“Why didn’t you tell your father of this?” asked Mrs. Howland.

“I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen to me,” said the lad, with ill-concealed indignation in his voice.  “And he never will listen to me, mother.  He believes every word that is said against me, and flogs me whether I am guilty or not.  I’m sure he hates me!”

“Hush! hush my boy! don’t say that.  Don’t speak so of your father.”

“Well, I’m sure he don’t love me,” persisted Andrew.

“Oh, yes, he does love you.  He only dislikes what is wrong in you.  My son must try to be a good boy.”

“I do try, mother; I try almost every day.  But somehow I do wrong things without thinking.  I’m always sorry at first; sorry until father begins to scold or whip me, and then I don’t seem to care anything about it.  Oh, dear!  I wish father wasn’t always so cross!”

While Andrew thus talked, his tears had ceased to flow; but now they gushed over his cheeks again, and he leaned his face upon his mother’s bosom.  Mrs. Howland drew her arms closely around her unhappy boy, while her own eyes became wet.  For many minutes there was silence.  At last she said, in a kind, earnest voice—­

“I’ve brought you a nice saucer of peaches and cream, Andrew.”

“I don’t want them, mother,” replied the lad.

“You’ll be hungry before night, dear.  It’s nearly school-time now, and you’ll get nothing to eat until you come home again.”

“I don’t feel at all hungry, mother.”

“Just eat them for my sake,” urged Mrs. Howland.

Without a word more Andrew took the saucer.

“Ain’t they nice?” asked Mrs. Howland, as she saw that her boy relished the fruit and cream.

“Yes, dear mother! they are very good,” replied Andrew; “and you are good, too.  Indeed I love you, mother!”

The last sentence was uttered with visible emotion.

“Then, for my sake, try and do right, Andrew,” said Mrs. Howland, tenderly.

“I will try, mother,” returned the boy.  “I do try often; but I forget myself a great many times.”

Soon after Andrew started for school.  On arriving, his teacher called him up and said—­

“Did your father get my note?”

“I don’t know, sir,” replied Andrew.

“What did he say to you?”

The boy’s eyes sunk to the floor and he remained silent.

“I sent your father a note immediately,” said the teacher, “telling him that you were not to blame.”

Andrew looked up quickly into his teacher’s face, while a shadow fell upon his countenance.

“You don’t know whether he received it?”

“No sir.”

The teacher called up another lad, and inquired if he had delivered the note given him at the dwelling of Mr. Howland, as directed.  The boy replied that he had done so.

“Very, well.  You can take your seat.”

Then turning to Andrew, the teacher said—­