elsewhere,
but she has never looked happy. Several times she has said to me, in
company, when I have taken a seat beside her, and remarked that she
seemed dull, 'Yes, I am dull; but Mr. Stacy, there, you see, enjoys
himself. Men always enjoy themselves in company--apart from their
wives, of course.' I would sometimes oppose to this a sentiment
palliative of her husband; as, that, in company, a man very
naturally wished to add his mite to the general joyousness, or
something of a like nature. But it only excited her, and drew forth
remarks that shocked my feelings. Up to this day, they do not appear
to be on any better terms. Then, there is Frances Glenn--married
only three months, and as fond of carping at her husband for his
arbitrary, domineering spirit, as is Mrs. Stacy. I could name two or
three others, who have been married, some a shorter and some a
longer period, that do not seem to be united by any closer bonds.

"It is the condition of these young friends, aunt, that causes me to
feel serious. I am to be married in a few weeks. Can it be possible
that my union with Henry Armour will be no happier, no more perfect
than theirs? This I cannot believe. And yet, the relation that Alice
and Frances hold to their husbands, troubles me whenever I think of
it. Henry, as far as I have been able to understand him, has strong
points in his character. From a right course of action,--or, from a
course of action that he thinks right,--no consideration, I am sure,
would turn him. I, too, have mental characteristics somewhat
similar. There is, likewise, about me, a leaven of stubbornness. I
tremble when the thought of opposition between us, upon any subject,
crosses my mind. I would rather die--so I feel about it--than ever
have a misunderstanding with my husband."

Laura ceased, and her aunt, who was, she now perceived, much
agitated, arose and left the room without speaking. The reason of
this to Laura was altogether unaccountable. Her aunt Cleaveland,
always so mild, so calm, to be thus strongly disturbed! What could
it mean? What could there be in her maidenly fears to excite the
feelings of one so good, and wise, and gentle? An hour afterwards,
and while she yet sat, sober and perplexed in mind, in the same
place where Mrs. Cleaveland had left her, a domestic came in and
said that her aunt wished to see her in her own room. Laura attended
her immediately. She found her calm and self-possessed, but paler
than usual. "Sit down beside me, dear," Mrs. Cleaveland said,
smiling faintly, as her niece came in.

"What you said this morning, Laura," she began, after a few moments,
"recalled my own early years so vividly, that I could not keep down
emotions I had deemed long since powerless. The cause of those
emotions it is now, I clearly see, my duty to reveal--that is, to
you. For years I have carefully avoided permitting my mind to go
back to the past, in vain musings over scenes that bring no pleasant
thoughts, no glad feelings. I have, rather, looked into the future
with a steady hope, a calm reliance. But, for your sake, I will draw
aside the veil. May the relation I am now about to give you have the
effect I desire! Then shall I not suffer in vain. How vividly, at
this moment, do I remember the joyful feelings that pervaded my
bosom, when, like you, a maiden, I looked forward to my wedding-day.
Mr. Cleaveland was a man, in many respects, like Henry Armour.
Proud, firm, yet gentle and amiable when not opposed;--a man with
whom I might have been supremely happy;--a man whose faults I might
have corrected--not by open opposition to them--not by seeming to
notice them--but by leading him to see them himself. But this course
I did not pursue. I was proud; I was self-willed; I was unyielding.
Elements like these can never come into opposition without a victory
on either side being as disastrous as the defeats. We were married.
Oh, how sweet was the promise of my wedding-day! Of my husband I was
very fond. Handsome, educated, and with talents of a high order,
there was every thing about him to make the heart of a young wife
proud. Tenderly we loved each other. Like days in Elysium passed the
first few months of our wedded life. Our thoughts and wishes were
one. After that, gradually a change appeared to come over my
husband. He deferred less readily to my wishes. His own will was
more frequently opposed to mine, and his contentions for victory
longer and longer continued. This surprised and pained me. But it
did not occur to me, that my tenaciousness of opinion might seem as
strange to him as did his to me. It did not occur to me, that there
would be a propriety in my deferring to him--at least so far as to
give up opposition. I never for a moment reflected that a proud,
firm-spirited man, might be driven off from an opposing wife, rather
than drawn closer and united in tenderer bonds. I only perceived my
rights as an equal assailed. And, from that point of view, saw his
conduct as dogmatical and overbearing, whenever he resolutely set
himself against me, as was far too frequently the case.

"One day,--we had then been married about six months,--he said to
me, a little seriously, yet smiling as he spoke, 'Jane, did not I
see you on the street, this morning?' 'You did,' I replied. 'And
with Mrs. Corbin?' 'Yes.' My answer to this last question was not
given in a very pleasant tone. The reason was this. Mrs. Corbin, a
recent acquaintance, was no favourite with my husband; and he had
more than once mildly suggested that she was not, in his view, a fit
associate for me. This rather touched my pride. It occurred to me,
that I ought to be the best judge of my female associates, and that
for my husband to make any objections was an assumption on his part,
that, as a wife, I was called upon to resist. I did not, on previous
occasions, say any thing very decided, contenting myself with
parrying his objections laughingly. This time, however, I was in a
less forbearing mood. 'I wish you would not make that woman your
friend' he said, after I had admitted that he was right in his
observation. 'And why not, pray?' I asked, looking at him quite
steadily. 'For reasons before given, Jane,' he replied, mildly, but
firmly. 'There are reports in circulation touching her character,
that I fear are'--'They are false!' I interrupted him. 'I know they
are false!' I spoke with a sudden excitement. My voice trembled, my
cheek burned, and I was conscious that my eye shot forth no mild
light. 'They are true--I know they are true!' Mr. Cleaveland said,
sternly, but apparently unruffled. 'I don't believe it,' I retorted.
'I know her far better. She is an injured woman.'

