dge that their present degree of joy is proportionate to their
usual degree of gloom, that for them the Law of Compensation drops into
the scale of these few moments an exact counter-weight of joy to the
misery accumulated in the scale of all their other moments. We, who do
not live their life, who regard Lady Noble as a mere Hecuba, and who
would accept one of her nectarines only in sheer politeness, cannot
rejoice with them that do rejoice thus, can but pity them for all that
has led up to their joy. We may reflect that the harsh system on which
they are reared will enable them to enjoy life with infinite gusto when
they are grown up, and that it is, therefore, a better system than the
indulgent modern one. We may reflect, further, that it produces a finer
type of man or woman, less selfish, better-mannered, more capable and
useful. The pretty grown-up daughter here, leading her little sister by
the hand, so gracious and modest in her mien, so sunny and
affectionate, so obviously wholesome and high-principled--is she not a
walking testimonial to the system? Yet to us the system is not the less
repulsive in itself. Its results may be what you please, but its
practice were impossible. We are too tender, too sentimental. We have
not the nerve to do our duty to children, nor can we bear to think of
any one else doing it. To children we can do nothing but 'spoil' them,
nothing but bless their hearts and coddle their souls, taking no
thought for their future welfare. And we are justified, maybe, in our
flight to this opposite extreme. Nobody can read one line ahead in the
book of fate. No child is guaranteed to become an adult. Any child may
die to-morrow. How much greater for us the sting of its death if its
life shall not have been made as pleasant as possible! What if its
short life shall have been made as unpleasant as possible? Conceive the
remorse of Mrs. Thompson here if one of her children were to die
untimely--if one of them were stricken down now, before her eyes, by
this surfeit of too sudden joy!

However, we do not fancy that Mrs. Thompson is going to be thus
afflicted. We believe that there is a saving antidote in the cup of her
children's joy. There is something, we feel, that even now prevents
them from utter ecstasy. Some shadow, even now, hovers over them. What
is it? It is not the mere atmosphere of the room, so oppressive to us.
It is something more definite than that, and even more sinister. It
looms al