is own. "Don't mind it, Paul!"
said Azalia.

The pain was not half so hard to bear after that. He wanted to say, "I
thank you," but did not know how. Till then his lips had hardly
quivered, and he had not shed a tear; now his eyes became moist; one
great drop rolled down his cheek, but he wiped it off with his
coat-sleeve, and turned away, for fear that Azalia would think him a
baby.

On his way home the thought uppermost in his mind was, "What will mother
say?" Why tell her? Would it not be better to keep the matter to
himself? But then he remembered that she had said, "Paul, I shall expect
you to tell me truthfully all that happens to you at school." He loved
his mother. She was one of the best mothers that ever lived, working for
him day and night. How could he abuse such confidence as she had given
him? He would not violate it. He would not be a sneak.

His mother and the Pensioner were sitting before the fire as he entered
the house. She welcomed him with a smile,--a beautiful smile it was, for
she was a noble woman, and Paul was her darling, her pride, the light,
joy, and comfort of her life.

"Well, Paul, how do you get on at school?" his grandfather asked.

"I got a whipping to-day." It was spoken boldly and manfully.

"What! My son got a whipping!" his mother exclaimed.

"Yes, mother."

"I am astonished. Come here, and tell me all about it."

Paul stood by her side and told the story,--how Philip Funk tried to
bribe him, how he called him names,--how, having got his lessons, he
made a picture of the master. "Here it is, mother." He took his slate
from his little green bag. The picture had not been effaced. His mother
looked at it and laughed, notwithstanding her efforts to keep sober, for
it was such a perfect likeness. She had an exquisite sense of the
ludicrous, and Paul was like her. She was surprised to find that he
could draw so well.

"We will talk about the matter after supper," she said. She had told
Paul many times, that, if he was justly punished at school, he must
expect a second punishment at home; but she wanted to think awhile
before deciding what to do. She was pleased to know that her boy could
not be bribed to do what his conscience told him he ought not to do, and
that he was manly and truthful. She would rather follow him to the
church-yard and lay him in his grave beneath the bending elms, than to
have him untruthful or wicked.

The evening passed away. Paul sat before the fire