My greatest source of uneasiness,
in this time of trial, was my
son, whom his father and his
father's friends delighted to
encourage in all the embryo vices
a little child can show, and
to instruct in all the evil habits
he could acquire - in a word,
to 'make a man of him' was one
of their staple amusements; and
I need say no more to justify
my alarm on his account, and
my determination to deliver him
at any hazard from the hands
of such instructors. I first
attempted to keep him always
with me, or in the nursery, and
gave Rachel particular injunctions
never to let him come down to
dessert as long as these 'gentlemen'
stayed; but it was no use: these
orders were immediately countermanded
and overruled by his father;
he was not going to have the
little fellow moped to death
between an old nurse and a cursed
fool of a mother. So the little
fellow came down every evening
in spite of his cross mamma,
and learned to tipple wine like
papa, to swear like Mr. Hattersley,
and to have his own way like
a man, and sent mamma to the
devil when she tried to prevent
him. To see such things done
with the roguish naivete of that
pretty little child, and hear
such things spoken by that small
infantile voice, was as peculiarly
piquant and irresistibly droll
to them as it was inexpressibly
distressing and painful to me;
and when he had set the table
in a roar he would look round
delightedly upon them all, and
add his shrill laugh to theirs.
But if that beaming blue eye
rested on me, its light would
vanish for a moment, and he would
say, in some concern, 'Mamma,
why don't you laugh? Make her
laugh, papa - she
never will.'
Hence was I obliged to stay
among these human brutes, watching
an opportunity to get my child
away from them instead of leaving
them immediately after the removal
of the cloth, as I should always
otherwise have done. He was never
willing to go, and I frequently
had to carry him away by force,
for which he thought me very
cruel and unjust; and sometimes
his father would insist upon
my letting him remain; and then
I would leave him to his kind
friends, and retire to indulge
my bitterness and despair alone,
or to rack my brains for a remedy
to this great evil.
But here again I must do Mr.
Hargrave the justice to acknowledge
that I never saw him laugh at
the child's misdemeanours, nor
heard him utter a word of encouragement
to his aspirations after manly
accomplishments. But when anything
very extraordinary was said or
done by the infant profligate,
I noticed, at times, a peculiar
expression in his face that I
could neither interpret nor define:
a slight twitching about the
muscles of the mouth; a sudden
flash in the eye, as he darted
a sudden glance at the child
and then at me: and then I could
fancy there arose a gleam of
hard, keen, sombre satisfaction
in his countenance at the look
of impotent wrath and anguish
he was too certain to behold
in mine. But on one occasion,
when Arthur had been behaving
particularly ill, and Mr. Huntingdon
and his guests had been particularly
provoking and insulting to me
in their encouragement of him,
and I particularly anxious to
get him out of the room, and
on the very point of demeaning
myself by a burst of uncontrollable
passion - Mr. Hargrave suddenly
rose from his seat with an aspect
of stern determination, lifted
the child from his father's knee,
where he was sitting half-tipsy,
cocking his head and laughing
at me, and execrating me with
words he little knew the meaning
of, handed him out of the room,
and, setting him down in the
hall, held the door open for
me, gravely bowed as I withdrew,
and closed it after me. I heard
high words exchanged between
him and his already half- inebriated
host as I departed, leading away
my bewildered and disconcerted
boy.
But this should not continue:
my child must not be abandoned
to this corruption: better far
that he should live in poverty
and obscurity, with a fugitive
mother, that in luxury and affluence
with such a father. These guests
might not be with us long, but
they would return again: and
he, the most injurious of the
whole, his child's worst enemy,
would still remain. I could endure
it for myself, but for my son
it must be borne no longer: the
world's opinion and the feelings
of my friends must be alike unheeded
here, at least - alike unable
to deter me from my duty. But
where should I find an asylum,
and how obtain subsistence for
us both? Oh, I would take my
precious charge at early dawn,
take the coach to M-, flee to
the port of -, cross the Atlantic,
and seek a quiet, humble home
in New England, where I would
support myself and him by the
labour of my hands. The palette
and the easel, my darling playmates
once, must be my sober toil-fellows
now. But was I sufficiently skilful
as an artist to obtain my livelihood
in a strange land, without friends
and without recommendation? No;
I must wait a little; I must
labour hard to improve my talent,
and to produce something worth
while as a specimen of my powers,
something to speak favourably
for me, whether as an actual
painter or a teacher. Brilliant
success, of course, I did not
look for, but some degree of
security from positive failure
was indispensable: I must not
take my son to starve. And then
I must have money for the journey,
the passage, and some little
to support us in our retreat
in case I should be unsuccessful
at first: and not too little
either: for who could tell how
long I might have to struggle
with the indifference or neglect
of others, or my own inexperience
or inability to suit their tastes?
