He was a large dog, of the Newfoundland breed, with shaggy hair.  He had beautiful white spots, and long, silky ears, and was a very good-natured dog.  He would let Charlie get on his back, and ride him all about the yard; and the boys had made a little sled to which they fastened Rover, and Emma, well wrapped up in her hood and cloak, with her woolen mittens on, would have quite long rides after him; sometimes in the yard, and sometimes in the street.

How much the children had to talk about that night; how many stories to tell Arthur, and questions to ask him in return!  Arthur had decided beforehand not to make any complaint, or to say he was unhappy, or homesick; and indeed in the pleasure of being at home again, he almost forgot he had ever been unhappy.  He was to stay till Monday morning, and to him those four days seemed a long period of enjoyment, quite too long to be saddened yet by the thoughts of separation.  The night settled down on the inmates of the cottage, and sweet sleep sealed up all eyes; even those of the weary mother.  The year had brought many trials, and some heavy ones, but there was in spite of them all, much to be thankful for, especially that all her beloved children had been preserved to her, and were so healthy, so promising, and so likely to prove blessings to her.  Ah, how long afterwards did she recall that merry evening, and those beaming faces, with a heavy heart!

CHAPTER III.

THE SEPARATION.

Thanksgiving is over!  Its dinner, its frolics, its boisterous mirth, are all in the past!  It is Sabbath evening.  A sadness seems to hang about the party.  Lucy had returned to her aunt, with whom she lived.  James was to go home that evening.  Henry and Arthur in the morning.  They with John and their mother, sat thoughtfully around the fire; the younger children were in bed; little was said by any one, but Mrs. Hamilton, wishing to have a more private interview with Arthur, took him to her room.  There she questioned him about his new home more particularly.  To her amazement, the moment she spoke of his returning, he burst into a flood of tears.  Poor Arthur! he meant to be brave, and to hide his troubles, but now that his heart had been warmed by the light of affection and home-joy, the idea of going back was terrible to him.  He could not deceive, or keep back any thing.  With passionate earnestness, he besought his mother to let him stay at home.

“I will only eat a potatoe and a piece of bread, if you will let me stay, mother; indeed I won’t be much of a burden to you, but oh, dear mother, don’t send me back there,” cried he, sobbing as if his heart would break.