night, and having done the same with his mother, retired to bed rather
to shed his tears unseen than to sleep.

And he did weep! Poor little fellow, his grief was very great; and
although our readers may smile because he regarded the matter in such
a serious light, they must remember that this was almost, if not
altogether, his first sorrow; and we are far from believing the sorrow
of a child the trivial thing it is generally considered, and perhaps
but the beginning of other and severer trials.

But if the sorrow of childhood is severe, what a blessing it is that
its violence is soon over! anger seldom rests in the heart of a good
child, and as soon as the tears are dried, all is bright as before.
William's tears were very bitter, but accustomed always to ask the
divine blessing before retiring, he knelt down beside his little bed,
and prayed that if he had done wrong in drawing without asking his
father's leave, he might be forgiven. His childish petition, uttered
in the full confidence that it would be heard, brought comfort, as the
act of sincere prayer always does, and once more soothed and happy, in
a few minutes the child sunk into so deep a slumber, that he was
altogether unconscious of his mother's kiss, and the audibly uttered
blessing invoked upon him by his pious father.

There were two other hearts as sorrowful as his own, although tears
did not attest the depth of their emotion. Margaret was distressed in
her child's distress, and could not understand why her husband did not
praise what she considered the very creditable effort of her boy; but
she was too judicious to utter a word in his presence, much as she
sympathized with William. Raymond, however, was the most distressed of
all, and that, too, because he felt that a father's pride must be