“Well, this is a curious world that we live in.  Ten years ago, Pelby, then a trim bachelor, as nice and particular as any of the tribe, said, in allusion to Tommy Little—­’If that were my child, I would half kill him but what I’d make a better boy of him!’”

“He did?”

“Yes, those were his very words.  We were spending an evening at Mr. and Mrs. Little’s, and when Tommy was about two years old or so; and Pelby was terribly annoyed by him.  He acted pretty much as all children do—­that is, pretty much as Henry did to-night.  But Pelby couldn’t endure it with any kind of patience.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed out Mrs. Manly, in spite of herself.  “How completely the tables have been turned!”

“Yes, they have been, certainly.  But what is a little singular is, that neither of the parties concerned seem to have gained wisdom by their experience.  Pelby forgets how other people’s children once annoyed him, and Mr. and Mrs. Little seem to be entirely unconscious that their paragon was very much like all other little boys when he was only about two or three years old.  For my part, I think we should be careful not to let our children trespass upon visitors.  None can feel the same interest in them that we do, or exercise the same forbearance towards their faults.  Faults they all have, which need especial care in their correction; and these should be suffered to appear as rarely as possible under circumstances which prevent a salutary check being placed upon them.  For this reason, you know, we have made it a matter of concert not to let our children, while, too young to understand something of propriety, be present, but for a very short time, when we had company.  The moment they become rude or too familiar, they were quietly taken from the room.”

“Yes; and knowing as I do,” said Mrs. Manly, “how very restless some children with active minds are, I am never disposed to look with unfavourable eyes upon any, even when wild, turbulent, and heedless.  They act as they feel; and so far as evil affections show themselves, we know they are inherited, and that it is not in the power of the child to remove them.  We should then be moved, it seems to me, with a purer affection for them; with something of pity mixed with our love, and, instead of suffering their wrong actions to repulse us, we should draw towards them with a desire to teach them what is wrong, and impart to them some power to overcome evil.”

“If all thought as you, Mary,” said Mr. Manly, as they gained their own doors, “we should hear no one railing out against other people’s children, while he indulged his own.  A fault too common with most parents.”

I WILL!

“YOU look sober, Laura.  What has thrown a veil over your happy face?” said Mrs. Cleaveland to her niece, one morning, on finding her alone and with a very thoughtful countenance.

“Do I really look sober?” and Laura smiled as she spoke.