University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

IN one of those brown-stone, palatial houses on
Fifth Avenue, which render the name of the
street a synonym for almost royal luxury and
magnificence, sat Mrs. Andrews's “new governess,”
a week after her arrival in New-York. Her reception
though cold and formal, had been punctiliously courteous;
and a few days sufficed to give the stranger an accurate insight
into the characters and customs of the family with
whom she was now domesticated.

Though good-natured, intelligent, and charitable, Mrs.
Andrews was devoted to society, and gave to the demands
of fashion much of the time which had been better expended
at home in training her children, and making her hearth-stone
rival the attractions of the club where Mr. Andrews
generally spent his leisure hours. She was much younger
than her husband, was handsome, gay, and ambitious, and the
polished hauteur of her bearing often reminded Edna of Mrs.
Murray; while Mr. Andrews seemed immersed in business
during the day, and was rarely at home except at his meals.

Felix, the eldest of the two children, was a peevish, spoiled,
exacting boy of twelve years of age, endowed with a
remarkably active intellect, but pitiably dwarfed in body
and hopelessly lame, in consequence of a deformed foot
His sister Hattie was only eight years old, a bright, pretty,
affectionate girl, over whom Felix tyrannized unmercifully,
and who from earliest recollection had been accustomed to
yield both her rights and privileges to the fretful invalid.

The room occupied by the governess was small but beautifully
furnished, and as it was situated in the fourth story,
the windows commanded a view of the trees in a neighboring
park, and the waving outline of Long Island.

On the day of her arrival Mrs. Andrews entered into a
minute analysis of the characters of the children, indicated
the course which she wished pursued toward them, and, impressing
upon Edna the grave responsibility of her position,
the mother gave her children to the stranger's guardianship,
and seemed to consider her maternal duties fully discharged.

Edna soon ascertained that her predecessors had found
the path intolerably thorny, and abandoned it in consequence
of Felix's uncontrollable fits of sullenness and passion.
Tutors and governesses had quickly alternated, and as the
cripple finally declared he would not tolerate the former,
his mother resolved to humor his caprice in the choice of a
teacher.

Fortunately the boy was exceedingly fond of his books,
and as the physicians forbade the constant use of his eyes,
the governess was called on to read aloud at least one half
of the day. From eight o'clock in the morning till eight
at night the whole care of these children devolved on Edna;
who ate, talked, rode with them, accompanied them wherever
their inclination led, and had not one quiet moment
from breakfast until her pupils went to sleep. Sometimes
Felix was restless and wakeful, and on such occasions he
insisted that his governess should come and read him to
sleep.

Notwithstanding the boy's imperious nature, he possessed
some redeeming traits, and Edna soon became much attached
to him; while his affection for his new keeper astonished
and delighted his mother.

For a week after Edna's arrival, inclement weather prevented
the customary daily ride which contributed largely
to the happiness of the little cripple; but one afternoon as

the three sat in the school-room, Felix threw his Latin gram
mar against the wall and exclaimed:

“I want to see the swans in Central Park, and I mean to
go, even if it does rain! Hattie, ring for Patrick to bring
the coupé round to the door. Miss Earl, don't you want
to go?”

“Yes, for there is no longer any danger of rain, the sun
is shining beautifully; and besides, I hope you will be more
amiable when you get into the open air.”

She gave him his hat and crutches, took his gray shawl
on her arm, and they went down to the neat carriage drawn
by a handsome chestnut horse, and set apart for the use of
the children.

As they entered the park, Edna noticed that the boy's eyes
brightened, and that he looked eagerly at every passing face.

“Now, Hattie, you must watch on your side, and I will
keep a good lookout on mine. I wonder if she will come
this evening?”

“For whom are you both looking?” asked the teacher.

“Oh! for little Lila, Bro' Felix's sweetheart!” laughed
Hattie, glancing at him with a mischievous twinkle in her
bright eyes.

“No such thing! Never had a sweetheart in my life!
Don't be silly, Hattie! mind your window, or I guess we
shan't see her.”

“Well, any how, I heard Uncle Grey tell mamma that he
kissed his sweetheart's hand at the party, and I saw Bro'
Felix kiss Lila's last week.”

“I didn't, Miss Earl!” cried the cripple, reddening as he
spoke.

“Oh! he did, Miss Earl! Stop pinching me, Bro' Felix.
My arm is all black and blue, now. There she is! Look,
here on my side! Here is `Red Ridinghood!'”

