Stevie’s mamma was very much troubled about this, for she dearly loved her little son, and she saw plainly that as the days went on instead of Stevie’s getting the upper hand of his fault, his fault was getting the upper hand of him.  So one day she and papa had a long, serious talk about Stevie, and then papa and Stevie had a long, serious talk about the fault.  I shall not tell all that passed between them, for papa had to do some plain speaking that hurt Stevie’s feelings very much, and his little pocket-handkerchief was quite damp long before the interview was over.

Papa so seldom found fault that what he said now made a great impression on the little boy.  “I didn’t know I was so horrid, papa,” he said, earnestly; “I really don’t mean to be, but you see people are so trying sometimes, and then it seems as if I just have to say things.  You don’t know how hard it is to keep from saying them.”

“Oh, yes, I do,” said Mr. Lawrence, with a nod of his head; “but you are getting to be a big boy now, Stevie, and if you expect to be a soldier one of these days—­as you say you do—­you must begin to control yourself now, or you’ll never be able to control your men by and by.  And besides, you are bringing discredit on your beloved country by such behavior.”

Stevie looked up with wide-open, astonished eyes.  “Why, papa!” he said.

“I heard you tell Guiseppi the other day,” went on his papa, “that all Americans were nice.  Do you expect him to believe that, when you, the only little American boy he knows, speak so rudely to him, and he hears you ordering your sisters about as you do?”

Stevie hung his head without a word, but his cheeks got very red.

“You know, Stevie,” said Mr. Lawrence, “great honors always bring great responsibilities with them.  You are a Christian and an American—­two great honors; and you mustn’t shirk the responsibility to be courteous and noble and kind, which they entail.  Even our dear Lord Christ pleased not Himself, you know; don’t you suppose it grieves Him to see His little follower flying into rages because he can’t have his own way?  And can you possibly imagine Washington or Lincoln ordering people about as you like to do?”

There was a moment’s silence; then Stevie straightened himself up and poked his hands deep down in his pockets.  “Papa,” he said, tossing back his yellow curls, a look of determination on his little fair face, “I’ll not shirk my ’sponsibilities.  I’m just going to try with all my might to be a better boy.”

“Good for you, Stevie!” cried papa, kissing him warmly.  “I know mamma’ll be glad, and I’m sure you’ll be a much pleasanter boy to live with.  But you must ask God to help you, or you’ll never succeed, son; and besides, you’ve got to keep a tight watch on yourself all the time, you know.”

“Yes, I s’pose so,” agreed Stevie, with a little sigh, “’cause feelings are such hard things to manage; and, papa, please don’t tell Kate and Eva, or Hitty.”  Papa nodded, and then they went to tell mamma the result of the talk.