by this apparent unconsciousness of the difference between truth and falsehood, were unaccustomed to children, or they would have recognised this as a stage through which most infants, who would have lively imaginations, pass; and, accordingly, there was a consultation in Mr. Benson’s study one morning.  Ruth was there, quiet, very pale, and with compressed lips, sick at heart as she heard Miss Benson’s arguments for the necessity of whipping, in order to cure Leonard of his story-telling.  Mr. Benson looked unhappy and uncomfortable.  Education was but a series of experiments to them all, and they all had a secret dread of spoiling the noble boy, who was the darling of their hearts.  And, perhaps, this very intensity of love begot an impatient, unnecessary anxiety, and made them resolve on sterner measures than the parent of a large family (where love was more spread abroad) would have dared to use.  At any rate, the vote for whipping carried the day; and even Ruth, trembling and cold, agreed that it must be done; only she asked, in a meek, sad voice, if she need be present (Mr. Benson was to be the executioner—­the scene, the study), and, being instantly told that she had better not, she went slowly and languidly up to her room, and kneeling down, she closed her ears, and prayed.

Miss Benson, having carried her point, was very sorry for the child, and would have begged him off; but Mr. Benson had listened more to her arguments than now to her pleadings, and, only answered, “If it is right, it shall be done!” He went into the garden, and deliberately, almost as if he wished to gain time, chose and cut off a little switch from the laburnum-tree.  Then he returned through the kitchen, and gravely taking the awed and wondering little fellow by the hand, he led him silently into the study, and placing him before him, began an admonition on the importance of truthfulness, meaning to conclude with what he believed to be the moral of all punishment:  “As you cannot remember this of yourself, I must give you a little pain to make you remember it.  I am sorry it is necessary, and that you cannot recollect without my doing so.”

But before he had reached this very proper and desirable conclusion, and while he was yet working his way, his heart aching with the terrified look of the child at the solemnly sad face and words of upbraiding, Sally burst in—­

“And what may ye be going to do with that fine switch I saw ye gathering, Master Thurstan?” asked she, her eyes gleaming with anger at the answer she knew must come, if answer she had at all.

“Go away, Sally,” said Mr. Benson, annoyed at the fresh difficulty in his path.

“I’ll not stir never a step till you give me that switch, as you’ve got for some mischief, I’ll be bound.”

“Sally! remember where it is said, ’He that spareth the rod, spoileth the child,’” said Mr. Benson austerely.