“I found no sympathy from anybody; my father reproved me, and threatened chastisement when my wounds were healed.  My mother, who dressed my aching fingers, looked very sorrowfully upon me, and I knew that I had grieved her deeply by my disobedience.

“I assisted in picking the apples, but I was compelled to work with one hand, while the other hung in a sling.  That was a sad day for me.

“It required some weeks to heal the deep gashes made by my knife, and the scars are as bright, after forty years, as they were when the wounds were first closed.

“But if the scars in the flesh were all, it would have been comparatively a trifle.  But the soul was wounded as well as the body.  The conscience was defiled with guilt.  Tears of repentance could not wipe away the stain.  Nothing but the blood of Christ could give health to the wounded spirit.

“As wounds leave scars, so, my dear child, youthful sins leave the traces of their existence.  Like the scars of the healed wound, they disfigure and weaken the soul.  The follies of youth may be overcome, but they are always sure to leave their mark.  Every sin of childhood hangs like a weight upon the neck of manhood.  The blood of Jesus Christ alone cleanseth from all sin.”

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COALS OF FIRE

Guy Morgan came in from school with rapid step and impetuous manner.  His mother looked up from her work.  There was a round, red spot on his cheek, and an ominous glitter in his eyes.  She knew the signs.  His naturally fierce temper had been stirred in some way to a heat that had kindled his whole nature.  He tossed down his cap, threw himself on an ottoman at her feet, and then said, with still a little of the heat of his temper in his tone, “Never say, after this, that I don’t love you, mother.”

“I think I never did say so,” she answered gently, as she passed her hand over the tawny locks, and brushed them away from the flushed brow.  “But what special thing have you done to prove your love for me just now?”

“Taken a blow without returning it.”  She bent over and kissed her boy.  He was fifteen years old, a tall fellow with strong muscles; but he had not grown above liking his mother’s kisses.

Then she said softly, “Tell me all about it, Guy.”

“O, it was Dick Osgood!  You know what a mean fellow he is, anyhow.  He had been tormenting some of the younger boys till I could not stand it.  Every one of them is afraid of him.

“I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, and tried to make him leave off, till, after a while, he turned from them, and coming to me, he struck me in the face.  I believe the mark is there now;” and he turned the other cheek toward his mother.  Her heart was filled with sympathy and secret indignation.

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“Well,” she said, “and you—­what did you do?”