hes them in a passion, acts under the influence of a
brute instinct. Her family government is in principle the same as that
of the lower animals over their young. It is, however, at any rate, a
_government_; and such government is certainly better than none. But human
parents, in the training of their human offspring, ought surely to aim at
something higher and nobler. They who do so, who possess themselves fully
with the idea that punishment, as they are to administer it, is wholly
remedial in its character--that is to say, is to be considered solely with
reference to the future good to be attained by it, will have established in
their minds a principle that will surely guide them into right ways, and
bring them out successfully in the end. They will soon acquire the habit of
never threatening, of never punishing in anger, and of calmly considering,
in the case of the faults which they observe in their children, what course
of procedure will be most effectual in correcting them.

Parents seem sometimes to have an idea that a manifestation of something
like anger--or, at least, very serious displeasure on their part--is
necessary in order to make a proper impression in respect to its fault on
the mind of the child. This, however, I think, is a mistake. The impression
is made by what we _do_, and not by the indications of irritation or
displeasure which we manifest in doing it. To illustrate this, I will state
a case, narrating all its essential points just as it occurred. The case is
very analogous, in many particulars, to that of Egbert and George related
in the last chapter.

_Mary's Walk_.

"Mary," said Mary's aunt, Jane, who had come to make a visit at Mary's
mother's in the country, "I am going to the village this afternoon, and if
you would like you may go with me."

Mary was, of course, much pleased with this invitation.

"A part of the way," continued her aunt, "is by a path across the fields.
While we are there you must keep in the path all the time, for it rained a
little this morning, and I am afraid that the grass may not be quite dry."

"Yes, Aunt Jane; I'll keep in the path," said Mary.

So they set out on the walk together. When they came to the gate which led
to the path across the fields, Aunt Jane said, "Remember, Mary, you must
keep in the path."

Mary said nothing, but ran forward. Pretty soon she began to walk a little
on the margin of the grass, and, before long, observing a place where the