rms,
and never were more bitter tears than those that now concealed him from
my blinded, burning eyes. Hearing his cries, the father came to the
room. I instantly turned away, lest he should see and misconstrue my
emotion. He swore at me, and took the now pacified child away.

It is hard that my little darling should love him more than me; and that,
when the well-being and culture of my son is all I have to live for, I
should see my influence destroyed by one whose selfish affection is more
injurious than the coldest indifference or the harshest tyranny could be.
If I, for his good, deny him some trifling indulgence, he goes to his
father, and the latter, in spite of his selfish indolence, will even give
himself some trouble to meet the child's desires: if I attempt to curb
his will, or look gravely on him for some act of childish disobedience,
he knows his other parent will smile and take his part against me. Thus,
not only have I the father's spirit in the son to contend against, the
germs of his evil tendencies to search out and eradicate, and his
corrupting intercourse and example in after-life to counteract, but
already he counteracts my arduous labour for the child's advantage,
destroys my influence over his tender mind, and robs me of his very love;
I had no earthly hope but this, and he seems to take a diabolical delight
in tearing it away.

But it is wrong to despair; I will remember the counsel of the inspired
writer to him 'that feareth the Lord and obeyeth the voice of his
servant, that sitteth in darkness and hath no light; let him trust in the
name of the Lord, and stay upon his God!'

CHAPTER XXXVII

December 20th, 1825.--Another year is past; and I am weary of this life.
And yet I cannot wish to leave it: whatever afflictions assail me here, I
cannot wish to go and leave my darling in this dark and wicked world
alone, without a friend to guide him through its weary mazes, to warn him
of its thousand snares, and guard him from the perils that beset him on
every hand. I am not well fitted to be his only companion, I know; but
there is no other to supply my place. I am too grave to minister to his
amusements and enter into his infantile sports as a nurse or a mother
ought to do, and often his bursts of gleeful merriment trouble and alarm
me; I see in them his father's spirit and temperament, and I tremble for
the consequences; and too often damp the innocent mirth I ought to share.
That fa