paper."

I pointed to the paragraph, and he read it.

"What of it?" he asked.

"Thompson," listen to me; "what do you say of such a son?"

"I can guess his father's feelings," said my friend. "Earth's a heaven,
Stukely, when father and child live together as God appointed them."

"But when a child breaks a parent's heart, Thompson--what then?"

"Don't talk about it, lad. I have got eleven of 'em, and that's a side
of the picture that I can't look at with pleasure. I think the boys are
good. They have gone on well as yet; but who can tell what a few years
will do?"

"Or a few months, Thompson," I answered quickly, "or a few days, or
hours, when the will is fickle, principles unfixed, and the heart
treacherous and false. That Smithson and I, Thompson, were fellow
students. We left home together--we took up our abode in the University
together--we were attached to the same college--taught by the same
master--read from the same books. My feelings were as warm as his. My
resolution to do well apparently as firm, my knowledge and attainments
as extensive. If he was encouraged, and protected, and urged forward by
the fond love of a devoted household--so was I. If parental blessings
hallowed his entrance upon those pursuits which have ended so
successfully for him--so did they mine. If he had motive for exertion, I
had not less--we were equal in the race which we began together--look at