Edna saw a little girl clad in scarlet, and led by a grave,
middle-aged nurse, who was walking leisurely toward one
of the lakes.

Felix put his head out of the window and called to the
woman.

“Hannah, are you going to feed the swans?”

“Good evening. Yes, we are going there now.”

“Well, we will meet you there.”

“What is the child's name?” asked Edna.

“Lila Manning, and she is deaf and dumb. We talk to
her on our fingers.”

They left the carriage, and approached the groups of
children gathered on the edge of the water, and at sight of
Felix, the little girl in scarlet sprang to meet him, moving
her slender fingers rapidly as she conversed with him. She
was an exceedingly lovely but fragile child, apparently
about Hattie's age; and as Edna watched the changing expression
of her delicate features, she turned to the nurse and
asked:

“Is she an orphan?”

“Yes, miss; but she will never find it out as long as her
uncle lives. He makes a great pet of her.”

“What is his name, and where does he reside?”

“Mr. Douglass G. Manning. He boards at No. —
Twenty-third street; but he spends most of his time at the
office. No matter what time of night he comes home, he
never goes to his own room till he has looked at Lila, and
kissed her good-night. Master Felix, please don't untie her
hat, the wind will blow her hair all out of curl.”

For some time the children were much amused in watching
the swans, and when they expressed themselves willing
to resume their ride, an arrangement was made with Hannah
to meet at the same place the ensuing day. They returned
to the carriage, and Felix said:

“Don't you think Lila is a little beauty?”

“Yes, I quite agree with you. Do you know her uncle?”

“No, and don't want to know him; he is too cross and
sour. I have seen him walking sometimes with Lila, and
mamma has him at her parties and dinners; but Hattie and

I never see the company unless we peep, and, above all
things, I hate peeping! It is ungenteel and vulgar; only
poor people peep. Mr. Manning is an old bachelor, and
very crabbed, so my uncle Grey says. He is the editor of
the — Magazine, that mamma declares she can't live
without. Look! look, Hattie! There goes mamma this
minute! Stop, Patrick! Uncle Grey! Uncle Grey! hold
up, won't you, and let me see the new horses!”

An elegant phaeton, drawn by a pair of superb black
horses, drew up close to the coupé, and Mrs. Andrews and
her only brother, Mr. Grey Chilton, leaned forward and
spoke to the children; while Mr. Chilton, who was driving,
teased Hattie by touching her head and shoulders with his
whip.

“Uncle Grey, I think the bays are the handsomest.”

“Which proves you utterly incapable of judging horse-flesh;
for these are the finest horses in the city. I presume
this is Miss Earl, though nobody seems polite enough to introduce
us.”

He raised his hat slightly, bowed, and drove on.

“Is this the first time you have met my uncle?” asked
Felix.

“Yes. Does he live in the city?”

“Why! he lives with us! Haven't you seen him about
the house? You must have heard him romping around with
Hattie; for they make noise enough to call in the police. I
think my uncle Grey is the handsomest man I ever saw, except
Edwin Booth, when he plays `Hamlet.' What do you
say?”

“As I had barely a glimpse of your uncle, I formed no
opinion. Felix, button your coat and draw your shawl
over your shoulders; it is getting cold.”

When they reached home the children begged for some
music, and placing her hat on a chair, Edna sat down before
the piano, and played and sang; while Felix stood leaning
on his crutches, gazing earnestly into the face of his teacher.

The song was Longfellow's “Rainy Day,” and when she
concluded it, the cripple laid his thin hand on hers and said:

“Sing the last verse again. I feel as if I should always
be a good boy, if you would only sing that for me every
day. `Into each life some rain must fall!' Yes, lameness
fell into mine.”

While she complied with his request, Edna watched his
sallow face, and saw tears gather in the large, sad eyes, and
she felt that henceforth the boy's evil spirit could be exorcised.

“Miss Earl, we never had a governess at all like you.
They were old, and cross, and ugly, and didn't love to play
chess, and could not sing, and I hated them! But I do like
you, and I will try to be good.”

He rested his head against her arm, and she turned and
kissed his pale, broad forehead.

“Halloo, Felix! flirting with your governess? This is a
new phase of school life. You ought to feel quite honored,
Miss Earl, though upon my word I am sorry for you. The
excessive amiability of my nephew has driven not less than
six of your predecessors in confusion from the field, leaving
him victorious. I warn you he is an incipient Turenne,
and the school-room is the Franche Comté of his campaigns.”

