Chapter III: Part 3

Rose brought another Bible and a concordance, and joined them in their search for whatever the blessed Book could tell them of the employments and enjoyments of heaven. They found it spoken of as a rest, as the Father's house, a heavenly country, the kingdom of Christ and of God; that they who overcome and reach that glorious place shall eat of the hidden manna, shall walk with Christ in white; that He will wipe away all tears from their eyes; that He will feed them and lead them unto living fountains of waters; that He will dwell among them, and they shall serve Him day and night in His temple.

That "they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat;" that they have palms of victory, white robes, and crowns, and harps of gold; and that they stand before the throne and sing a new song, which no man can learn but those who are redeemed from the earth.

"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

"Papa," said Elsie, "Enna told me once she didn't want to go to heaven and stand and sing all the time; she would get tired of that. I feel as if I should never grow weary of singing God's praise. I love those words of one of our hymns:

"'When we've been there
Ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We've no less days
To sing God's praise
Than when we first begun.'

"But surely singing is not the only employment there; for here in the twenty-first chapter of Revelation it says, 'And the nations of them which are saved shall walk in the light of it.' Then in the third verse of the next chapter, 'The throne of God and the Lamb shall be in it; and His servants shall serve Him.' Don't you think that means that He will give us some work to do for Him?"

Her face was full of an eager joy.

"Yes," Mr. Dinsmore said, "I do. Just what it will be the Bible does not tell us, but to those who love the Master it must be a delight to do whatever He bids. The rest of heaven will not be that of inaction, but the far more enjoyable one of useful employment without any sense of weariness.

"Perhaps He may sometimes send His redeemed ones on errands of mercy or consolation to the inhabitants of this or some other world."

"How sweet that would be!" exclaimed Elsie, joyously. "Papa, if I should go first, what happiness it would be to come back sometimes and comfort you in your hours of sadness."

"I should rather have you here in the body," he said, tightening his clasp about her waist.

"God has not seen fit to gratify idle curiosity in regard to these matters," he resumed, "but He has told us enough to leave no room for doubt that heaven is an abode of transcendent bliss."

"Yes, papa, just to know that we will be forever with the Lord--near Him and like Him--is quite enough to make one long to be there. Dear, dear Fan! How blest she is! Who could wish her back again!"

"No one who loves her with an unselfish love. And now I think we may write our letters."

"No doubt they already know all that we can tell them, for they are students of the Word, every one," observed Rose. "Yet it does one good to have these precious truths repeated many times."

"Yes," said her husband, "we are so prone to forgetfulness and unbelief, and Satan is so constantly on the watch to snatch away the word out of our hearts and destroy our comfort, if he could do nothing more."

"Papa," said Elsie, "I sometimes feel so afraid of him; then I remember that Jesus is so much stronger, and I seem to run right into His arms, and am full of joy that there I am so safe. You know He says of His people, 'I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.'"

"No, not all the powers of hell can do it, for 'He is able to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by Him.' He said, 'All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth.' And 'I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.'"

Chapter Eighth.

"Farewell; God knows when we shall meet again."

Mildred was in her pretty sitting-room busily plying her needle, little Percy playing about the floor--rolling a ball hither and thither.

Both mother and child were neatly attired--the little one in spotless white, his golden curls hanging about his neck, and half-shading a round rosy face with big blue eyes; the mother in a dark cashmere, which fell in soft folds around her graceful figure, and was relieved at throat and wrists by dainty white ruffles of lace; her hair was becomingly arranged, and she had never presented a more attractive appearance, even in the days of her girlhood.

Mildred was not one of those who are less careful to please the husband than the lover; she studied Charlie's tastes and wishes even more carefully now than had been her wont before they were married. Perhaps in that lay the secret of his undiminished and lover-like devotion to her.

Both he and she had a great aversion to mourning, therefore were glad that Fan had particularly requested that none should be worn for her.

It was a little past their usual hour for tea, and the open dining-room door gave a glimpse of a table covered with snowy damask and glittering with polished silver, cut glass, and china; but Dr. Landreth was closeted with some one in his office on the other side of the hall, and his wife waited the departure of the patient a trifle anxiously, fearing that her carefully prepared viands would lose their finest flavor, if not be rendered quite tasteless by standing so long.

"Shall I make de waffles in de iron, ma'am?" asked Gretchen, coming to the door.

"No, not yet," said Mildred, "they would be cooked too soon; the doctor likes them best just as they are ready."

"De iron gets too hot," observed the girl.

"Yes, take it off, Gretchen. I can't tell just how soon the doctor will be in, so we will have to keep him waiting while we heat the iron."

The girl went back to her kitchen, and Percy, dropping his toys, came to his mother's side with a petition to be taken into her lap.

She laid aside her sewing, took him on her knee, and amused him with stories suited to his baby mind.

At length she heard the office door open, and a familiar voice saying, "Well, Charlie, I shall take the matter into consideration. Am much obliged for your advice, whether I follow it or not."

Mildred hastily set Percy down, and ran to the door.

"Rupert," she said, "won't you stay to tea?"