What should I do then? Apply
to my brother and explain my
circumstances and my resolves
to him? No, no: even if I told
him all my grievances, which
I should be very reluctant to
do, he would be certain to disapprove
of the step: it would seem like
madness to him, as it would to
my uncle and aunt, or to Milicent.
No; I must have patience and
gather a hoard of my own. Rachel
should be my only confidante
- I thought I could persuade
her into the scheme; and she
should help me, first, to find
out a picture-dealer in some
distant town; then, through her
means, I would privately sell
what pictures I had on hand that
would do for such a purpose,
and some of those I should thereafter
paint. Besides this, I would
contrive to dispose of my jewels,
not the family jewels, but the
few I brought with me from home,
and those my uncle gave me on
my marriage. A few months' arduous
toil might well be borne by me
with such an end in view; and
in the interim my son could not
be much more injured than he
was already.
Having formed this resolution,
I immediately set to work to
accomplish it, I might possibly
have been induced to wax cool
upon it afterwards, or perhaps
to keep weighing the pros and
cons in my mind till the latter
overbalanced the former, and
I was driven to relinquish the
project altogether, or delay
the execution of it to an indefinite
period, had not something occurred
to confirm me in that determination,
to which I still adhere, which
I still think I did well to form,
and shall do better to execute.
Since Lord Lowborough's departure
I had regarded the library as
entirely my own, a secure retreat
at all hours of the day. None
of our gentlemen had the smallest
pretensions to a literary taste,
except Mr. Hargrave; and he,
at present, was quite contented
with the newspapers and periodicals
of the day. And if, by any chance,
he should look in here, I felt
assured he would soon depart
on seeing me, for, instead of
becoming less cool and distant
towards me, he had become decidedly
more so since the departure of
his mother and sisters, which
was just what I wished. Here,
then, I set up my easel, and
here I worked at my canvas from
daylight till dusk, with very
little intermission, saving when
pure necessity, or my duties
to little Arthur, called me away:
for I still thought proper to
devote some portion of every
day exclusively to his instruction
and amusement. But, contrary
to my expectation, on the third
morning, while I was thus employed,
Mr. Hargrave did look in, and
did not immediately withdraw
on seeing me. He apologized for
his intrusion, and said he was
only come for a book; but when
he had got it, he condescended
to cast a glance over my picture.
Being a man of taste, he had
something to say on this subject
as well as another, and having
modestly commented on it, without
much encouragement from me, he
proceeded to expatiate on the
art in general. Receiving no
encouragement in that either,
he dropped it, but did not depart.
'You don't give us much of
your company, Mrs. Huntingdon,'
observed he, after a brief pause,
during which I went on coolly
mixing and tempering my colours;
'and I cannot wonder at it, for
you must be heartily sick of
us all. I myself am so thoroughly
ashamed of my companions, and
so weary of their irrational
conversation and pursuits - now
that there is no one to humanize
them and keep them in check,
since you have justly abandoned
us to our own devices - that
I think I shall presently withdraw
from amongst them, probably within
this week; and I cannot suppose
you will regret my departure.'
He paused. I did not answer.
'Probably,' he added, with
a smile, 'your only regret on
the subject will be that I do
not take all my companions along
with me. I flatter myself, at
times, that though among them
I am not of them; but it is natural
that you should be glad to get
rid of me. I may regret this,
but I cannot blame you for it.'
'I shall not rejoice at your
departure, for you can conduct
yourself like a gentleman,' said
I, thinking it but right to make
some acknowledgment for his good
behaviour; 'but I must confess
I shall rejoice to bid adieu.
to the rest, inhospitable as
it may appear.'