Mr. Chilton came up to the piano, and curiously scanned
Edna's face; but taking her hat and veil, she rose and moved
toward the door, saying:

“I am disposed to believe that he has been quite as much
sinned against as sinning. Come, children, it is time for your
tea.”

From that hour her influence over the boy strengthened
so rapidly that before she had been a month in the house
he yielded implicit obedience to her wishes, and could not
bear for her to leave him, even for a moment. When more
than usually fretful, and inclined to tyrannize over Hattie,
or speak disrespectfully to his mother, a warning glance or

word from Edna, or the soft touch of her hand, would suffice
to restrain the threatened outbreak.

Her days were passed in teaching, reading aloud, and
talking to the children; and when released from her duties
she went invariably to her desk, devoting more than half
of the night to the completion of her MS.

As she took her meals with her pupils, she rarely saw the
other members of the household, and though Mr. Chilton
now and then sauntered into the school-room and frolicked
with Hattie, his visits were coldly received by the teacher;
who met his attempts at conversation with very discouraging
monosyllabic replies.

His manners led her to suspect that the good-looking
lounger was as vain and heartless as he was frivolous, and
she felt no inclination to listen to his trifling, sans souci
chatter; consequently when he thrust himself into her presence
she either picked up a book or left him to be entertained
by the children.

One evening in November she sat in her own room preparing
to write, and pondering the probable fate of a sketch
which she had finished and dispatched two days before to
the office of the magazine.

The principal aim of the little tale was to portray the
horrors and sin of dueling, and she had written it with
great care; but well aware of the vast, powerful current of
popular opinion that she was bravely striving to stem, and
fully conscious that it would subject her to severe animadversion
from those who defended the custom, she could not
divest herself of apprehension lest the article should be rejected.

The door-bell rang, and soon after a servant brought her
a card: “Mr. D. G. Manning. To see Miss Earl.”

Flattered and frightened by a visit from one whose opinions
she valued so highly, Edna smoothed her hair, and with
trembling fingers changed her collar and cuffs, and went

down-stairs, feeling as if all the blood in her body were
beating a tattoo on the drum of her ears.

As she entered the library, into which he had been shown,
(Mrs. Andrews having guests in the parlors,) Edna had an
opportunity of looking unobserved at this critical ogre, of
whom she stood in such profound awe.

Douglass Manning was forty years old, tall, and well
built; wore slender, steel-rimmed spectacles which somewhat
softened the light of his keen, cold, black eyes; and
carried his slightly bald head with the haughty air of one
who habitually hurled his gauntlet in the teeth of public
opinion.

He stood looking up at a pair of bronze griffins that
crouched on the top of the rosewood book-case, and the
gaslight falling full on his face, showed his stern, massive
features, which, in their granitic cast, reminded Edna of
those of Egyptian Androsphinx—vast, serene, changeless.

There were no furrows on cheek or brow, no beard veiled
the lines and angles about the mouth, but as she marked
the chilling repose of the countenance, so indicative of conscious
power and well-regulated strength, why did memory
travel swiftly back among the “Stones of Venice,” repeating
the description of the hawthorn on Bourges Cathedral?
“A perfect Niobe of May.” Had this man petrified
in his youth before the steady stylus of Time left on his
features that subtle tracery which passing years engrave on
human faces? The motto of his magazine, Veritas sine
clementia, ruled his life, and, putting aside the lenses of
passion and prejudice, he coolly, quietly, relentlessly judged
men and women and their works; neither loving nor hating,
pitying nor despising his race; looking neither to
right nor left; laboring steadily as a thoroughly well-balanced,
a marvelously perfect intellectual automaton.

“Good evening, Mr. Manning. I am very glad to meet
you; for I fear my letters have very inadequately expressed
my gratitude for your kindness.”

Her voice trembled slightly, and she put out her hand.
He turned, bowed, offered her a chair, and, as they seated
themselves, he examined her face as he would have searched
the title-page of some new book for an insight into its contents.

“When did you reach New-York, Miss Earl?”

“Six weeks ago.”

“I was not aware that you were in the city, until I received
your note two days since. How long do you intend
to remain?”

“Probably the rest of my life, if I find it possible to support
myself comfortably.”

“Is Mrs. Andrews an old friend?”

