ous of having done wrong must not
appear. In various ways he sought to justify his conduct. At length
he said, half aloud--

"No matter. He deserved it for something else, and has received only
his deserts. Let him behave himself properly, and he'll never be the
subject of unjust censure."

It was thus that the cold-hearted father settled, with his own
conscience, this question of wrong toward his child. And yet he was
a man who prayed in his family, and regularly, with pious
observance, attended upon the ordinances of the church. In society
he was esteemed as a just and righteous man; in the church as one
who lived near to heaven. As for himself, he believed that severity
toward his boy, and intolerance of all the weaknesses, errors, and
wayward tendencies of childhood, were absolutely needed for the due
correction of evil impulses. Alas! that he, like too many of his
class, permitted anger toward his children's faults to blind his
better judgment, and to stifle the genuine appeals of nature.
Instead of tenderness, forbearance, and a loving effort to lead them
in right paths, and make those paths pleasant to their feet, he
sternly sought to force them in the way he wished them to go. With
what little success, in the case of Andrew, is already apparent.

Angry at the unjust punishment he had received, the boy remained
alone in his room until summoned to dinner.

"He doesn't want anything to eat," said the servant, returning to
the dining-room where the family were assembled at the table.

"Oh, very well," remarked the father, in a tone of indifference,
"fasting will do him good."

"Go up, Anna," said Mr. Howland to the servant "and tell him that I
want him to come down."

That word would have been effectual, for Andrew loved his mother;
but Mr. Howland remarked instantly:

"No, no! Let him, remain. I never humor states of perverseness. If
he wishes to fast he can be gratified."

Mrs. Howland said no more, but she took only a few mouthfuls of food
while she sat at the table. Her appetite was gone. After dinner she
went up to Andrew's room with a saucer of peaches and cream. The
moment she opened the door the lad sprung toward her, and while
tears gushed from his eyes, he said--

"Indeed, indeed, mother, I was not to blame! Bill Wilkins was going
to beat me--and you know, he's a large boy."

"But you might have killed him, Andrew," replied the mother, with a
gentle gravity that, in love, conveyed reproof. "