"'Jane,' my husband now said, his voice slightly trembling, 'you are
my wife. As such, your reputation is as dear to me as the apple of
my eye. Suspicion has been cast upon Mrs. Corbin, and that suspicion
I have good reason for believing well founded. If you associate with
her--if you are seen upon the street with her, your fair fame will
receive a taint. This I cannot permit.'

"There was, to my mind, a threat contained in the last sentence--a
threat of authoritative intervention. At this my pride took fire.

"'Cannot permit!' I said, drawing myself up. 'What do you mean, Mr.
Cleveland?'

"The brow of my husband instantly flushed. He was silent for a
moment or two. Then he said, with forced calmness, yet in a
resolute, meaning tone--

"'Jane, I do not wish you to keep company with Mrs. Corbin.'

"'I WILL!' was my indignant reply.

"His face grew deadly pale. For a moment his whole frame trembled as
if some fearful struggle were going on within. Then he quietly
arose, and, without looking at me, left the room. Oh! how deeply did
I regret uttering those unhappy words the instant they were spoken!
But repentance came too late. For about the space of ten minutes,
pride struggled with affection and duty. At the end of that time the
latter triumphed, and I hastened after my husband to ask his
forgiveness for what I said. But he was not in the parlours. He was
not in the house! I asked a servant if she had seen him, and
received for reply that he had gone out.

"Anxiously passed the hours until nightfall. The sad twilight, as it
gathered dimly around, threw a deeper gloom over my heart. My
husband usually came home before dark. Now he was away beyond his
accustomed hour. Instead of returning gladly to meet his young wife,
he was staying away, because that young wife had thrown off the
attractions of love and presented to him features harsh and
repulsive. How anxiously I longed to hear the sound of his
footsteps--to see his face--to hear his voice! The moment of his
entrance I resolved should be the moment of my humble confession of
wrong--of my faithful promise never again to set up my will
determinedly in opposition to his judgment. But minute after minute
passed after nightfall--hours succeeded minutes--and these rolled on
until the whole night wore away, and he came not back to me. As the
gray light of morning stole into my chamber, a terrible fear took
hold of me, that made my heart grow still in my bosom--the fear that
he would never return--that I had driven him off from me. Alas! this
fear was too nigh the truth. The whole of that day passed, and the
next and the next, without any tidings. No one had seen him since he
left me. An anxious excitement spread among all his friends. The
only account I could give of him, was, that he had parted from me in
good health, and in a sane mind.

"A week rolled by, and still no word came. I was nearly distracted.
What I suffered, no tongue can tell, no heart conceive. I have often
wondered that I did not become insane but from this sad condition I
was saved. Through all, my reason, though often trembling, did not
once forsake me. It was on the tenth day from that upon which we had
jarred so heavily as to be driven widely asunder, that a letter came
to me, post-marked New York, and endorsed 'In haste.' My hands
trembled so that I could with difficulty break the seal. The
contents were to the effect that my husband had been lying for
several days at one of the hotels there, very ill, but now past the
crisis of his disease, and thought by the physician to be out of
danger. The writer urged me, from my husband, to come on
immediately. In eight hours from the time I received that letter, I
was in New York. Alas! it was too late; the disease had returned
with double violence, and snapped the feeble thread of life. I never
saw my husband's living face again."

The self-possession of Mrs. Cleaveland, at this part of her
narrative, gave way. Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed
violently, while the tears came trickling through her fingers.

"My dear Laura," she resumed, after the lapse of many minutes,
looking up as she spoke, with a clear eye, and a sober, but placid
countenance, "it is for your sake that I have turned my gaze
resolutely back. May the painful history I have given you make a
deep impression upon your heart; let it warn you of the sunken rock
upon which my bark foundered. Avoid carefully, religiously avoid
setting yourself in opposition to your husband; should he prove
unreasonable or arbitrary, nothing is to be gained, and every thing
lost by contention. By gentleness, by forbearance, by even suffering
wrong at times, you will be able to win him over to a better spirit:
an opposite course will as assuredly put thorns in your pillow as
you adopt it. Look at the unhappy condition of the friends you have
named; their husbands are, in their eyes, exacting, domineering
tyrants. But this need not be. Let them act truly the woman's part.
Let them not oppose, but yield, and they will find that their
present tyrants' will become their lovers. Above all, never, under
any circumstances, either jestingly or in earnest, say '_I will_,'
when you are opposed. That declaration is never made without its
robbing the wife of a portion of her husband's confidence and love;
its utterance has dimmed the fire upon many a smiling hearth-stone."

Laura could not reply; the relation of her aunt had deeply shocked
her feelings. But the words she had uttered sank into her heart; and
when her trial came--when she was tempted to set her will in
opposition to her husband's, and resolutely to contend for what she
deemed right, a thought of Mrs. Cleaveland's story would put a seal
upon her lips. It was well. The character of Henry Armour too nearly
resembled that of Mr. Cleaveland: he could illy have brooked a
wife's opposition; but her tenderness, her forbearance, her devoted
love, bound her to him with cords that drew closer and closer each
revolving year. She never opposed him further than to express a
difference of opinion when such a difference existed, and its
utterance was deemed useful; and she carefully avoided, on all
occasions, the doing of any thing of which he in the smallest degree
disapproved. The consequence was, that her opinion was always
weighed by him carefully, and often deferred to. A mutual confidence
and a mutual dependence upon each other gradually took the place of
early reserves, and now they sweetly draw together--now they
smoothly glide along the stream of life blessed indeed in all their
marriage relations. Who will say that Laura did not act a wise part?
Who will say that in sacrificing pride and self-will, she did not
gain beyond all calculation? No one, surely. She is not her
husband's slave, but his companion and equal. She has helped to
reform and remodel his character, and make him less arbitrary, less
self-willed, less disposed to be tyrannical. In her mild
forbearance, he has seen a beauty more attractive far than lip or
cheek, or beaming eye.