“No, sir; she was a stranger to me when I entered her
house as governess for her children.”

“Miss Earl, you are much younger than I had supposed.
Your writings led me to imagine that you were at least
thirty, whereas I find you almost a child. Will your duties
as governess conflict with your literary labors?”

“No, sir. I shall continue to write.”

“You appear to have acted upon my suggestion, to
abandon the idea of a book, and confine your attention to
short sketches.”

“No, sir. I adhere to my original purpose, and am at
work upon the manuscript which you advised me to destroy.”

He fitted his glasses more firmly on his nose, and she
saw the gleam of his strong white teeth, as a half smile
moved his lips.”

“Miss Earl, my desk is very near a window, and, as I
was writing late last night, I noticed several large moths
beating against the glass which fortunately barred their
approach to the flame of the gas inside. Perhaps inexperience
whispered that it was a cruel fate that shut them out;
but which heals soonest, disappointed curiosity or singed
wings?”

“Mr. Manning, why do you apprehend more danger from
writing a book than from the preparation of magazine articles?”

“Simply because the peril is inherent in the nature of the
book you contemplate. Unless I totally misunderstand your
views, you indulge in the rather extraordinary belief that
all works of fiction should be eminently didactic, and inculcate
not only sound morality but scientific theories. Herein,
permit me to say, you entirely misapprehend the spirit
of the age. People read novels merely to be amused, not
educated; and they will not tolerate technicalities and abstract
speculation in lieu of exciting plots and melodramatic
dénouements. Persons who desire to learn something of
astronomy, geology, chemistry, philology, etc., never think
of finding what they require in the pages of a novel, but
apply at once to the text-books of the respective sciences,
and would as soon hunt for a lover's sentimental dialogue
in Newton's `Principia,' or spicy small-talk in Kant's
`Critique,' as expect an epitome of modern science in a
work of fiction.”

“But, sir, how many habitual novel-readers do you suppose
will educate themselves thoroughly from the text-books
to which you refer?”

“A modicum, I grant you; yet it is equally true that those
who merely read to be amused will not digest the scientific
dishes you set before them. On the contrary, far from appreciating
your charitable efforts to elevate and broaden
their range of vision, they will either sneer at the author's
pedantry, or skip over every passage that necessitates
thought to comprehend it, and rush on to the next page to
discover whether the heroine, Miss Imogene Arethusa Pene
lope Brown, wore blue or pink tarlatan to her first ball, or
whether on the day of her elopement the indignant papa
succeeded in preventing the consummation of her felicity
with Mr. Belshazzar Algernon Nebuchadnezzar Smith. I
neither magnify nor dwarf, I merely state a simple fact.”

“But, Mr. Manning, do you not regard the writers of
each age as the custodians of its tastes, as well as its morals?”

“Certainly not; they simply reflect and do not mould
public taste. Shakespeare, Hogarth, Rabelais, portrayed
men and things as they found them; not as they might,
could, would, or should have been. Was Sir Peter Lely
responsible for the style of dress worn by court beauties in
the reign of Charles II.? He faithfully painted what passed
before him. Miss Earl, the objection I urge against the
novel you are preparing does not apply to magazine essays,
where an author may concentrate all the erudition he can
obtain and ventilate it unchallenged; for review writers
now serve the public in much the same capacity that cupbearers
did royalty in ancient days; and they are expected
to taste strong liquors as well as sweet cordials and sour
light wines. Moreover, a certain haze of sanctity envelopes
the precints of `Maga,' whence the incognito `we' thunders
with oracular power; for, nowithstanding the rapid
annihilation of all classic faith in modern times which permits
the conversion of Virgil's Avernus into a model oyster-farm,
the credulous public fondly cling to the myth that
editorial sanctums alone possess the sacred tripod of Delphi.
Curiosity is the best stimulant for public interest, and it
has become exceedingly difficult to conceal the authorship
of a book, while that of magazine articles can readily be
disguised. I repeat, the world of novel-readers constitute a
huge hippodrome, where, if you can succeed in amusing
your spectators or make them gasp in amazement at your
rhetorical legerdemain, they will applaud vociferously, and
pet you, as they would a graceful danseuse, or a dexterous
acrobat, or a daring equestrian; but if you attempt to educate
or lecture them, you will either declaim to empty
benches or be hissed down. They expect you to help them
kill time not improve it.”