'No one can blame you for such
an avowal,' replied he gravely:
'not even the gentlemen themselves,
I imagine. I'll just tell you,'
he continued, as if actuated
by a sudden resolution, 'what
was said last night in the dining-room,
after you left us: perhaps you
will not mind it, as you're so
very philosophical on certain
points,' he added with a slight
sneer. 'They were talking about
Lord Lowborough and his delectable
lady, the cause of whose sudden
departure is no secret amongst
them; and her character is so
well known to them all, that,
nearly related to me as she is,
I could not attempt to defend
it. Curse me!' he muttered, par
parenthese, 'if I don't have
vengeance for this! If the villain
must disgrace the family, must
he blazon it abroad to every
low-bred knave of his acquaintance?
I beg your pardon, Mrs. Huntingdon.
Well, they were talking of these
things, and some of them remarked
that, as she was separated from
her husband, he might see her
again when he pleased.'
'"Thank you," said he; "I've
had enough of her for the present:
I'll not trouble to see her,
unless she comes to me."
'"Then what do you mean to
do, Huntingdon, when we're gone?" said
Ralph Hattersley. "Do you mean
to turn from the error of your
ways, and be a good husband,
a good father, and so forth;
as I do, when I get shut of you
and all these rollicking devils
you call your friends? I think
it's time; and your wife is fifty
times too good for you, you know
- "
'And
he added some
praise of you,
which you would
not thank
me for repeating, nor him for
uttering; proclaiming it aloud,
as he did, without delicacy or
discrimination, in an audience
where it seemed profanation to
utter your name: himself utterly
incapable of understanding or
appreciating your real excellences.
Huntingdon, meanwhile, sat quietly
drinking his wine, - or looking
smilingly into his glass and
offering no interruption or reply,
till Hattersley shouted out,
- "Do you hear me, man?"
'"Yes, go on," said
he.
'"Nay, I've done," replied
the other: "I only want to know
if you intend to take my advice."
'"What
advice?"
'"To turn over a new leaf,
you double-dyed scoundrel," shouted
Ralph, "and beg your wife's pardon,
and be a good boy for the future."
'"My wife! what wife? I have
no wife," replied Huntingdon,
looking innocently up from his
glass, "or if I have, look you,
gentlemen: I value her so highly
that any one among you, that
can fancy her, may have her and
welcome: you may, by Jove, and
my blessing into the bargain!"
'I - hem - someone asked if
he really meant what he said;
upon which he solemnly swore
he did, and no mistake. What
do you think of that, Mrs. Huntingdon?'
asked Mr. Hargrave, after a short
pause, during which I had felt
he was keenly examining my half-averted
face.
'I say,' replied I, calmly,
'that what he prizes so lightly
will not be long in his possession.'
'You cannot mean that you will
break your heart and die for
the detestable conduct of an
infamous villain like that!'
'By no means: my heart is too
thoroughly dried to be broken
in a hurry, and I mean to live
as long as I can.'
'Will you leave him then?'
'Yes.'
'When: and how?' asked he,
eagerly.
'When I am ready, and how I
can manage it most effectually.'
'But your child?'
'My child goes with me.'
'He will not allow it.'
'I shall not ask him.'
'Ah, then, it is a secret flight
you meditate! but with whom,
Mrs. Huntingdon?'
'With my son: and possibly,
his nurse.'
'Alone - and unprotected! But
where can you go? what can you
do? He will follow you and bring
you back.'
'I have laid my plans too well
for that. Let me once get clear
of Grassdale, and I shall consider
myself safe.'
Mr. Hargrave advanced one step
towards me, looked me in the
face, and drew in his breath
to speak; but that look, that
heightened colour, that sudden
sparkle of the eye, made my blood
rise in wrath: I abruptly turned
away, and, snatching up my brush,
began to dash away at my canvas
with rather too much energy for
the good of the picture.
'Mrs. Huntingdon,' said he
with bitter solemnity, 'you are
cruel - cruel to me - cruel to
yourself.'
'Mr. Hargrave, remember your
promise.'
'I
must speak:
my heart will
burst if I don't! I have been
silent long enough, and you must
hear me!' cried he, boldly intercepting
my retreat to the door. 'You
tell me you owe no allegiance
to your husband; he openly declares
himself weary of you, and calmly
gives you up to anybody that
will take you; you are about
to leave him; no one will believe
that you go alone; all the world
will say, "She has left him at
last, and who can wonder at it?
