It was useless for Mrs. Howland to argue with her husband.  He never yielded the smallest assent to any reasons she might bring, nor to any position she might assume.  So, with a pressure on her heart, and a clear perception in her mind that he was wrong, she heard these last words in silence.

“Shall I call Andrew down?” asked the mother, as the tea-bell rung, soon after.

“No,” replied Mr. Howland, firmly; “I wish him to understand that I am in earnest.”

“Don’t you think he has been punished sufficiently?” said Mrs. Howland, timidly.

“Of course I do not, or I would remit the penalty of transgression,” coldly returned her husband.  “He’s a stubborn, self-willed boy, and must be made to feel that he has a master.”

“Kindness and persuasion often does—­”

“I will hear no more of that!” quickly returned Mr. Howland; “and I wish you, once for all, to understand, Esther, that I will not consent to an interference on your part with what I believe to be my duty.  Thousands of children have been ruined by this weak kindness and persuasion, but this shall never be the case with mine.”

Mr. Howland did not observe that his wife caught her breath, as he uttered the first few words of his harsh report.  She made no further answer, but passed on with her husband to the tea-room.  But she ate nothing.  Dreamily rested her eyes on vacancy, as she sat at the table.  Her mind took no note of images pictured on the retina, for her thoughts were in another place, and with her inner vision she saw the sad form of her wronged and suffering child shrinking in the lone chamber where he had been banished.

“Shall I take Andrew some supper?” she asked, as she arose, at length, from the table.

“He can have some bread and water,” was coldly and briefly answered.

Will any one blame the mother, that she went beyond this?  A few minutes afterward she entered the room in which Andrew had been punished, bearing in her hands a small tray, on which was a cup of milk and water, some toast, and a piece of cake.  The twilight had already fallen, and dusky shadows had gathered so thickly that the eyes of Mrs. Howland failed to see her child on first entering the room.

“Andrew!” she called, in a low, tender voice.

But there was no reply.

“Andrew!”

Still all remained silent.

More accustomed to the feeble light that pervaded the chamber, Mrs. Howland now perceived her boy in a corner, sitting upon the floor, with his head reclining upon a low ottoman.  He was asleep.  Placing the tray she had brought upon a table, Mrs. Howland lifted the child in her arms, and as she did so, he murmured in a sad voice—­

“Don’t, papa! oh, don’t strike so hard!”

Unable to repress her feelings, the mother’s tears gushed over her cheeks, and her bosom heaved with emotions that spent themselves in sobs and moans.