"Thank you, Milly, not to-night," he answered. "I have already declined a warm invitation from Charlie." And with a hasty "Good-by" he hurried away.

Mildred thought her husband's face unusually grave, even troubled, as he came into the sitting-room, and a sudden fear assailed her.

"Charlie," she cried, her cheek paling, "what--what was Rupert consulting you about?"

"Don't be alarmed, Milly, love," he answered, taking his boy upon one arm and putting the other about her waist.

"I have thought for some time that Rupert was growing thin and haggard," she said brokenly, tears filling her eyes, and--"O Charlie, I have often noticed, and heard it remarked, that one death in a family is apt to follow closely upon another."

She ended with a sob, laying her head on his shoulder.

"Don't ky, mamma," cooed little Percy, patting her cheek; "oo baby boy tiss oo, make oo all well."

She lifted her head, returned the caresses lavished upon her by both husband and child, then asked earnestly and half pleadingly, "Won't you tell me if--if Rupert is seriously ill?"

"He is broken down with overwork; has been devoting himself too closely to business, and needs an entire change for a time," replied her husband, speaking in a cheerful tone. "If he will take that at once and for a long enough time he may, I think, be restored to full health and vigor."

"Surely, surely he will do so without delay?"

"I can't say; he thinks it almost impossible to leave his business at present, and would rather try half-way measures first."

"He must be persuaded out of that, and I think can be," she said, her countenance brightening. "Now you must excuse me for a few minutes, my dear; Gretchen is improving, but I cannot yet trust her to bake your waffles quite to my mind."

"Let her try, Milly; how else is she ever to learn?"

"I shall after I have seen that the iron is properly heated and filled," she answered, as she hastened away to the kitchen.

Celestia Ann was at the front gate as Rupert neared it. She turned her head at the sound of his footsteps.

"So here you be at last!" she exclaimed; "and I was lookin' right in the wrong direction. Been up to the doctor's, I s'pose? Well, they're set down to the table without ye. We waited a spell, an' then I told your mother t'want no use, fer ye don't eat nothin' nohow, let me fix up the victuals good's I can."

"I am late, and am sorry if the meal has been kept waiting," Rupert answered, as he hurried past her into the house.

His mother gave him a kindly affectionate smile as he entered the dining-room, and stopped his apology half way.

"Never mind, my son, it is no matter, except that your meal will not, I fear, be quite so good and enjoyable, which is a pity, as your appetite is so poor of late."

There was some anxiety in her look and tone, also in the glance his father gave him as he seated himself at the table.

"I fear you are working too hard, Rupert," he said; "confining yourself too closely to business."

"Just what Charlie has been telling me," the young man responded with a half sigh; "but how is it to be helped?"

"By putting health before business," his mother said, with decision. "My dear boy, if you lose your health, what will become of your business?"

"True, mother," he sighed; "but I have not quite given up the hope that I may regain the one without relinquishing the other."

"A pound of prevention is worth an ounce of cure," remarked Aunt Wealthy absently, rather as if thinking aloud than addressing the company.

"What does Charlie advise?" asked Mrs. Keith.

"An entire change for some months or a year, including a journey to some distant point. Quite impracticable, is it not, father?" Rupert asked, turning to him.

"If you want my opinion," replied Mr. Keith, "I say nothing is impracticable which is necessary to the preservation of your life or even of your health. We cannot spare you, my son," he continued with emotion; "it is to you more than any of the others that your mother and I look as the prop and support of our old age."

"Thank you, father," Rupert said with feeling; "that pleasing task would, of course, naturally fall to me as the eldest son, though if I were taken away, my brothers, I am sure, would be no less glad to undertake it."

"No; it would be the greatest joy in life," said Don with warmth, glancing affectionately from one to the other of his parents. "I can answer for Cyril as well as myself."

"I haven't the least doubt of it, Don," replied his father, while the mother said, with glistening eyes, "We are rich in the affection of our children, both boys and girls," she added, with a loving look into Annis's blue eyes.

The eyes filled with tears. Annis was thinking how often she had heard Fan say that she was to be the one always to stay at home and take care of father and mother; dear Fan, who had now been nearly two months in heaven.

Oh, how they all missed her at every turn, though Annis strove earnestly to supply her place.

Leaving the table, they all repaired to the sitting-room; but Don, after lingering a moment, took up his cap, and moved toward the hall door.

"Don't forsake us, Don," said his mother, following his movements with a look of mingled love and sadness. It was no secret to her that the house seemed to him unbearably desolate, deprived of the loved presence of his favorite sister.

"Only for a few minutes, mother; I want a chat with Wallace, and this is about the best time to catch him at leisure."

"My poor boy!" sighed Mrs. Keith, as the door closed on him.

"Yes, he feels very sad and lonely," said Rupert. "But I am glad he has left us for a little while, for I want to have a talk with you and father about him; myself also," he added, with a faint smile. "Don't go, Aunt Wealthy," as Miss Stanhope rose as if to leave the room; "what I have to say need be no secret from you, and I think we will all be glad of your counsel in the matter."