Few can blame her, fewer still
can pity him; but who is the
companion of her flight?" Thus
you will have no credit for your
virtue (if you call it such):
even your best friends will not
believe in it; because it is
monstrous, and not to be credited
but by those who suffer, from
the effects of it, such cruel
torments that they know it to
be indeed reality. But what can
you do in the cold, rough world
alone? you, a young and inexperienced
woman, delicately nurtured, and
utterly - '
'In a word, you would advise
me to stay where I am,' interrupted
I. 'Well, I'll see about it.'
'By all means, leave him!'
cried he earnestly; 'but NOT
alone! Helen! let me protect
you!'
'Never! while heaven spares
my reason,' replied I, snatching
away the hand he had presumed
to seize and press between his
own. But he was in for it now;
he had fairly broken the barrier:
he was completely roused, and
determined to hazard all for
victory.
'I
must not be
denied!' exclaimed
he, vehemently; and seizing both
my hands, he held them very tight,
but dropped upon his knee, and
looked up in my face with a half-imploring,
half-imperious gaze. 'You have
no reason now: you are flying
in the face of heaven's decrees.
God has designed me to be your
comfort and protector - I feel
it, I know it as certainly as
if a voice from heaven declared, "Ye
twain shall be one flesh" - and
you spurn me from you - '
'Let me go, Mr. Hargrave!'
said I, sternly. But he only
tightened his grasp.
'Let me go!' I repeated, quivering
with indignation.
His face was almost opposite
the window as he knelt. With
a slight start, I saw him glance
towards it; and then a gleam
of malicious triumph lit up his
countenance. Looking over my
shoulder, I beheld a shadow just
retiring round the corner.
'That is Grimsby,' said he
deliberately. 'He will report
what he has seen to Huntingdon
and all the rest, with such embellishments
as he thinks proper. He has no
love for you, Mrs. Huntingdon
- no reverence for your sex,
no belief in virtue, no admiration
for its image. He will give such
a version of this story as will
leave no doubt at all about your
character, in the minds of those
who hear it. Your fair fame is
gone; and nothing that I or you
can say can ever retrieve it.
But give me the power to protect
you, and show me the villain
that dares to insult!'
'No one has ever dared to insult
me as you are doing now!' said
I, at length releasing my hands,
and recoiling from him.
'I do not insult you,' cried
he: 'I worship you. You are my
angel, my divinity! I lay my
powers at your feet, and you
must and shall accept them!'
he exclaimed, impetuously starting
to his feet. 'I will be your
consoler and defender! and if
your conscience upbraid you for
it, say I overcame you, and you
could not choose but yield!'
I never saw a man go terribly
excited. He precipitated himself
towards me. I snatched up my
palette-knife and held it against
him. This startled him: he stood
and gazed at me in astonishment;
I daresay I looked as fierce
and resolute as he. I moved to
the bell, and put my hand upon
the cord. This tamed him still
more. With a half-authoritative,
half-deprecating wave of the
hand, he sought to deter me from
ringing.
'Stand off, then!' said I;
he stepped back. 'And listen
to me. I don't like you,' I continued,
as deliberately and emphatically
as I could, to give the greater
efficacy to my words; 'and if
I were divorced from my husband,
or if he were dead, I would not
marry you. There now! I hope
you're satisfied.'
His face grew blanched with
anger.
'I am satisfied,' he replied,
with bitter emphasis, 'that you
are the most cold-hearted, unnatural,
ungrateful woman I ever yet beheld!'
'Ungrateful, sir?'
'Ungrateful.'
'No, Mr. Hargrave, I am not.
For all the good you ever did
me, or ever wished to do, I most
sincerely thank you: for all
the evil you have done me, and
all you would have done, I pray
God to pardon you, and make you
of a better mind.' Here the door
was thrown open, and Messrs.
Huntingdon and Hattersley appeared
without. The latter remained
in the hall, busy with his ramrod
and his gun; the former walked
in, and stood with his back to
the fire, surveying Mr. Hargrave
and me, particularly the former,
with a smile of insupportable
meaning, accompanied as it was
by the impudence of his brazen
brow, and the sly, malicious,
twinkle of his eye.
'Well, sir?' said Hargrave,
interrogatively, and with the
air of one prepared to stand
on the defensive.
'Well, sir,' returned his host.
'We want to know if you are
at liberty to join us in a go
at the pheasants, Walter,' interposed
Hattersley from without. 'Come!
there shall be nothing shot besides,
except a puss or two; I'll vouch
for that.'