“Sir, is it not nobler to struggle against than to float ignominiously
with the tide of degenerate opinion?”

“That depends altogether on the earnestness of your desire
for martyrdom by drowing. I have seen stronger
swimmers than you go down, after desperate efforts to keep
their heads above water.”

Edna folded her hands in her lap, and looked steadily
into the calm, cold eyes of the editor, then shook her head,
and answered:

“I shall not drown. At all events I will risk it. I
would rather sink in the effort than live without attempting
it.”

“When you require ointment for singed wings, I shall
have no sympathy with which to anoint them; for, like
most of your sex, I see you mistake blind obstinacy for rational,
heroic firmness. The next number of the magazine
will contain the contribution you sent me two days since;
and, while I do not accept all your views, I think it by far
the best thing I have yet seen from your pen. It will, of
course, provoke controversy, but for that result I presume
you are prepared. Miss Earl, you are a stranger in New-York,
and if I can serve you in any way, I shall be glad to
do so.”

“Thank you, Mr. Manning. I need some books which I
am not able to purchase, and can not find in this house; if
you can spare them temporarily from your library, you will
confer a great favor on me.”

“Certainly. Have you a list of those which you require?”

“No sir, but—”

“Here is a pencil and piece of paper; write down the
titles, and I will have them sent to you in the morning.”

She turned to the table to prepare the catalogue, and all
the while Mr. Manning's keen eyes scanned her countenance,
dress, and figure. A half-smile once more stirred his grave
lips when she gave him the paper, over which he glanced
indifferently.

“Miss Earl, I fear you will regret your determination to

make literature a profession; for your letters informed me
that you are poor; and doubtless you remember the witticism
concerning the `republic of letters which contained
not a sovereign.' Your friend, Mr. Murray, appreciated
the obstacles you are destined to encounter, and I am afraid
you will not find life in New-York as agreeable as it was
under his roof.”

“When did you hear from him?”

“I received a letter this morning.”

“And you called to see me because he requested you to
do so?”

“I had determined to come before his letter arrived.”

He noticed the incredulous smile that flitted across her
face, and, after a moment's pause, he continued:

“I do not wish to discourage you, on the contrary, I sincerely
desire to aid you, but Mill has analyzed the subject
very ably in his `Political Economy,' and declares that `on
any rational calculation of chances in the existing competition,
no writer can hope to gain a living by books; and to
do so by magazines and reviews becomes daily more difficult.'”

“Yes, sir, that passage is not encouraging; but I comfort
myself with another from the same book: `In a national or
universal point of view the labor of the savant or specula
tive thinker is as much a part of production, in the very
narrowest sense, as that of the inventor of a practical art.
The electro-magnetic telegraph was the wonderful and
most unexpected consequence of the experiments of Oersted,
and the mathematical investigations of Ampère; and the
modern art of navigation is an unforeseen emanation from
the purely speculative and apparently merely curious inquiry,
by the mathematicians of Alexandria, into the properties
of three curves formed by the intersection of a plane
surface and a cone. No limit can be set to the importance,
even in a purely productive and material point of view, of
mere thought.' Sir, the economic law which regulates the

wages of mechanics should operate correspondingly in the
realm of letters.”

“Your memory is remarkably accurate.”

“Not always, sir; but when I put it on its honor, and
trust some special treasure to its guardianship, it rarely
proves treacherous.”

“I think you can command better wages for your work
in New-York than anywhere else on this continent. You
have begun well; permit me to say to you be careful, do
not write too rapidly, and do not despise adverse criticism.
If agreeable to you, I will call early next week and accompany
you to the public libraries, which contain much that
may interest you. I will send you a note as soon as I
ascertain when I can command the requisite leisure; and
should you need my services, I hope you will not hesitate
to claim them. Good evening, Miss Earl.”

He bowed himself out of the library, and Edna went
back to her own room, thinking of the brief interview, and
confessing her disappointment in the conversation of this
most dreaded of critics.

“He is polished as an icicle, and quite as cold. He may
be very accurate and astute and profound, but certainly he
is not half so brilliant as—”

She did not complete the parallel, but compressed her
lips, took up her pen, and began to write.

On the following morning Mrs. Andrews came into the
school-room, and, after kissing her children, turned blandly
to the governess.

“Miss Earl, I believe Mr. Manning called upon you last
evening. Where did you know him?”

“I never saw him until yesterday, but we have corresponded
for some time.”