She sat down again, and Annis asked, "May I stay too, Rupert?"

"Yes," he said, inviting her to a seat by his side.

He then proceeded to give an account of his interview with Dr. Landreth, stating that he strongly advised him to wind up his business, or make some sort of arrangement for leaving it for a year or more, and join a party preparing to go to California; the journey across the plains he thought would prove the very thing for him; nothing else so likely to restore his shattered health.

"And I have been thinking," added Rupert, "that it might be the very best thing for Don if you, father and mother, would consent to let him go with me, in case I follow Charlie's advice. He seems to me as ill mentally as I am physically, and we would be mutual helpers.

"I have no idea that we should make our fortunes at gold-digging, but I doubt if the boy will ever be content till he has tried his hand at it. But let his dreams be dispelled, and he will be ready to settle down at home."

"If he ever gets home again," remarked the father. "It may be that you are right though, Rupert, and your mother and I will take the matter into consideration."

"Yes, sir, in regard to us both, I hope; I want your advice as to my own course; it will go far to help me decide what I ought to do."

Both parents looked gratified, while Miss Stanhope remarked, "You are quite right in that, Rupert; you could not have wiser counsellors than they, and certainly none so deeply interested in your welfare; nor will you, or any one, ever lose by honoring parents."

"I am very fortunate in having parents worthy of all honor, Aunt Wealthy," he said, with an affectionate glance from one to the other. "Mother, dear, do not look so sad," perceiving that her eyes were full of tears; "I cannot think of going, if it is to be at the risk of breaking your heart."

"No, my heart will not break," she said in a determinately cheerful tone; "the promise is sure, 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' And it will be better to part with you for a time than forever in this life," she added with a tremble in her voice. "Also I should be more willing to see two of my boys go together than any one of them alone."

"Then if I go, you will consent to Don's accompanying me?"

"Yes."

"And you, father?"

"I feel just as your mother does about it," was Mr. Keith's reply.

"But if Don should not wish to go?" suggested Miss Stanhope, in a tone of inquiry.

"Oh, no fear of that, auntie," laughed Annis; "he's been crazy to go ever since the first news of the gold, and you can't scare him out of it either; the more you talk of Indians, bears, and wolves, and all other dangers, the more he wants to try it. He says life in this little slow town is altogether too tame to suit a fellow of spirit."

"Better suited to the humdrum class represented by his father and older brother, I presume," said Rupert, with a good-humored smile.

As Don stepped in at Wallace Ormsby's gate, Zillah opened the front door, ran out, and hastily caught up little Stuart, who was digging in the sand, and carried him struggling and screaming into the house.

"It's too cold for you to be out; mamma can't let you; mamma told you not to go out," she was saying as Don followed her into the sitting-room.

"I will doe out! Ope de door!" screamed the child; "me wants pay in de sand."

"No, you can't go out any more to-night," replied the mother, giving him a hug and kiss. "Oh, he's mamma's darling! there never was such a boy in all the world! there never was! Mamma loves him ever so much."

Meanwhile the child was struggling with all his baby might to get away from her, kicking, striking, screaming at the top of his voice, "I will doe out! _I will! I will!_ Shan't 'tay in de house!"

"Oh, now, be a dear good boy," entreated Zillah; "he's mamma's own pet, the dearest, sweetest boy in the world; mamma thinks there never was such a boy!"

"I should hope not, if that's the way he carries on," remarked Don, seating himself and regarding his nephew with a look of disgust and disapproval. "I think he's spoiling for a spanking, and if he were my child he'd get it."

Zillah flushed hotly. "Men and boys have no patience with children," she said. "There, Stuart, stop crying, and mamma will get you something good."

"No; ope door; me want doe out; me _will_ doe out!" screamed the child.

"Oh, now, do be good; do stop crying, and mamma will get you some candy," said Zillah, in her most coaxing tones.

"Tanny, mamma?" asked the child, the screams suddenly ceasing, and smiles breaking through the tears.

"Yes," Zillah said, drying his eyes and kissing him fondly, then rising with him in her arms and going to a cupboard.

But the size of the piece she offered did not suit the ideas of the young tyrant; he refused to accept it, and bursting into screams again demanded a bigger one.

"Take this in one hand, and you shall have a bigger piece in the other," said the over-indulgent mamma, and peace being restored she sat down with him on her lap, and began talking with Don.

"Where's Wallace?" the latter presently inquired.

"He went down-town again after tea, but said he wouldn't be gone very long. Do you want to see him particularly?"

"I would like a talk with him," Don said, with a sigh. "I wish he would try to get father and mother to consent to my joining the party that are going to California."

"O Don, how can you suggest such a thing now when they are feeling so sad over poor Fan?" exclaimed Zillah, tears starting to her eyes.

"Don't think me hard-hearted or wanting in love for them," Don returned with feeling; "but the truth is I don't know how to endure life here now that Fan's gone. I miss her at every turn. I think it would be different in a new place where I had not been accustomed to her sweet society." His words were almost inaudible from emotion as he concluded.

