know she's very good to you, and takes excellent
care of you, and hears you say your catechism every Saturday? You ought
to love her."

"But I can't make myself love her, if I don't," says the boy.

"It is your duty to love her, Reuben; and we can all do our duty."

Even the staid clergyman enjoys the boy's discomfiture under so orthodox
a proposition. Miss Johns, however, breaks in here, having overheard the
latter part of the talk:--

"No, Benjamin, I wish no love that is given from a sense of duty. Reuben
sha'n't be forced into loving his Aunt Eliza."

And there is a subdued tone in her speech which touches the boy. But he
is not ready yet for surrender; he watches gravely her retirement, and
for an hour shows a certain preoccupation at his play; then his piping
voice is heard at the foot of the stairway,--

"Aunt Eliza! Are you there?"

"Yes, Master Reuben!"

Master! It cools somewhat his generous intent; but he is in for it; and
he climbs the stair, sidles uneasily into the chamber where she sits at
her work, stealing a swift, inquiring look into that gray eye of hers,--

"I say--Aunt Eliza--I'm sorry I said that--you know what."

And he looks up with a little of the old yearning,--the yearning he used
to feel when another sat in that place.

"Ah, that is right, Master Reuben! I hope we shall be friends, now."

Another disturbed look at her,--remembering the time when he would have
leaped into a mother's arms, after such struggle with his self-will, and
found gladness. That is gone; no swift embrace, no tender hand toying
with his hair, beguiling him from play. And he sidles out again, half
shamefaced at a surrender that has wrought so little. Loitering, and
playing with the balusters as he descends, the swift, keen voice comes
after him,--

"Don't soil the paint, Reuben!"

"I haven't."

And the swift command and as swift retort put him in his old, wicked
mood again, and he breaks out into a defiant whistle. (Over and over the
spinster has told him it was improper to whistle in-doors.) Yet, with a
lingering desire for sympathy, Reuben makes his way into his father's
study; and the minister lays down his great folio,--it is Poole's
"Annotations,"--and says,--

"Well, Reuben!"

"I told her I was sorry," says the boy; "but I don't believe she likes
me much."

"Why, my son?"

"Because she called me Master, and said it was very proper."

"But doesn't that show an interest in you?"

"I don't