“Indeed! you are quite honored. He is considered very
fastidious.”

“He is certainly hypercritical, yet I have found him kind
and gentlemanly, even courteous. Our correspondence is

entirely attributable to the fact that I write for his magazine.”

Mrs. Andrews dropped her ivory crochet-needle and sat,
for a moment, the picture of wide-eyed amazement.

“Is it possible! I had no idea you were an author. Why
did you not tell me before? What have you written?”

Edna mentioned the titles of her published articles, and
the lady of the house exclaimed:

“Oh! that `Vigil at Grütli' is one of the most beautiful
things I ever read, and I have often teased Mr. Manning to
tell me who wrote it. That apostrophe to the Thirty Confederates
is so mournfully grand that it brings tears to my
eyes. Why, Miss Earl, you will be famous some day! If
I had your genius, I should never think of plodding through
life as a governess.”

“But, my dear madam, I must make my bread, and am
compelled to teach while I write.”

“I do not see what time you have for writing. I notice
you never leave the children till they are asleep; and you
must sleep enough to keep yourself alive. Are you writing
any thing at present?”

“I finished an article several days ago which will be published
in the next number of the magazine. Of course I
have no leisure during the day, but I work till late at night.”

“Miss Earl, if you have no objection to acquainting me
with your history, I should like very much to know something
of your early life and education.”

While Edna gave a brief account of her childhood, Felix
nestled his hand into hers, and laid his head on her knee,
listening eagerly to every word.

When she concluded, Mrs. Andrews mused a moment,
and then said:

“Henceforth, Miss Earl, you will occupy a different position
in my house; and I shall take pleasure in introducing
you to such of my friends as will appreciate your talent. I
hope you will not confine yourself exclusively to my children,

but come down sometimes in the evening and sit with
me; and, moreover, I prefer that you should dine with us,
instead of with these nursery folks, who are not quite capable
of appreciating you—”

“How do you know that, mamma? I can tell you one
thing, I appreciated her before I found out that she was
likely to be `famous'! Before I knew that Mr. Manning
condescended to notice her. We `nursery folk' judge for
ourselves, we don't wait to find out what other people think,
and I shan't give up Miss Earl! She is my governess, and I
wish you would just let her alone!”

There was a touch of scorn in the boy's impatient tone,
and his mother bit her lip, and laughed constrainedly.

“Really, Felix! who gave you a bill of sale to Miss Earl?
She should consider herself exceedingly fortunate, as she
is the first of all your teachers with whom you have not
quarrelled most shamefully, even fought and scratched.”

“And because she is sweet, and good and pretty, and I
love her, you must interfere and take her off to entertain
your company. She came here to take care of Hattie and
me, and not to go down-stairs to see visitors. She can't go,
mamma. I want her myself. You have all the world to
talk to, and I have only her. Don't meddle, mamma.”

“You are very selfish and ill-tempered, my poor little
boy, and I am heartily ashamed of you.”

“If I am, it is because—”

“Hush, Felix!”

Edna laid her hand on the pale, curling lips of the cripple,
and luckily at this instant Mrs. Andrews was summoned
from the room.

Scarcely waiting till the door closed after her, the boy
exclaimed passionately:

“Felix! don't call me Felix! That means happy, lucky!
and she had no right to give me such a name. I am Infelix!
nobody loves me! nobody cares for me, except to
pity me, and I would rather be strangled than pitied! I

wish I was dead and at rest in Greenwood! I wish somebody
would knock my brains out with my crutch! and save
me from hobbling through life. Even my mother is
ashamed of my deformity! She ought to have treated me
as the Spartans did their dwarfs! She ought to have
thrown me into East River before I was a day old! I
wish I was dead! Oh! I do! I do!”

“Felix, it is very wicked to—”

“I tell you I won't be called Felix. Whenever I hear
the name it makes me feel as I did one day when my
crutches slipped on the ice, and I fell on the pavement before
the door, and some newsboys stood and laughed at me.
Infelix Andrews! I want that written on my tombstone
when I am buried.”

He trembled from head to foot, and angry tears dimmed
his large, flashing eyes, while Hattie sat with her elbows
resting on her knees, and her chin in her hands, looking sorrowfully
at her brother.