Instead of looking upon his wife as below him, Henry Armour feels
that she is his superior, and as such he tenderly regards and
lovingly cherishes her. He never thinks of obedience from her, but
rather studies to conform himself to her most lightly-spoken wish.
To be thus united, what wife will not for a time sacrifice her
feelings when her young self-willed husband so far forgets himself
as to become exacting! The temporary loss will turn out in the
future to be a great gain.






A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE.





"THERE come the children from school," said Aunt Mary, looking from
the window. "Just see that Clarence! he'll have Henry in the gutter.
I never saw just such another boy; why can't he come quietly along
like other children? There! now he must stop to throw stones at the
pigs. That boy'll give you the heart-ache yet, Anna."

Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside her work quietly and left
the room to see that their dinner was ready. In a few minutes the
street-door was thrown open, and the children came bounding in full
of life, and noisy as they could be.

"Where is your coat, Clarence?" she asked, in a pleasant tone,
looking her oldest boy in the face.

"Oh, I forgot!" he replied, cheerfully; and turning quickly, he ran
down stairs, and lifting his coat from where, in his
thoughtlessness, he had thrown it upon the floor, hung it up in its
proper place, and then sprang up the stairs.

"Isn't dinner ready yet?" he said, with fretful impatience, his
whole manner changing suddenly. "I'm hungry."

"It will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence."

"I want it now. I'm hungry."

"Did you ever hear of the man," said Mrs. Hartley, in a voice that
showed no disturbance of mind, "who wanted the sun to rise an hour
before its time?"

"No, mother. Tell me about it, won't you?"

All impatience had vanished from the boy's face.

"There was a man who had to go upon a journey; the stage-coach was
to call for him at sun-rise. More than an hour before it was time
for the sun to be up, the man was all ready to go, and for the whole
of that hour he walked the floor impatiently, grumbling at the sun
because he did not rise. 'I'm all ready, and I want to be going,' he
said. 'It's time the sun was up, long ago.' Don't you think he was a
very foolish man?"

Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man was very foolish
indeed.

"Do you think he was more foolish than you were just now for
grumbling because dinner wasn't ready?"

Clarence laughed again, and said he did not know. Just then Hannah,
the cook, brought in the waiter with the children's dinner upon it.
Clarence sprang for a chair, and drew it hastily and noisily to the
table.

"Try and see if you can't do that more orderly, my dear," his mother
said, in a quiet voice, looking at him, as she spoke, with a steady
eye.

The boy removed his chair, and then replaced it gently.

"That is much better, my son."

And thus she corrected his disorderly habits, quieted his impatient
temper, and checked his rudeness, without showing any disturbance.
This she had to do daily. At almost every meal she found it
necessary to repress his rude impatience. It was line upon line, and
precept upon precept. But she never tired, and rarely permitted
herself to show that she was disturbed, no matter how deeply grieved
she was at times over the wild and reckless spirit of her boy.

On the next day she was not very well; her head ached badly all the
morning. Hearing the children in the passage when they came in from
school at noon, she was, rising from the bed where she had lain
down, to attend to them and give them their dinners, when Aunt Mary
said--"Don't get up, Anna, I will see to the children."

It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do for them what she
could do herself, for no one else could manage the unhappy temper of
Clarence; but so violent was the pain in her head, that she let Aunt
Mary go, and sank back upon the pillow from which she had arisen. A
good deal of noise and confusion continued to reach her ears, from
the moment the children came in. At length a loud cry and passionate
words from Clarence caused her to rise up quickly and go over to the
dining-room. All was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of humour
and scolding prodigiously. Clarence was standing up at the table,
looking defiance at her, on account of some interference with his
strong self-will. The moment the boy saw his mother, his countenance
changed, and a look of confusion took the place of anger.

"Come over to my room, Clarence," she said, in a low voice; there
was sadness in its tones, that made him feel sorry that he had given
vent so freely to his ill-temper.

"What was the matter, my son?" Mrs. Hartley asked, as soon as they
were alone, taking Clarence by the hand and looking steadily at him.

"Aunt Mary wouldn't help me when I asked her."

"Why not?"

"She would help Henry first."

"No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you know her reason?"

"She said he was youngest." Clarence pouted out his lips, and spoke
in a very disagreeable tone.

"Don't you think that was a very good reason?"

"I've as good a right to be helped first as he has."

"Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and Henry came in from
school, all hungry and anxious for your dinners. Marien is
oldest--she, one would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest,
would be better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing to see
their wants supplied before her own. You are older than Henry, and
should feel for him in the same way. No doubt this was Aunt Mary's
reason for helping Henry first. Had she helped Marien?"

"No, ma'am."

"Did Marien complain?"

"No, ma'am."

"No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. Do you know why you
complained? I can tell you, as I have often told you before; it is
because you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, make
themselves miserable. If, instead of wanting Aunt Mary to help you
first, you had, from a love of your little brother, been willing to
see him first attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure.
If you had said--'Aunt Mary, help Harry first,' I am sure Henry
would have said instantly--' No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence
first.' How pleasant this would have been! how happy would all of us
have felt at thus seeing two little brothers generously preferring
one another!"

There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even sadness in the voice
of his mother, that affected Clarence; but he struggled with his
feelings. When, however, she resumed, and said--"I have felt quite
sick all the morning; my head has ached badly--so badly that I have
had to lie down. I always give you your dinners when you come home,
and try to make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt Mary do it,
because I felt so sick; but I am sorry that I did not get up, sick
as I was, and do it myself; then I might have prevented this unhappy
outbreak of my boy's unruly temper, that has made not only my head
ache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart ache also"--

Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms ground his mother's
neck, wept bitterly.