"I know," Zillah said in trembling tones; "we all miss her sadly, but I suppose it must be harder, perhaps, for you than any of the rest. Still you will soon grow in a measure used to it, no doubt. I have always heard that time assuages the bitterness of grief."

"I can't believe it, I don't believe it!" he cried impatiently; "at least I am sure it will not be so in my case for years, unless I can get away into new scenes that will help me to forgetfulness."

At that instant Stuart, who had got down from his mother's lap to play about the room, tripped and fell to the floor, striking his head against a chair.

He set up a loud scream, and Zillah ran to the rescue, picking him up with a cry of "Oh, poor darling, mamma is so sorry! oh, it is just dreadful how many falls he gets! But there, never mind; it was a naughty chair that hurt my baby so. We'll give it a good whipping," striking it with her hand several times as she spoke.

Stuart ceased screaming to pound the chair energetically with his tiny doubled-up fist, then consented to be bribed into quiet with another piece of candy.

Zillah sat down again with him on her lap, and presently he dropped asleep there.

"He ought to be in bed," remarked Don.

"Yes; but he didn't want to go, and I do so hate to have a battle with him."

"I rather think it will have to come to that sooner or later," said Don, "and I should think the longer you put it off the harder it will be. I've been at Milly's a good deal the last few weeks, besides watching her when she was at home with us, and I think she could give you some valuable hints about managing a child."

"It is a vast deal easier to talk than to act, I can tell you, Don," was Zillah's half-offended retort.

"I dare say; but people can act as well as talk; father and mother did with us--we always had to obey, and that without being petted and wheedled into it--and Milly does too."

"I think it's a great deal better to coax than to beat them," Zillah said half angrily.

"Circumstances alter cases," said Don. "I don't think it's just the thing to pet and fondle a child, and tell him he's 'a darling; there never was such a boy,' and all that, when he's kicking up a row just because he isn't allowed to do exactly as he pleases. Percy began that very behavior the other evening when he had to go into the house before he considered it quite time."

"Well, what did Milly do with him?" inquired Zillah, with some curiosity.

"She first told him firmly and quietly that he must stop screaming on the instant, or she would shut him into a room by himself till he was ready to be good; and as she always keeps her word, not threatening over and over again before she acts, as some people do, he did stop promptly; then she took him on her lap and amused him with stories and rhymes a little while, when she carried him off to bed.

"She's always gentle with him, but firm as a rock; as regular as clock-work too; he's put to bed when the hour comes, and left there to go to sleep by himself, and he does it without a whimper."

"I suppose that's the orthodox way," said Zillah, "but I can't bear to force Stuart to bed when he cries to stay up. The sweet darling, I do love him so!" bending down to kiss the round rosy cheek.

"I've no doubt you do," said Don; "but I remember to have heard mother say it was but a poor selfish kind of love that couldn't bear the pain of controlling a child for its own good, but would rather let it become so wilful and ill-behaved as to be a torment to itself and everybody else. Ah, here comes Wallace," he added, glancing from the window.

"Then I'll leave you to have your talk with him while I put this boy to bed," returned Zillah, rising and leaving the room.

Wallace was no sooner seated than Don made known his errand.

Wallace looked grave. "I don't like the idea, Don," he said. "I wish you could be persuaded to give it up. If you should be unsuccessful, of which there are ten chances to one, it would involve the loss of some of the best years of your life."

"One must take a risk in anything one tries," interrupted Don, impatiently.

"True," replied Wallace, "but in this more than in many others."

"'Nothing venture, nothing have,'" muttered Don.

"I thought you were to go to college in the fall," remarked Wallace.

"That has been father's plan for me, but as I have no fancy for a profession, I think a college course would be almost time thrown away--money too. Ru has proposed to make a druggist of me, but that isn't to my fancy either."

"I wish you would go in with Ru, if you are determined not to take a collegiate education. I can see that he, poor fellow, is sadly overworked, and to have a brother in with him--one whom he could trust--would doubtless prove a great relief."

"Ru hasn't seemed well of late," assented Don in a reflective tone, "but I was laying it all to--to grief. Wallace, the house isn't what it used to be. I've thought I couldn't stand it. I've been a selfish dog, but I'll try to forget self and think of other people. Good-evening. I promised mother I'd be back soon," he added, as he rose and took his departure.

His heart was filled with grief and disappointment; he crossed the street slowly, with head bent and eyes on the ground, battling earnestly with himself, striving to put aside his own inclinations for the sake of others.

He found the family still gathered in the sitting-room, Dr. Landreth and Mildred with them.

As he entered the doctor was saying to Rupert, "I have been considering your objections to my plans for you, and think I can see a way out of the difficulty in regard to leaving your business."

"What is that?" Rupert asked, and Don, aroused to eager interest, dropped into a chair and listened for the doctor's explanation with bated breath. "Could it be that Rupert was going from home? and if so, where? and what difference might it make in his own plans?"

"Simply this," returned Dr. Landreth, with his genial smile, "that I will take charge of it and carry it on for you, if that arrangement seems to you entirely satisfactory."