Edna put her arm around the boy's shoulder, and drew
his head down on her lap, saying tenderly:

“Your mother did not mean that she was ashamed of her
son, but only grieved and mortified by his ungovernable
temper, which made him disrespectful to her. I know that
she is very proud of your fine intellect, and your ambition
to become a thorough scholar, and—”

“Oh! yes, and of my handsome body! and my pretty feet!”

“My dear little boy, it is sinful for you to speak in that
way, and God will punish you if you do not struggle against
such feelings.”

“I don't see how I can be punished any more than I have
been already. To be a lame dwarf is the worst that can
happen.”

“Suppose you were poor and friendless—an orphan with
no one to care for you? Suppose you had no dear, good,
little sister like Hattie to love you? Now, Felix, I know
that the very fact that you are not as strong and well-grown

as most boys of your age, only makes your mother and all
of us love you more tenderly; and it is very ungrateful in
you to talk so bitterly when we are trying to make you
happy and good and useful. Look at little Lila, shut up in
silence, unable to speak one word, or to hear a bird sing or
a baby laugh, and yet see how merry and good-natured she
is. How much more afflicted she is than you are! Suppose
she was always fretting and complaining, looking miserable
and sour, and out of humor, do you think you would
love her half as well as you do now?”

He made no reply, but his thin hands covered his sallow
face.

Hattie came close to him, sat down on the carpet, and
put her head, thickly crowned with yellow curls, on his
knee. Her uncle Grey had given her a pretty ring the day
before, and now she silently and softly took it from her own
finger, and slipped it on her brother's.

“Felix, you and Hattie were so delighted with that little
poem which I read to you from the Journal of Eugénie de
Guérin, that I have tried to set it to music for you. The
tune does not suit it exactly, but we can use it until I find
a better one.”

She went to the piano and sang that exquisite nursery
ballad, “Joujou, the angel of the Playthings.”

Hattie clapped her hands with delight, and Felix partially
forgot his woes and grievances.

“Now, I want you both to learn to sing it, and I will
teach Hattie the accompaniment. On Felix's birthday,
which is not very distant, you can surprise your father and
mother by singing it for them. In gratitude to the author
I think every little child should sing it and call it `Eugénie's
Angel Song.' Hattie, it is eleven o'clock, and time for you
to practise your music-lesson.”

The little girl climbed upon the piano-stool and began to
count aloud, and after a while Edna bent down and put
her hand on Felix's shoulder

“You grieved your mother this morning and spoke very
disrespectfully to her. I know you regret it, and you ought
to tell her so and ask her to forgive you. You would feel
happier all day if you would only acknowledge your fault.
I hear your mother in her own room: will you not go and
kiss her?”

He averted his head and muttered:

“I dont want to kiss her.”

“But you ought to be a dutiful son, and you are not;
and your mother has cause to be displeased with you. If
you should ever be so unfortunate as to lose her, and stand
as I do, motherless, in the world, you will regret the pain
you gave her this morning. Oh! if I had the privilege of
kissing my mother, I could bear almost any sorrow patiently.
If it mortifies you to acknowledge your bad behavior, it
is the more necessary that you should humble your pride.
Felix, sometimes I think it requires more nobility of soul
to ask pardon for our faults than to resist the temptation
to commit them.”

She turned away and busied herself in correcting his
Latin exercise, and for some time the boy sat sullen and
silent.

At length he sighed heavily, and, taking his crutches,
came up to the table where she sat.

“Suppose you tell my mother I am sorry I was disrespectful.”

“Felix, are you really sorry?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, go and tell her so, and she will love you a
thousand times more than ever before. The confession
should come from your own lips.”

He stood irresolute and sighed again:

“I will go, if you will go with me.”

She rose, and they went to Mrs. Andrews's room. The
mother was superbly dressed in visiting costume, and was
tying on her bonnet when they entered.

“Mrs. Andrews, your son wishes to say something which
I think you will be glad to hear.”

“Indeed! Well, Felix, what is it?”

“Mamma—I believe—I know I was very cross—and disrespectful
to you—and O mamma! I hope you will forgive
me!”

He dropped his crutches and stretched out his arms, and
Mrs. Andrews threw down the diamond cluster, with which
she was fastening her ribbons and caught the boy to her
bosom.

“My precious child! my darling! Of course I forgive
you gladly. My dear son, if you only knew half how well
I love you, you would not grieve me so often by your passionate
temper. My darling!—”

She stooped to kiss him, and when she turned to look for
the girlish form of the governess, it was no longer visible:
mother and son were alone.