"I will try and be good, dear mother," he said. "I do try sometimes,
but it seems that I can't."

"You must always try, my dear son. Now dry up your tears, and go out
and get your dinner. Or, if you would rather I should go with you, I
will do so."

"No, dear mother," replied the boy, affectionately, "you are sick;
you must not go. I will be good."

Clarence kissed his mother again, and then returned quietly to the
dining-room.

"Naughty boy!" said Aunt Mary, as he entered, looking sternly at
him.

A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of Clarence, but he
checked himself with a strong effort, and took his place at the
table. Instead of soothing the quick-tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafed
him by her words and manner during the whole meal, and it was only
the image of his mother's tearful face, and the remembrance that she
was sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper.

When Clarence left the table, he returned to his mother's room, and
laid his head upon the pillow where her's was resting.

"I love you, mother," he said, affectionately, "you are good. But I
hate Aunt Mary."

"Oh, no, Clarence; you must not say that you hate Aunt Mary, for
Aunt Mary is very kind to you. You mustn't hate anybody."

"She isn't kind to me, mother. She calls me a bad boy, and says
every thing to make me angry when I want to be good."

"Think, my son, if there is not some reason for Aunt Mary calling
you a bad boy. You know yourself, that you act very naughtily
sometimes, and provoke Aunt Mary--a great deal."

"But she said I was a naughty boy when I went out just now, and I
was sorry for what I had done, and wanted to be good."

"Aunt Mary didn't know that you were sorry, I am sure. When she
called you 'naughty boy,' what did you say?"

"I was going to say 'You're a fool!' but I didn't. I tried hard not
to let my tongue say the bad words, though it wanted to."

"Why did you try not to say them?"

"Because it would have been wrong, and would have made you feel
sorry; and I love you." Again the repentant boy kissed her. His eyes
were full of tears, and so were the eyes of his mother.

While talking over this incident with her husband, Mrs. Hartley
said--"Were not all these impressions so light, I would feel
encouraged. The boy has warm and tender feelings, but I fear that
his passionate temper and selfishness will, like evil weeds,
completely check their growth."

"The case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, I hope, as you fear.
These good affections are never active in vain. They impress the
mind with an indelible impression. In after years the remembrance of
them will revive the states they produced, and give strength to good
desires and intentions. Amid all his irregularities and wanderings
from good, in after-life, the thoughts of his mother will restore
the feelings he had to-day, and draw him back from evil with cords
of love that cannot be broken. The good now implanted will remain,
and, like ten just men, save the city. In most instances where men
abandon themselves finally to evil courses, it will be found that
the impressions made in childhood were not of the right kind; that
the mother's influence was not what it should have been. For myself,
I am sure that a different mother would have made me a different
man. When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but the tenderness
with which my mother always treated me, and the unimpassioned but
earnest manner in which she reproved and corrected my faults,
subdued my unruly temper. When I became restless or impatient, she
always had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had some
device to save me from myself. My father was neither harsh nor
indulgent towards me; I cherish his memory with respect and love;
but I have different feelings when I think of my mother. I often
feel, even now, as if she were near me--as if her cheek were laid to
mine. My father would place his hand upon my head caressingly, but
my mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did not expect my
father to do more--I do not know that I would have loved him had he
done more; for him it was a natural expression of affection; but no
act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss upon my cheek, her warm
embrace, are all felt now; and the older I grow, the more holy seem
the influences that surrounded me in childhood."






THE POWER OF PATIENCE.





I HAVE a very excellent friend, who married some ten years ago, and
now has her own cares and troubles in a domestic establishment
consisting of her husband and herself, five children, and two
servants. Like a large majority of those similarly situated, Mrs.
Martinet finds her natural stock of patience altogether inadequate
to the demand therefor; and that there is an extensive demand will
be at once inferred when I mention that four of her five children
are boys.

I do not think Mrs. Martinet's family government by any means
perfect, though she has certainly very much improved it, and gets on
with far more comfort to herself and all around her than she did.
For the improvement at which I have hinted, I take some credit to
myself, though I am by no means certain, that, were I situated as my
friend is, I should govern my family as well as she governs hers. I
am aware that a maiden lady, like myself, young or old, it matters
not to tell the reader which, can look down from the quiet regions
where she lives, and see how easy it would be for the wife and
mother to reduce all to order in her turbulent household. But I am
at the same time conscious of the difficulties that beset the wife
and mother in the incessant, exhausting, and health-destroying
nature of her duties, and how her mind, from these causes, must
naturally lose its clear-seeing qualities when most they are needed,
and its calm and even temper when its exercise is of most
consequence. Too little allowance, I am satisfied, is made for the
mother, who, with a shattered nervous system, and suffering too,
often, from physical prostration, is ever in the midst of her little
family of restless spirits, and compelled to administer to their
thousand wants, to guide, guard, protect, govern, and restrain their
evil passions, when of all things, repose and quiet of body and
mind, for even a brief season, would be the greatest blessing she
could ask.

I have seen a wife and mother, thus situated, betrayed into a hasty
expression, or lose her self-command so far as to speak with fretful
impatience to a child who rather needed to be soothed by a calmly
spoken word; and I have seen her even-minded husband, who knew not
what it was to feel a pain, or to suffer from nervous prostration,
reprove that wife with a look that called the tears to her eyes. She
was wrong, but he was wrong in a greater degree. The over-tried wife
needed her husband's sustaining patience, and gently spoken counsel,
not his cold reproof.