Walter did not answer, but
walked to the window to collect
his faculties. Arthur uttered
a low whistle, and followed him
with his eyes. A slight flush
of anger rose to Hargrave's cheek;
but in a moment he turned calmly
round, and said carelessly:
'I came here to bid farewell
to Mrs. Huntingdon, and tell
her I must go to-morrow.'
'Humph! You're mighty sudden
in your resolution. What takes
you off so soon, may I ask?'
'Business,' returned he, repelling
the other's incredulous sneer
with a glance of scornful defiance.
'Very good,' was the reply;
and Hargrave walked away. Thereupon
Mr. Huntingdon, gathering his
coat-laps under his arms, and
setting his shoulder against
the mantel-piece, turned to me,
and, addressing me in a low voice,
scarcely above his breath, poured
forth a volley of the vilest
and grossest abuse it was possible
for the imagination to conceive
or the tongue to utter. I did
not attempt to interrupt him;
but my spirit kindled within
me, and when he had done, I replied,
'If your accusation were true,
Mr. Huntingdon, how dare you
blame me?'
'She's hit it, by Jove!' cried
Hattersley, rearing his gun against
the wall; and, stepping into
the room, he took his precious
friend by the arm, and attempted
to drag him away. 'Come, my lad,'
he muttered; 'true or false,
you've no right to blame her,
you know, nor him either; after
what you said last night. So
come along.'
There was something implied
here that I could not endure.
'Dare you suspect me, Mr. Hattersley?'
said I, almost beside myself
with fury.
'Nay, nay, I suspect nobody.
It's all right, it's all right.
So come along, Huntingdon, you
blackguard.'
'She can't deny it!' cried
the gentleman thus addressed,
grinning in mingled rage and
triumph. 'She can't deny it if
her life depended on it!' and
muttering some more abusive language,
he walked into the hall, and
took up his hat and gun from
the table.
'I scorn to justify myself
to you!' said I. 'But you,' turning
to Hattersley, 'if you presume
to have any doubts on the subject,
ask Mr. Hargrave.'
At this they simultaneously
burst into a rude laugh that
made my whole frame tingle to
the fingers' ends.
'Where is he? I'll ask him
myself!' said I, advancing towards
them.
Suppressing a new burst of
merriment, Hattersley pointed
to the outer door. It was half
open. His brother-in-law was
standing on the front without.
'Mr. Hargrave, will you please
to step this way?' said I.
He turned and looked at me
in grave surprise.
'Step this way, if you please!'
I repeated, in so determined
a manner that he could not, or
did not choose to resist its
authority. Somewhat reluctantly
he ascended the steps and advanced
a pace or two into the hall.
'And tell those gentlemen,'
I continued - 'these men, whether
or not I yielded to your solicitations.'
'I don't understand you, Mrs.
Huntingdon.'
'You do understand me, sir;
and I charge you, upon your honour
as a gentleman (if you have any),
to answer truly. Did I, or did
I not?'
'No,' muttered he, turning
away.
'Speak up, sir; they can't
hear you. Did I grant your request?
'You did not.'
'No, I'll be sworn she didn't,'
said Hattersley, 'or he'd never
look so black.'
'I'm willing to grant you the
satisfaction of a gentleman,
Huntingdon,' said Mr. Hargrave,
calmly addressing his host, but
with a bitter sneer upon his
countenance.
'Go to the deuce!' replied
the latter, with an impatient
jerk of the head. Hargrave withdrew
with a look of cold disdain,
saying, - 'You know where to
find me, should you feel disposed
to send a friend.'
Muttered oaths and curses were
all the answer this intimation
obtained.
'Now, Huntingdon, you see!'
said Hattersley. 'Clear as the
day.'
'I don't care what he sees,'
said I, 'or what he imagines;
but you, Mr. Hattersley, when
you hear my name belied and slandered,
will you defend it?'
'I will.'
I instantly departed and shut
myself into the library. What
could possess me to make such
a request of such a man I cannot
tell; but drowning men catch
at straws: they had driven me
desperate between them; I hardly
knew what I said. There was no
other to preserve my name from
being blackened and aspersed
among this nest of boon companions,
and through them, perhaps, into
the world; and beside my abandoned
wretch of a husband, the base,
malignant Grimsby, and the false
villain Hargrave, this boorish
ruffian, coarse and brutal as
he was, shone like a glow-worm
in the dark, among its fellow
worms.
