e comes up the stair."

"Did you ever hear the beat of that little chap for singing?" said
Caleb, in the bar-room, to Dr. Hilton and Mr. Griggs.

Since that sad affair of the ox-money Caleb had loved Willy better than
ever, though it would be hard to tell why; perhaps because the child had
been so glad to see him come back again.

"Bless him!" said Love, bringing the brass warming-pan into the
"fore-room," to fill it with coals at the fireplace. "Why, mother, I
never hear the name 'Willy,' but it makes me think of music. It sounds
as sweet as if you said 'nightingale.'"

Mrs. Parlin answered by folding the singing-bird closer to her heart.

"And do you know what the word 'Mother' makes me think of?--Of a great
large woman, always just ready to hug somebody."

Mrs. Parlin laughed.

"Yes, indeed it does. And it doesn't seem as if a small woman is really
fit to be called mother. There's Dorcas Lyman: when she says 'Mother' to
that little woman, it sounds so queer to me; for Mrs. Lyman isn't big
enough, you know."

"_Course_ she isn't; not half big enough," said Willy. "I could 'most
lift her with my little finger. But, then, that baby--she's got a real
nice baby; wish she'd give Patty to me."

Love smiled, and walked off, with her long-handled warming-pan, to heat
a traveller's bed in the icy north chamber.

Willy's heart was full of tenderness for his mother, whom he kept
kissing fondly. Now was a good time to speak of the upright, deceitful
sticks of wood, perhaps; but Mrs. Parlin did not do it. She began the
Evening Hymn, and Willy sang with her:--

"Glory to Thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light;
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Beneath thine own almighty wings.

"Forgive me, Lord, for thy dear Son,
The ills which I this day have done,
That with the world, myself, and Thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be."

"Now, Willy," said Mrs. Parlin, pausing, "let us think a while, and try
to remember what we have done to-day that is wrong. You think, and I
will think, too."

He looked up, and she knew by the cloud in his eyes that his conscience
was troubled.

"Well, I'll think. But _you_ haven't done anything wrong, mamma?"

"O, yes, dear; many things."

"Well, so've I, too. Want me to tell what?"

"Not unless you choose, my child. Only be sure you tell God."

They were silent a few moments.

"There, that's the _last_ time I'll ever stand the s