Husbands, as far as my observation gives me the ability to judge,
have far less consideration for, and patience with their wives, than
they are entitled to receive. If any should know best the wife's
trials, sufferings, and incessant exhausting duties, it is the
husband, and he, of all others, should be the last to censure, if,
from very prostration of body and mind, she be sometimes betrayed
into hasty words, that generally do more harm among children and
domestics than total silence in regard to what is wrong. But this is
a digression.

One day, I called to see Mrs. Martinet, and found her in a very
disturbed state of mind.

"I am almost worried to death, Kate!" she said, soon after I came
in.

"You look unhappy," I returned. "What has happened?"

"What is always happening," she replied. "Scarcely a day passes over
my head that my patience is not tried to the utmost. I must let
every body in the house do just as he or she likes, or else there is
a disturbance. I am not allowed to speak out my own mind, without
some one's being offended."

"It is a great trial, as well as responsibility to have the charge
of a family," I remarked.

"Indeed, and you may well say that. No one knows what it is but she
who has the trial. The greatest trouble is with your domestics. As a
class, they are, with few exceptions, dirty, careless, and impudent.
I sometimes think it gives them pleasure to interfere with your
household arrangements and throw all into disorder. This seems
especially to be the spirit of my present cook. My husband is
particular about having his meals at the hour, and is never pleased
when irregularities occur, although he does not often say any thing;
this I told Hannah, when she first came, and have scolded her about
being behindhand a dozen times since; and yet we do not have a meal
at the hour oftener than two or three times a week.

"This morning, Mr. Martinet asked me if I wouldn't be particular in
seeing that dinner was on the table exactly at two o'clock. As soon
as he was gone, I went down into the kitchen and said, 'Do, for
mercy's sake, Hannah, have dinner ready at the hour to-day. Mr.
Martinet particularly desires it.' Hannah made no answer. It is one
of her disagreeable habits, when you speak to her. 'Did you hear
me?' I asked, quite out of patience with her. The creature looked up
at me with an impudent face and said, pertly, 'I'm not deaf.' 'Then,
why didn't you answer me when I spoke? It's a very ugly habit that
you have of not replying when any one addresses you. How is it to be
known that you hear what is said?' The spirit in which Hannah met my
request to have dinner ready in time, satisfied me that she would so
manage as to throw it off beyond the regular hour. I left the
kitchen feeling, as you may well suppose, exceedingly worried."

Just then the door of the room in which we were sitting was thrown
open with a bang, and in bounded Harry, Mrs. Martinet's eldest
boy--a wild young scape-grace of a fellow--and whooping out some
complaint against his sister. His mother, startled and annoyed by
the rude interruption, ordered him to leave the room instantly. But
Harry stood his ground without moving an eyelash.

"Do you hear?" And Mrs. Martinet stamped with her foot, to give
stronger emphasis to her words.

"Lizzy snatched my top-cord out of my hands, and won't give it to
me!"

"Go out of this room!"

"Shan't Lizzy give me my top-cord?"

"Go out, I tell you!"

"I want my top-cord."

"Go out!"

My poor friend's face was red, and her voice trembling with passion.
With each renewed order for the child to leave the room, she stamped
with her foot upon the floor. Harry, instead of going out as he was
directed to do, kept advancing nearer and nearer, as he repeated his
complaint, until he came close up to where we were sitting.

"Didn't I tell you to go out!" exclaimed his mother, losing all
patience.

As she spoke, she arose hastily, and seizing him by the arm,
dragged, rather than led him from the room.

"I never saw such a child!" she said, returning after closing the
door upon Harry. "Nothing does but force. You might talk to him all
day without moving him an inch, when he gets in one of these moods."

Bang went the door open, and, "I (sic) wan't my top-cord!" followed
in louder and more passionate tones than before.

"Isn't it beyond all endurance!" cried my friend, springing up and
rushing across the room.

The passionate child, who had been spoiled by injudicious
management, got a sound whipping and was shut up in a room by
himself. After performing this rather unpleasant task, Mrs. Martinet
returned to the parlour, flushed, excited, and trembling in every
nerve.

"I expect that boy will kill me yet," she said, as she sank,
panting, into a chair. "It is surprising how stubborn and
self-willed he grows. I don't know how to account for it. He never
has his own way--I never yield an inch to him when he gets in these
terrible humours. Oh, dear! I feel sometimes like giving up in
despair."

I did not make a reply, for I could not say any thing that would not
have been a reproof of her impatient temper. After my friend had
grown calmer, she renewed her narrative about the dinner.

"As I was saying, when that boy interrupted us, I left the kitchen
very much worried, and felt worried all the morning. Several times I
went down to see how things were coming on, but it was plain that
Hannah did not mean to have dinner at the hour. When it was time to
put the meat on to roast, the fire was all down in the range. Half
an hour was lost in renewing it. As I expected, when my husband came
home for his dinner, at the regular time, the table was not even
set.

"'Bless me!' he said, 'isn't dinner ready? I told you that I wished
it at the hour, particularly. I have a business engagement at
half-past two, that must be met. It is too bad! I am out of all
patience with these irregularities. I can't wait, of course.'

"And saying this, Mr. Martinet turned upon his heel and left the
house. As you may suppose, I did not feel very comfortable, nor in a
very good humour with Hannah. When she made her appearance to set
the table, which was not for a quarter of an hour, I gave her about
as good a setting down, I reckon, as she ever had in her life. Of
course, I was paid back in impudence which I could not stand, and
therefore gave her notice to quit. If ever a woman was tried beyond
endurance, I am. My very life is becoming a burden to me. The worst
part of it is, there is no prospect of a change for the better.
Things, instead of growing better, grow worse."