"A most generous offer, Charlie!" exclaimed Rupert, flushing with surprise and gratitude, "but would it not interfere with your professional duties?"

"No; not necessarily. I should merely take the oversight, keeping the good clerk you have, and getting another equally competent--the two to do the work between them."

"Many thanks," said Rupert, grasping his brother-in-law's hand; "you have removed my greatest difficulty. I begin to think I can follow out your prescriptions, if"--and he turned smilingly to Don--"if Don is as ready to sacrifice himself for my sake."

"I hope so, Ru; what is it?" the boy asked, a trifle huskily, for his momentary gleam of hope died out at the question.

It shone out with tenfold brilliancy at his brother's reply. "Charlie thinks I am in danger of permanent loss of health unless I give up my business for a time, and have an entire change of scene; so he advises me to join the party about starting for California. He thinks the journey across the plains just the thing for me. But I ought to have some friend--say a brother--with me; so it may depend upon your willingness to go."

"My willingness?" interrupted Don eagerly; "I'd be delighted, Ru, and do the very best for you that I know how."

The mother was regarding them with glistening eyes, her lips quivering with emotion.

"And let him give you the care and oversight an elder brother should?" asked the father gravely.

"Yes, if he doesn't try to exert more than his rightful share of authority," returned Don, a slight reluctance perceptible in his tone.

"On that condition your mother and I consent to your going," Mr. Keith said, "though, my boy, it will be hard indeed for us to part with you our youngest son."

Don saw the tears in his mother's eyes, noted that his father's tones were not quite steady, and his heart went out in love to both. "I will never, never do anything to cause them shame or grief on my account," was the firm resolve he whispered to himself.

There was necessity for speedy decision, and it was arrived at within twenty-four hours. The young men were to go. The allotted time was short for needed preparation, particularly that which fell to the mother's share; but her three remaining daughters and Miss Stanhope coming to her assistance, and all working with a will, the thing was done well and in season; nothing forgotten, nothing overlooked that could add to the comfort of the loved travellers.

And it was well for all that matters were so hurried, leaving no leisure for sad forebodings or unavailing regrets.

The parting was a hard one, almost harder, the mother thought, than the last she had been called to pass through; for while her beloved Fan was safe from all sin, and sorrow, and suffering, these dear ones were to be exposed to many dangers and temptations.

But she bore up wonderfully as she bade them adieu and watched the slow-moving train out of sight; they were not going beyond the reach of prayer; they would still be under the protecting care of Him who has said, "Behold, I am with thee, and will keep thee in all places whither thou goest, and will bring thee again into this land; for I will not leave thee, until I have done that which I have spoken to thee of."

"Wherever they might be, He would cover their defenceless heads with the shadow of His wing."

Annis's tears fell much longer and faster than her mother's; the letter she wrote to Elsie, giving a graphic account of the preparations and departure, was all blistered with them, even more so than the one telling of Fan's last hours.

"I am the only child left at home now," she wrote. "That was what mother said when we got back from seeing the long train of wagons, with their ox-teams, starting on that long, dangerous journey. She took me in her arms, and cried over me for a few minutes; then she wiped away her tears, and kissed me over and over, saying, 'But we won't murmur, darling, or make ourselves unhappy about it; for they are all in God's good keeping, and one day, I trust, we shall all meet in that better land where partings are unknown.'

"And I have great reason to be thankful that Mildred and Zillah are so near us; it is almost as if they were still at home."

The letter wound up with an earnest request to Elsie that she would pray daily for the safe return of Rupert and Don.

Chapter Ninth.

"A child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame."--Prov. 29:15.

May had come again, waking the flowers with her sunny skies and balmy breath, and our friends at Pleasant Plains spent much of their time in their gardens. Delighting in each other's society they were often together, now in Mr. Keith's grounds, now in Dr. Landreth's, and anon in Wallace Ormsby's.

Mrs. Keith missed her sons, who had always relieved her of the heavy part of the work of cultivating the flowers she so loved, but their place was filled, so far as that was concerned, by a hired gardener, and she found herself better able to endure the absence of Rupert and Don out of doors than in, especially when her daughters and baby grandsons were her companions.

Mildred took great pleasure in the laying out and improvement of the comparatively extensive grounds about her new home, and husband, mother, aunt, and sisters entered heartily into her plans, helping with advice and suggestions, sometimes followed, sometimes not, but always appreciated as evidence of their affectionate interests.

As for her husband, she and all her doings were altogether perfect in his eyes. She was queen of his small realm, and could do no wrong; she excelled every other woman as wife, mother, and housekeeper; her taste was beyond criticism, and whatever she desired must be done.

He was nearly as great a paragon in her eyes, except as regarded the training of their child, to whom he would have shown unlimited indulgence, if she could have seen it without remonstrance. That she could not, knowing how ruinous it would be; but her disapproval was never manifested before Percy. She would not have him know or suspect that his parents differed in regard to his training.

