"Poor boy!" observed my grandmother dryly, "What a misfortune to be so
passionate! A deep-seated, and, I fear, incurable one, Amy; for of
course you have used your utmost endeavors, both by precept and example,
to render him otherwise."

I almost pitied my mother's feelings; for well did I remember the
cried-for toy placed within his hands, to stop the constant succession
of screams sent forth by a pair of lungs whose strength seemed
inexhaustible--the comfort and convenience of the whole family
disregarded, not because he was the _best_, but the _worst_ child--and
often the destruction of some highly-prized trinket or gem of art,
because he was "_passionate_;" the result of which was, that my poor
brother George became one of the most selfish, exacting, intolerable
boys that ever lived.

There was no reply, save a troubled look; and the little tormentor
continued in a fretful tone; "We'll put 'em all away before he gets in,
and never tell him a word of it--can't we have them, mother?"

My mother glanced towards her mentor, but the look which she met
impelled her to pursue a course so different from her usual one, that I
listened in surprise: "No, Caroline, you can _not_ have them--now leave
the room, and let me hear no more about it."

"I want them," said the child in a sullen tone, while she turned to that
invariable resource of refactory children who happen to be near a door;
namely, turning the knob, and clicking the lock back and forth, and
swinging on it at intervals.

This performance is extremely trying to a person of restless, nervous