"It is not so bad as that, I hope," I could not help remarking.
"Have you never thought of a remedy for the evils of which you
complain?"

"A remedy, Kate! What remedy is there?"

Mrs. Martinet looked at me curiously.

"If not a remedy, there is, I am sure, a palliative," I returned,
feeling doubtful of the effect of what I had it in my mind to
express.

"What is the remedy or palliative of which you speak. Name it, for
goodness' sake! Like a drowning man, I will clutch it, if it be but
a straw."

"The remedy is _patience_." My voice slightly faltered as I spoke.

Instantly the colour deepened on the face of Mrs. Martinet. But our
close intimacy, and her knowledge of the fact that I was really a
friend, prevented her from being offended.

"Patience!" she said, after she had a little recovered herself.
"Patience is no remedy. To endure is not to cure."

"In that, perhaps, you are mistaken," I returned. "The effect of
patience is to cure domestic evils. A calm exterior and a gentle,
yet firm voice, will in nine cases in ten, effect more than the most
passionate outbreak of indignant feelings. I have seen it tried over
and over again, and I am sure of the effect."

"I should like to have seen the effect of a gentle voice upon my
Harry, just now."

"Forgive me for saying," I answered to this, "that in my opinion, if
you had met his passionate outbreak at the wrong he had suffered in
losing his top-cord, in a different manner from what you did, that
the effect would have been of a like different character."

My friend's face coloured more deeply, and her lips trembled. But
she had good sense, and this kept her from being offended at what I
said. I went on--

"There is no virtue more necessary in the management of a household
than patience. It accomplishes almost every thing. Yet it is a hard
virtue to practise, and I am by no means sure that, if I were in
your place, I would practise it any better than you do. But it is of
such vital importance to the order, comfort, and well-being of a
family, to be able patiently and calmly to meet every disturbing and
disorderly circumstance, that it is worth a struggle to attain the
state of mind requisite to do so. To meet passion with passion does
no good, but harm. The mind, when disturbed from any cause, is
disturbed more deeply when it meets an opposing mind in a similar
state. This is as true of children as of grown persons, and perhaps
more so, for their reason is not matured, and therefore there is
nothing to balance their minds. It is also more true of those who
have not learned, from reason, to control themselves, as is the case
with too large a portion of our domestics; who need to be treated
with almost as much forbearance and consideration as children."

These remarks produced a visible effect upon Mrs. Martinet. She
became silent and reflective, and continued so, to a great extent,
during the half-hour that I remained.

Nearly two weeks elapsed before I called upon my friend again. I
found her, happily, in a calmer state of mind than upon my previous
visit. We were in the midst of a pleasant conversation, half an hour
after I had come in, when one of the children, a boy between seven
and eight years old, came into the room and made some complaint
against his brother. The little fellow was excited, and broke in
upon our quiet chitchat with a rude jar that I felt quite sensibly.
I expected, of course, to hear him ordered from the room instantly.
That had been my friend's usual proceeding when these interruptions
occurred; at least it had been so when I happened to be a visitor.
But instead of this, she said in a low, mild, soothing voice,

"Well, never mind, Willy. You stay in the parlour with us, where
Harry can't trouble you."

This was just the proposition, above all others, to please the
child. His face brightened, and he came and nestled up closely to
his mother, who was sitting on a corner of the sofa. Drawing an arm
around him, she went on with the remarks she happened to be making
when the interruption of his entrance occurred. No very long time
elapsed before the parlour door flew open, and Harry entered,
asking, as he did so, in a loud voice, for Willy.

"Willy is here. What do you want with him?" said the mother, in a
quiet, but firm tone.

"I want him to come and play."

"You were not kind to Willy, and he doesn't wish to play with you."

"Come, Willy, and play, and I will be kind," said Harry.

"Will you let me be the master sometimes?" asked the little fellow,
raising himself up from where he remained seated beside his mother.

"Yes, you shall be master, sometimes."

"Then I'll play," and Willy sprang from the sofa and bounded from
the room, as happy as he could be.

The mother smiled, and looking into my face, as soon as we were
alone, said--

"You see, Kate, that I am trying your remedy, patience."

"With most happy results, I am glad to see."

"With better results than I could have believed, certainly.
Gentleness, consideration, and firmness, I find do a great deal, and
their exercise leaves my own mind in a good state. There is a power
in patience that I did not believe it possessed. I can do more by a
mildly spoken word, than by the most emphatic command uttered in a
passion. This is the experience of a few weeks. But, alas! Kate, to
be able to exercise patience--how hard a thing that is! It requires
constant watchfulness and a constant effort. Every hour I find
myself betrayed into the utterance of some hasty word, and feel its
powerlessness compared to those that are most gently spoken."

"Do you get on with your domestics any better than you did?"

"Oh, yes! Far better."

"I suppose you sent Hannah away some time ago?"

"No. I have her yet."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, and she does very well."

"Does she get your meals ready in time?"

"She is punctual to the minute."

"Really she must have changed for the better! And is this, too, the
result of patience and forbearance on your part?"

"I suppose so. What you said in regard to having patience, at your
last visit, struck me forcibly, and caused me to feel humbled and
self-condemned. The more I thought of it, the more satisfied was I
that you were right. But it was one thing to see the use of
patience, and another thing to exercise it. To be patient amid the
turbulence, ill-tempers, and disobedience of children, and the
irregularities, carelessness and neglect of domestics, seemed a
thing impossible. I was in this state of doubt as to my ability to
exercise the virtue so much needed in my household, when Hannah came
to the door of the room where I was sitting in no very happy mood,
and notified me of some want in the kitchen in an exceedingly
provoking way. I was about replying sharply and angrily; but
suddenly checking myself, I said in a quiet, mild way, 'Very well,
Hannah. I will see that it is supplied.'

