, but which speedily vanishes before the faith of those who, with
the heart, believe that they are not the accidents of Fate, but the
children of a Father. In the house of every wise parent may then be
seen an epitome of life,--a sight whose consolation is needed at times,
perhaps, by all. Which of the little children of a virtuous household
can conceive of his entering into his parent's pursuits, or interfering
with them? How sacred are the study and the office, the apparatus of a
knowledge and a power which he can only venerate! Which of these little
ones dreams of disturbing the course of his parent's thought or
achievement? Which of them conceives of the daily routine of the
household--its going forth and coming in, its rising and its rest--
having been different before his birth, or that it would be altered by
his absence? It is even a matter of surprise to him when it now and
then occurs to him that there is anything set apart for him,--that he
has clothes and couch, and that his mother thinks and cares for him. If
he lags behind in a walk, or finds himself alone among the trees, he
does not dream of being missed; but home rises up before him as he has
always seen it--his father thoughtful, his mother occupied, and the rest
gay, with the one difference of his not being there. Thus he believes,
and has no other trust than in his shrieks of terror, for being ever
remembered more. Yet, all the while, from day to day, from year to
year, without one moment's intermission, is the providence of his parent
around him, brooding over the workings of his infant spirit, chastening
its passions, nourishing its affections,--now troubling it with salutary
pain, now animating it with even more wholesome delight. All the while
is the order of household affairs regulated for the comfort and profit
of these lowly little ones, though they regard it reverently because
they cannot comprehend it. They may not know of all this,--how their
guardian bends over their pillow nightly, and lets no word of their
careless talk drop unheeded, hails every brightening gleam of reason,
and records every sob of infant grief; and every chirp of childish
glee,--they may not know this, because they could not understand it
aright, and each little heart would be inflated with pride, each little
mind would lose the grace and purity of its unconsciousness: but the
guardianship is not the less real, constant, and tender, for its being
unrecognised b