ear bearing the too
evident marks of cruel usage.

"My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could he
be so cruel?"

"It is nothing, mother," replied the boy, sorry to have called forth
his mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion,
and he was sorry for it after."

"But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry with
you?"

"I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he counted
the sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; they
had stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain,
but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said something
to him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a
_careless little rascal_, that he lost all patience with me. That
hurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and he
knew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was going
into a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling me
about patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I know
he was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though he
didn't say so."

"I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen," said Mary; "he
would be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexed
that he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you bore
it so patiently.

"Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his ill
temper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and I
can bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdy
and healthy, and willing to do any kind of work."

Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent and
thoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of manner
that almost made poor Stephen cry,

"You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkind
treatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer,
Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. You
know how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor father
died, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed and
clothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined that
you should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in all
my toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world,
And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad,
and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not if
you are