"Try to be contented for mother's sake, dear Arthur."

Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me that
nothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving little
Arthur behind him, that day. "I can see the poor little fellow now,"
said he, "just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly."

Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into the
wagon, and drove off.

It was a lonely evening to Arthur. There was no frolic with Rover and
the children on the green; no kind mother's voice to call him in; no
affectionate good-night kiss for the little stranger. Mr. and Mrs.
Martin were very kind-hearted people, but they had little sympathy with
a child, and made no conversation with him. There was no hardship
imposed on Arthur; indeed they required less of him than he had been
accustomed to doing at home, and had he been a courageous, light-hearted
boy like his brother James, he would soon have been very happy in his
new home. But we have said he was shy and sensitive; like a delicate
plant he needed sunshine to develope his nature, and shrank from the
rough chilling blast.

None, who has not experienced it, can know any thing of the suffering
such a child endures when deprived of the sweet influences of home. Such
an one often appears dull and stupid to a careless observer, when there
is throbbing under that cold exterior, a heart of the keenest
sensibility. Let the bold, healthy, active boy be sent from home, if
necessary; a little hardship, and a little struggling with the rougher
elements of life, will perchance but strengthen and increase his