s wicked, love?'

'Rachel.'

'No, Arthur, Rachel never said so, I am certain.'

'Well, then, it was papa,' replied he, thoughtfully. Then, after a
reflective pause, he added, 'At least, I'll tell you how it was I got to
know: when I'm with papa, if I say mamma wants me, or mamma says I'm not
to do something that he tells me to do, he always says, "Mamma be
damned," and Rachel says it's only wicked people that are damned. So,
mamma, that's why I think you must be wicked: and I wish you wouldn't.'

'My dear child, I am not. Those are bad words, and wicked people often
say them of others better than themselves. Those words cannot make
people be damned, nor show that they deserve it. God will judge us by
our own thoughts and deeds, not by what others say about us. And when
you hear such words spoken, Arthur, remember never to repeat them: it is
wicked to say such things of others, not to have them said against you.'

'Then it's papa that's wicked,' said he, ruefully.

'Papa is wrong to say such things, and you will be very wrong to imitate
him now that you know better.'

'What is imitate?'

'To do as he does.'

'Does he know better?'

'Perhaps he does; but that is nothing to you.'

'If he doesn't, you ought to tell him, mamma.'

'I have told him.'

The little moralist paused and pondered. I tried in vain to divert his
mind from the subject.

'I'm sorry papa's wicked,' said he mournfully, at length, 'for I don't
want him to go to hell.' And so saying he burst into tears.

I consoled him with the hope that perhaps his papa would alter and become
good before he died--; but is it not time to deliver him from such a
parent?

CHAPTER XL

January 10th, 1827.--While writing the above, yesterday evening, I sat in
the drawing-room. Mr. Huntingdon was present, but, as I thought, asleep
on the sofa behind me. He had risen, however, unknown to me, and,
actuated by some base spirit of curiosity, been looking over my shoulder
for I know not how long; for when I had laid aside my pen, and was about
to close the book, he suddenly placed his hand upon it, and
saying,--'With your leave, my dear, I'll have a look at this,' forcibly
wrested it from me, and, drawing a chair to the table, composedly sat
down to examine it: turning back leaf after leaf to find an explanation
of what he had read. Unluckily for me, he was more sober that night than
he usually is at such an hour.

Of course I did not leave h