And, indeed, it was only when she and Charlie were quite alone that she addressed him on the subject; never then in an unkind, fault-finding way, but with gentle persuasion and arguments drawn from observation and the teachings of Scripture.

Loving the child with an affection even deeper and tenderer than his, she was yet much more disposed to curb and restrain where she saw it to be for his good; her sense of parental responsibility was far stronger than the father's, and while he looked upon Percy as, for the present at least, scarcely more than a pretty pet and plaything, she regarded the child as a sacred trust, a little immortal whose welfare for time and eternity might depend largely upon her faithfulness in right training and teaching.

"My dear Milly, he is so young, such a mere baby," the doctor would sometimes say, "that it can't do him much harm to get his own way for a while; it will be time enough a year or two hence to begin his education."

"A very great mistake," Mildred would answer gravely; "I have had a good deal to do with young children, and am convinced that a child's education begins as soon as it knows its mother's voice and can note the changing expression of her countenance. And, Charlie, it is far easier to learn than to unlearn; if we let our child acquire bad habits at the start it will be a far more difficult task to break them up and substitute good ones, than to train him to such in the very beginning."

Zillah was quite as devoted a wife and competent a housekeeper as her older sister, but not so wise and faithful a mother. No child was more comfortably or tastefully clad than hers, or had more tender caresses lavished upon it; she meant also to take proper care of his bodily health, and was quite resolved in the long run to train him up in the way he should go; she wanted him to grow up a good man and a strong and healthy one, but in the mean time was often weakly indulgent, to the damage of both his physical and moral natures.

The two sisters, taking work and babies along, were spending a sociable afternoon with their mother.

The little boys, playing about the room, met with an occasional mishap.

Percy tripped on the carpet and fell, striking his head against the leg of the table.

He burst into a cry, and Annis, running to pick him up, exclaimed, "Oh, the poor little dear! that did hurt him, I know."

But Mildred, taking him from her, said in a sprightly tone, "Oh, he's mother's soldier boy; he isn't going to cry for a trifle. But what a blow the table got! poor table!" and she bent down and stroked and patted it pityingly.

Percy stopped crying to echo her words and imitate her action. "Percy didn't doe to hurt oo," he went on; "Percy tiss the p'ace and mate it well," suiting the action to the word.

Then his mother having dried his eyes and given him a kiss, he went back to his play.

Zillah had watched the little scene with interest.

"Is that the way you do?" she said to Mildred. "Don told me that was your way, and I believe, as he says, it is better than mine."

"What is yours?" asked Mildred, resuming the sewing she had dropped on Percy's fall.

"Oh, I've always made a fuss over my boy's hurts, pitied him, and blamed the chair, or table, or whatever he had struck against, for hurting him, and have pretended to punish it, just to take his attention from his hurt and so stop his crying."

"Are you not afraid of teaching him to be selfish and revengeful?" Mildred asked, with a look of grave concern.

"I never thought of that, and am afraid it may," said Zillah frankly. "I shall not do so any more."

Annis was laying herself out for the entertainment of her little nephews. Presently she came with a request. "The boys want me to take them out to the garden to play horse. May I?"

"I have no objection to Percy's going," said Mildred; "the fresh air will be very good for him, I think, as well as the exercise."

"But I don't want Stuart to go," Zillah said; "he has a bad cold, and ought to be kept in the house. Slip away from him if you can, Annis, for if he sees you and Percy start out he'll scream himself sick. Or if not himself, other people," she added with a laugh.

"I'll do my best, but you will have to engage his attention for a while," said Annis.

"Yes. Stuart, come here; mamma wants to speak to you."

"No; me's doin' out; p'ay horse wis Percy," the child returned, with a scowl and a shake of his little shoulders.

Zillah put down her sewing, rose, and went to him. "Come with mamma, pet," she said in coaxing tones, stooping down to caress and fondle him. "Don't you want to go out to the kitchen and see what Celestia Ann is doing?"

"No, me _don't_; me's doin' out-doors to p'ay horse wis Percy," shouted the child defiantly, quite seeing through the artifice.

Zillah began to grow impatient. "No, you are not," she said peremptorily; "you cannot play out of doors at all to-day, because you have a bad cold, and it would make you sick."

"I will! I _will_! I _will_!" screamed the child, stamping his foot at her and clenching his tiny fist. "Ope de door dis minute, naughty mamma. I _will_ doe out p'ay horse."

There was something comical in his baby rage, and unfortunately Zillah could not refrain from laughing, though the other ladies looked on in grave concern.

Her mirth had not a happy effect upon the little rebel. Bursting from her grasp, he ran toward the door just closing on Annis and Percy, screaming at the top of his voice, "Let me doe wis you, Annis! Ope de door," pounding on it with his fists, then taking hold of the knob and trying to turn it for himself.

"You bad boy, I'm ashamed of you," Zillah said, taking his hand, which he instantly snatched away; "stop this screaming, or I'll take you home."

"No; sha'n't doe home. Me's doin' out p'ay horse wis Percy."