What a scene was this! Could
I ever have imagined that I should
be doomed to bear such insults
under my own roof - to hear such
things spoken in my presence;
nay, spoken to me and of me;
and by those who arrogated to
themselves the name of gentlemen?
And could I have imagined that
I should have been able to endure
it as calmly, and to repel their
insults as firmly and as boldly
as I had done? A hardness such
as this is taught by rough experience
and despair alone.
Such thoughts as these chased
one another through my mind,
as I paced to and fro the room,
and longed - oh, how I longed
- to take my child and leave
them now, without an hour's delay!
But it could not be; there was
work before me: hard work, that
must be done.
'Then let me do it,' said I,
'and lose not a moment in vain
repinings and idle chafings against
my fate, and those who influence
it.'
And conquering my agitation
with a powerful effort, I immediately
resumed my task, and laboured
hard all day.
Mr. Hargrave did depart on
the morrow; and I have never
seen him since. The others stayed
on for two or three weeks longer;
but I kept aloof from them as
much as possible, and still continued
my labour, and have continued
it, with almost unabated ardour,
to the present day. I soon acquainted
Rachel with my design, confiding
all my motives and intentions
to her ear, and, much to my agreeable
surprise, found little difficulty
in persuading her to enter into
my views. She is a sober, cautious
woman, but she so hates her master,
and so loves her mistress and
her nursling, that after several
ejaculations, a few faint objections,
and many tears and lamentations
that I should be brought to such
a pass, she applauded my resolution
and consented to aid me with
all her might: on one condition
only: that she might share my
exile: otherwise, she was utterly
inexorable, regarding it as perfect
madness for me and Arthur to
go alone. With touching generosity,
she modestly offered to aid me
with her little hoard of savings,
hoping I would 'excuse her for
the liberty, but really, if I
would do her the favour to accept
it as a loan, she would be very
happy.' Of course I could not
think of such a thing; but now,
thank heaven, I have gathered
a little hoard of my own, and
my preparations are so far advanced
that I am looking forward to
a speedy emancipation. Only let
the stormy severity of this winter
weather be somewhat abated, and
then, some morning, Mr. Huntingdon
will come down to a solitary
breakfast-table, and perhaps
be clamouring through the house
for his invisible wife and child,
when they are some fifty miles
on their way to the Western world,
or it may be more: for we shall
leave him hours before the dawn,
and it is not probable he will
discover the loss of both until
the day is far advanced.
I am fully alive to the evils
that may and must result upon
the step I am about to take;
but I never waver in my resolution,
because I never forget my son.
It was only this morning, while
I pursued my usual employment,
he was sitting at my feet, quietly
playing with the shreds of canvas
I had thrown upon the carpet;
but his mind was otherwise occupied,
for, in a while, he looked up
wistfully in my face, and gravely
asked, - 'Mamma, why are you
wicked?'
'Who told you I was wicked,
love?'
'Rachel.'
'No, Arthur, Rachel never said
so, I am certain.'
'Well,
then, it was
papa,' replied
he, thoughtfully.
Then,
after a reflective pause, he
added, 'At least, I'll tell you
how it was I got to know: when
I'm with papa, if I say mamma
wants me, or mamma says I'm not
to do something that he tells
me to do, he always says, "Mamma
be damned," and Rachel says it's
only wicked people that are damned.
So, mamma, that's why I think
you must be wicked: and I wish
you wouldn't.'
'My dear child, I am not. Those
are bad words, and wicked people
often say them of others better
than themselves. Those words
cannot make people be damned,
nor show that they deserve it.
God will judge us by our own
thoughts and deeds, not by what
others say about us. And when
you hear such words spoken, Arthur,
remember never to repeat them:
it is wicked to say such things
of others, not to have them said
against you.'
'Then it's papa that's wicked,'
said he, ruefully.
'Papa is wrong to say such
things, and you will be very
wrong to imitate him now that
you know better.'
'What is imitate?'
'To do as he does.'
'Does he know better?'
'Perhaps he does; but that
is nothing to you.'
'If he doesn't, you ought to
tell him, mamma.'
'I have told him.'
The little moralist paused
and pondered. I tried in vain
to divert his mind from the subject.
'I'm sorry papa's wicked,'
said he mournfully, at length,
'for I don't want him to go to
hell.' And so saying he burst
into tears.
I consoled him with the hope
that perhaps his papa would alter
and become good before he died
-; but is it not time to deliver
him from such a parent?
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