"The girl stood for some moments, looking at me with an expression
of surprise on her face, and then walked away. This was a victory
over myself, and I felt, also, a victory over her. Not half an hour
elapsed, before, on passing near the kitchen, she said to me, in a
very respectful manner:

"'I forgot to tell you, this morning, that the tea was all out. But
I can run round to the store and get some in a few minutes.'

"'Do so, if you please, Hannah,' I returned, without evincing the
slightest feeling of annoyance at her neglect; 'and try, if you can,
to have tea ready precisely at six o'clock.'

"'I will have it ready, ma'am,' she replied. And it was ready.

"Had I not exercised patience and self-control, the interview would
have been something after this fashion: about ten minutes before
tea-time, Hannah would have come to me and said, with provoking
coolness--

"'The tea's all out.'

"To which I would have replied sharply--

"'Why, in the name of goodness, did not you say so this morning? You
knew that you had used the last drawing! I declare you are the most
provoking creature I ever knew. You'll have to go to the store and
get some.'

"'I'm not fit to be seen in the street,' she would in all
probability have replied.

"And then I, losing all patience, would have soundly scolded her,
and gained nothing but a sick-headache, perhaps, for my pains. Tea,
in all probability, would have been served at about eight o'clock.
You see the difference."

"And a very material one it is."

"Isn't it? As you well said, there is a power in patience undreamed
of by those who seek not its exercise. Next morning, when I had any
occasion to speak to Hannah, I did so with much mildness, and if I
had occasion to find fault, requested a change rather than
enunciated a reproof. The girl changed as if by magic. She became
respectful in her manner toward me, and evinced a constant anxiety
to do every thing as I wished to have it done. Not once since have
we had a meal as much as ten minutes later than the appointed time."

I could not but express the happiness I felt at the change, and urge
my excellent friend to persevere. This she has done, and the whole
aspect of things in her family has changed.

There are times, however, when, from ill-health, or a return of old
states, she recedes again into fretfulness; but the reaction upon
her is so immediate and perceptible, that she is driven in
self-defence to patience and forbearance, the result of which is
order and quiet in her family just in the degree that patience and
forbearance are exercised.






AN OLD MAN'S RECOLLECTIONS.





"I AM not a _very_ old man," said a venerable friend to me, one day,
"yet my head has become whitened and my cheeks furrowed:--and often,
as I pause and lean upon my staff, at the corners of the streets,
the present reality gives place to dreams of the past, and I see
here, instead of the massive pile of brick and marble, the low frame
dwelling, and there, in place of the lines of tall warehouses,
humble tenements. If, in my aimless wanderings about the city, I
turn my steps towards the suburbs, I find that change, too, has been
there. I miss the woods and fields where once, with the gay
companions of early years, I spent many a summer hour. Beautiful
dwellings have sprung up, it seems to me as if by magic, where but
yesterday I plucked fruit from overladen branches, or flung myself
to rest among the tall grass or ripening grain.

"But other changes than this have marked the passage of time.
Changes that cause them to sink into obscurity in comparison.
Thousands in our goodly city have passed from the cradle to the
grave, during the years that have been allotted to me; and thousands
have proved that all the promises of early years were vain. All
external mutations would attract but little attention, did they not
recall other and more important changes. Thought and feeling have
put on forms, as new and strange, but not, alas! so full of happy
indications. Prosperity has crowned the toil and enterprise of our
citizens; but how few of the many who were prosperous when I was in
my prime are among the wealthy now! How few of the families that
filled the circles of fashion then, have left any of their scattered
members to grace the glittering circles now! The wheel of fortune
has ceased not its revolutions for a moment. Hopes that once spread
their gay leaves to the pleasant airs have been blighted and
scattered by the chilling winds of adversity.

"Pausing and leaning upon my staff, as I have said, I often muse
thus, when some object recalls the memory of one and another who
have finished their course and been gathered to their fathers. In
every city and village, wherever there is human life, with its evil
passions and good affections, there are histories to stir the heart
and unseal the fountains of tears. Truth, it is said, is strange,
stranger than fiction; and never was there a truer sentiment
uttered. In all the fictions that I have read, nothing has met my
eye so strange and heart-stirring as the incidents in real life that
have transpired in the families of some of our own citizens. Any
one, of years and observation, in any city, will bear a like
testimony. The circumstance of their actual occurrence, and the fact
that the present reality diminishes, from many causes, our surprise
at events, tend to make us think lightly of what is going on around
us. And, besides this, we ordinarily see only the surface of
society. The writer of fiction unveils the mind and heart of those
he brings into action, and we see all. We perceive their thoughts
and feel their emotions. But, if we could look into the bosoms of
those we meet daily, and read there the hopes and fears that excite
or depress, we should perceive all around us living histories of
human passion and emotion that would awaken up our most active
sympathies. All this, however, is hidden from our eyes. And it is
only, in most instances, when the present becomes the past, that we
are permitted to lift the veil, and look at the reality beneath."

We were sitting near a window overlooking one of the principal
streets of our city, and a slight noise without, at this time,
attracted our attention.

"There she is again. Poor Flora! How my heart aches for you!" my
companion suddenly ejaculated, in a tone of deep sympathy, after
gazing into the street for a moment or two.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Do you see that poor creature, slowly moving along just opposite?"

"Yes."

"Twenty years ago, there was not a gayer girl in the city; nor one
more truly beloved by all."

"She?"

"Yes. Nor one of fairer hopes."

"Hope has indeed sadly mocked her!" said I, giving almost
involuntary utterance to the thought that instantly passed through
my mind. Just then I caught a glimpse of her face, that was partly
turned towards us. Though marked by disease and sorrow, it was yet
no common face. It still bore traces of womanly beauty, that no eye
could mistake.