"I do believe he's the most persistent child I ever saw or that ever was made!" Zillah exclaimed with angry impatience, apparently addressing the company in general. "I wonder if it would hurt him to go out for a little while if I wrap him up well. Do you think it would, mother?"

"Perhaps not physically, Zillah," Mrs. Keith answered, with look and tone of grave disapproval, "but morally it certainly would have a very bad effect; you have told him positively that he shall not go out to play to-day, and if you break your word how can you expect him ever to esteem his mother a perfectly truthful woman?"

"You make a very serious matter of it, mother," Zillah said, reddening.

"It is a very serious thing, my dear daughter," Mrs. Keith answered, in her own sweet, gentle way, and with a look of loving sympathy.

She would have said more, but Stuart at that instant renewed the screams he had ceased for a moment, upon perceiving symptoms of relenting on his mother's part.

But Zillah now felt that for very shame she must remain firm. She tried the old plan of coaxing and wheedling--offered picture-books, stories, candy--but nothing would do except the forbidden pleasure, and at length, losing all patience, she took him into another room and gave him the punishment Don would have liked to prescribe on a former occasion. Then she cried over him while he sobbed himself to sleep in her arms.

Having laid him on a bed, covered him carefully, and left a tender kiss on his cheek, she went back to the sitting-room where the others were.

Sitting down by her mother's side she took up her sewing, and tried to go on with it, but her hands trembled and tears dimmed her sight. She dropped the work to wipe them away.

"O mother," she said in quivering tones, "what shall I do with that child? I can never bring him up right, as you have brought up all yours."

"It is a great work, dear, to train up a child in the way he should go," Mrs. Keith answered in sympathizing tones; "and the wisest of us may well ask, 'Who is sufficient for these things?' yet rejoice and take courage in the assurance that 'our sufficiency is of God.' Do not forget His gracious promise, 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.'

"Whatever success I may have had in bringing up my children aright has been given me in answer to prayer and in fulfilment of that promise."

"I love him so dearly I can hardly bear to refuse him anything," sighed Zillah, wiping her eyes and resuming her work.

"I hope, daughter, that you love him well enough to give yourself the pain of refusing him hurtful indulgences," was her mother's grave response. "It often requires deeper, truer love to deny than to grant, to punish than to let slip; but 'a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.'"

"Yes, mother, I know that is Bible truth, and I do not intend to leave mine to himself. I do really earnestly desire to bring him up for God and heaven, faulty as my training has been, I fear, thus far. But he is so young yet; it seems so hard to discipline such a mere baby."

"I know it does, my dear child--I have not forgotten my own experience--but I assure you you will spare much suffering to both him and yourself by beginning early the lesson that parental authority is to be respected, and prompt and cheerful obedience rendered.

"Be very gentle with him, giving your directions in the form of requests rather than commands, unless it becomes necessary to order him. I think children should be treated with consideration and politeness as well as grown people; it is the best way to teach them to be polite and considerate toward others."

"It was your way of teaching us, mother," remarked Mildred, with an affectionate, smiling glance into her mother's sweet, placid face.

"And a very effectual one it has proved in their case," remarked Miss Stanhope.

"I think it has," said Mrs. Keith; then went on: "There is another thing, my two dear daughters, that I wish to impress upon you: it is the paramount importance of always keeping your word with your children. Try not to make hasty promises or threats, which you may regret having to carry out; but having once passed your word, let nothing induce you to be false to it.

"I need scarcely urge upon you the importance of being always entirely truthful with them, since you know how severely the Scriptures condemn any, even the slightest, departure from truth."

"I should hope not, indeed, mother," said Zillah. "I know I have not always been firm with my boy, have sometimes let him gain his wishes--which I have at first denied--by persistent fretting and crying, and have often too coaxed when I ought to have demanded obedience; but I have never tried to secure his obedience by deceiving or telling him what was not true."

"It is surprising what very lax ideas many persons--yes, even some who profess to be Christians--have in regard to that thing," remarked Miss Stanhope. "Shrinking from the exertion or the pain of enforcing obedience by legitimate means, they resort to subterfuge, prevarication, or even downright falsehood.

"I have heard a mother say to her refractory or crying child, 'If you don't come into the house now a big black bear will catch you;' or, 'If you don't stop that screaming a dog will come and bite you.'

"Besides that, they will utter threats they have not the remotest intention of carrying out, a fact which the little ones are not slow to discover and act upon."

At this point the conversation was interrupted by a call from two neighbors. It was of unfashionable length, and the talk ran principally upon housekeeping, children, and servants.

One of the callers, an elderly lady, had several little anecdotes to tell of the smart sayings and doings of her grandchildren; one of them so aptly illustrating Miss Stanhope's recent remarks that Mildred and Zillah could not refrain from a furtive exchange of significant glances. This was the narrative that drew them forth.

"Two of my grandchildren were staying at our house last week--Mary Bronson, my son's daughter--she's ten years old--and Tommy Linn, my oldest daughter's child, he's about five, and has a great notion of being a man; he's out of petticoats now, and you couldn't punish him worse than by making him put them on again.

