“Oh, don’t leave me here, John! don’t leave me, I cannot stay.”  Brushing the tears from his own eyes, John drew the sobbing child out into the yard, saying, as he put his arms affectionately about his neck,—­

“But Arthur, what do you think mother would say to see you coming back with me?  How it would distress her!  Indeed you must stay, and try to be contented.  I think it looks like a pleasant place here.  This is a very pretty yard, and yonder is a large garden; I dare say Mr. Martin will let you have a bed in it next spring.”

“But it is living here all alone, which I dread,” said Arthur.

“You know mother says we are never all alone,” said John.  “God will be with you, and if you try to be a good contented boy, he will approve of your conduct, and love you.  Only six weeks too, remember, till you come home.  Just think how soon they will be gone!”

Rover had been gazing wistfully into Arthur’s face, as if he wondered what was going on that made them all so sober, and now he gently laid his paw upon his hand.  Arthur caressed him fondly, saying—­

“Oh, Rover, dear good fellow, how I wish I could have you for company.”

“I wish you could,” said John, “but I don’t think it would be right to leave him, for Mr. Martin might not wish to have him.”

John now untied his horse, saying,

“Try to be contented for mother’s sake, dear Arthur.”

Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me that nothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving little Arthur behind him, that day.  “I can see the poor little fellow now,” said he, “just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly.”

Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into the wagon, and drove off.

It was a lonely evening to Arthur.  There was no frolic with Rover and the children on the green; no kind mother’s voice to call him in; no affectionate good-night kiss for the little stranger.  Mr. and Mrs. Martin were very kind-hearted people, but they had little sympathy with a child, and made no conversation with him.  There was no hardship imposed on Arthur; indeed they required less of him than he had been accustomed to doing at home, and had he been a courageous, light-hearted boy like his brother James, he would soon have been very happy in his new home.  But we have said he was shy and sensitive; like a delicate plant he needed sunshine to develope his nature, and shrank from the rough chilling blast.

None, who has not experienced it, can know any thing of the suffering such a child endures when deprived of the sweet influences of home.  Such an one often appears dull and stupid to a careless observer, when there is throbbing under that cold exterior, a heart of the keenest sensibility.  Let the bold, healthy, active boy be sent from home, if necessary; a little hardship, and a little struggling with the