"Poor Flora! what a history of disappointed hopes and crushed
affections is thine! What a lesson for the young, the thoughtless,
the innocent!" the old man said, as he retired from the window.

"Who is she?" I asked, after a brief pause.

"You have seen that beautiful old mansion that stands in--street,
just above--?"

"Yes."

"It is now used as an extensive boarding-house; but in my younger
days, it was one of the most princely establishments in the city. It
then stood alone, and had attached to it beautifully laid-out
grounds, stocked with the rarest and richest plants, all in the
highest state of cultivation. No American workman could produce
furniture good enough for its aristocratic owner. Every thing was
bought in Paris, and upon the most extensive scale. And truly, the
internal arrangement of Mr. T--'s dwelling was magnificent, almost
beyond comparison at the time."

"And was that the daughter of Mr. T--?" I asked, in surprise.

"Yes, that was Flora T--," the old man said, in a voice that had
in it an expression of sad feeling, evidently conjured up by the
reminiscence.

"You knew her in her better days?"

"As well as I knew my own sister. She was one of the gentlest of her
sex. No one could meet her without loving her."

"She married badly?"

"Yes. That tells the whole secret of her present wretched condition.
Alas! how many a sweet girl have I seen dragged down, by a union
with some worthless wretch, undeserving the name of a man! There is
scarcely a wealthy family in our city, into which some such an one
has not insinuated himself, destroying the peace of all, and
entailing hopeless misery upon one all unfit to bear her changed
lot. The case of Flora is an extreme one. Her husband turned out to
be a drunkard, and her father's family became reduced in
circumstances, and finally every member of it either passed from
this world, or sank into a state of indigence, little above that of
her own. But the worst feature in this history of wretchedness is
the fact, that Flora, in sinking so low externally, lost that sweet
spirit of innocence which once gave a tone of so much loveliness to
her character. Her husband not only debased her condition, but
corrupted her mind. Oh, what a wreck she has become!"

"How few families there are," said I, after a few moments, "as you
have justly remarked, the happiness of which has not been destroyed
by the marriage of a much loved and fondly cherished daughter and
sister, to one all unworthy of the heart whose best affections had
been poured out upon him like water."

"The misery arising from this cause," the old man said, "is
incalculable. Nor does it always show itself in the extreme external
changes that have marked Flora T--'s sad history. I could take you
to many houses, fine houses too, and richly arrayed within, where
hearts are breaking in the iron grasp of a husband's unfeeling hand,
that contracts with a slow, torturing cruelty, keeping its victim
lingering day after day, week after week, month after month, and
year after year, looking and longing for the hour when the deep
quiet of the grave shall bring peace--sweet peace."

* * *

"As I thus look back through a period of some twenty, thirty, and
forty years," continued the old man, "noting the changes that have
taken place, and counting over the hopes that have been given like
chaff to the winds, I feel sad. And yet, amid all this change and
disappointment, there is much to stir the heart with feelings of
pleasure. A single instance I will relate:

"A very intimate friend, a merchant, had three daughters, to whom he
gave an education the best that could be obtained. When the eldest
was but twenty, and the youngest fourteen, Mr. W--failed in
business. Every thing passed from his hands, and he was left
entirely penniless. Well advanced in years, with his current of
thoughts, from long habit, going steadily in one way, this shock
almost entirely prostrated him. He could not find courage to explain
to his daughters his condition, and the change that awaited them.
But they loved their father too well not to perceive that something
was wrong. Suspecting the true cause, the eldest, unknown to him,
waited upon one of his clerks at his residence, and received from
him a full statement of her father's affairs. She begged that
nothing might be concealed; and so obtained all the information that
the clerk could give, from which she saw plainly that the family
would be entirely broken up, and worse than all, perhaps scattered,
the children from their father.

"On returning home, she took her younger sisters, and fully
explained to them the gloomy prospect in view. Then she explained to
them her plan, by which the force of the storm might be broken. In
it they all gladly acquiesced. This plan, they proceeded, unknown to
their father, to put into execution.

"It was about one week after, that the old man came home so much
troubled in mind that he was compelled to leave the tea-table, his
food untasted. As he arose, his children arose also, and followed
him into the parlours.

"'Dear father!' said the eldest, coming up to his side, and drawing
her arm around his neck--'do not be troubled. We know it all, and
are prepared for the worst.'

"'Know what, my child?' he asked in surprise.

"'Know that our condition is changed. And know more--that we are
prepared to meet that change with brave, true hearts.'

"The tears came into the daughter's eyes as she said this--not tears
for her changed prospect--but tears for her father.

"'And we are all prepared to meet it,' broke in the other two,
gathering around the old man.

"'God bless you, my children!' Mr. W--murmured, with a voice
choked with emotion. 'But, you know not how low you have fallen. I
am a beggar!'

"'Not quite,' was the now smiling reply of his eldest child. 'We
learned it all--and at once determined that we would do our part.
For two weeks, we have been out among our friends, and freely
related our plans and the reason for adopting them. The result is,
we obtained forty scholars to a school we have determined to open,
for teaching music, French, drawing, &c. You are not a beggar, dear
father! And never shall be, while you have three daughters to love
you!'

"The old man's feelings gave way, and he wept like a child. He could
not object to the proposition of his children. The school was at
once opened, and is still conducted by the two youngest. It proved a
means of ample support to the family. To some men, the fact that
their children had been compelled to resort to daily labour, in any
calling, for a support, would have been deeply humiliating. Not so
to Mr. W--. That evidence of his daughters' love to him
compensated for all the changes which circumstances, uncontrolled by
himself, had effected."

THE END.





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