"Well, the second night he was with us I was in a quandary. His night-gown had been hung out to air, and a shower had come up and made it soaking wet, for you see nobody had thought to bring it in, and his mother had sent only one.

"When Tommy saw the condition it was in he spoke right up: 'Grandmother, don't you give me a girl's night-gown, 'cause I sha'n't wear it. I want to have a man's.'

"'Yes,' I said, 'so you shall. Mary, you go and get one of his Uncle Sam's for him.' Then I whispered to her, 'Bring one of yours.'

"So she brought it, and as I shook it out Tommy looked at it very suspiciously. 'Is that a man's?' he says.

"'Yes,' says I, 'it's one of your Uncle Sam's.' So he let me put it on him, and went off to sleep as quiet and contented as could be."

"But do you think it was right?" asked Miss Stanhope in a tone of gentle remonstrance. "It was not the truth you told the child."

"No," acknowledged Mrs. Bronson reluctantly, "but what is a body to do? You have to manage children somehow, and if I hadn't deceived him, there'd have been a regular battle. What would you have done in my place?"

"Anything, I hope, rather than tell an untruth to one child and give a lesson in falsehood and deception to the other. Excuse an old woman's plain speaking, but how can you ever tell that little Mary that lying is a great sin--a sin that must cost the loss of the soul if unrepented of and unforsaken? or how blame her if she, at some future day, puts your lesson in practice to deceive you, perchance in some matter of vital importance to you or herself?"

There was silence in the room for some moments, while Mrs. Bronson sat looking extremely uncomfortable; then she said, with an attempt to speak lightly, "You make a very serious matter of it, Miss Stanhope."

"It _is_ a serious matter," returned Aunt Wealthy, "as I am sure you will acknowledge upon thoughtful consideration. I am sorry to cause you mental disquiet, but 'faithful are the wounds of a friend,' the wise man says."

"That is true, and I dare say you are right. I shall think over what you have been saying," Mrs. Bronson returned, rising to take leave.

"What do you think of it all?" she asked her companion as they left the house.

"I'm afraid the old lady was right, Sarah, though I own I never thought of it in that light before--telling fibs to children to keep them from misbehaving, I mean. I've done it occasionally myself, but I don't think I ever shall again. As she said, how can we expect them to speak the truth if we are not always careful to do it ourselves?"

"Annis," Mildred called to her sister, "please bring Percy in now; it is growing too late for him to be out."

"He doesn't want to come," was the answer; "can't he stay out a little longer?"

"No; the sun is near setting, and the air is growing quite cold," Mildred answered, running down into the garden and taking her little boy by the hand. "Come, son, we must go in now, for mamma does not want her dear baby to get sick."

"No; won't get sick," he asserted in the most positive manner. "P'ease, mamma, let Percy tay wee 'ittle bit longer."

"No, darling; but if it is a good day to-morrow you shall have a nice long play and a drive in the carriage with papa and mamma, beside."

She was leading him gently on toward the house while she spoke. The child did not resist, but he set up a loud wail.

"My little boy must not be naughty," Mildred said, in a gently reproving tone.

Still the crying continued, and indeed increased in violence as she led him over the threshold into the hall. There she stopped, and stooping down to take off his out-door garments, "Percy," she said firmly, "you must stop this noise at once. Mamma is very sorry her little boy is so naughty. Now be good, and we will go into the parlor to see dear grandma and the rest, and you may get up on a chair by the window and watch for grandpa, and papa, and Uncle Wallace to come to supper. They'll be coming pretty soon, and then we will have our supper, and after that Percy shall go to his nice little bed."

Being of a pleasant disposition, and having already learned by experience that nothing was ever gained from his mother by fretting, crying, or teasing, the little fellow presently ceased his wailing, allowed her to dry his eyes, gave her a kiss and a promise to be good, and was so for the rest of his stay at his grandfather's.

Zillah had watched the little scene with interest, and had not failed to note the fact that Don's report of Mildred's management was correct; that she did not caress and fondle her child while he was misbehaving, but treated him in a way to make it evident to him that his conduct was displeasing to her.

At the tea-table there was again an illustration of the difference in the training the two children were receiving. Percy was given only plain, wholesome food suited to his infant years. Stuart, refusing to be content with that, was permitted to eat cake, preserves, meat--in fact, everything upon the table to which he chose to take a fancy.

"Is that the way you feed your child?" the doctor asked in a tone of surprise quite unmingled with approval.

"Yes," replied Wallace carelessly, "he eats whatever we do; we let him have anything on the table that he fancies. You don't think it the best plan, I see."

"No; unless your object is to make an invalid of him."

"I couldn't bear to eat dainties without giving my child a share!" exclaimed Zillah with some heat. "And it never hurts him."

"I think you are mistaken there," said the doctor; "that such indulgence does not immediately result in violent illness is no proof that it does no harm. I am afraid you will discover one day, when it is too late, that very serious harm has been done. There is great danger that his digestive organs will give way under the great strain put upon them, and if you do not lose him, you will have him a sufferer for life."