with an unusual tenderness, had not the cries of her younger child
summoned her from the room.






CHAPTER II





THE tears of childhood are soon dried. Grief is but as the summer
rain. On the next morning, little Andrew's voice was heard singing
over the house, as merrily as ever. But the sound did not affect,
pleasantly, the mind of his father. He had not forgotten the scene
of the previous evening, and was far from having forgiven the
disobedience he had punished so severely. Had Andrew come forth from
his chamber silent and with a sober, abashed, and fearful
countenance, as if he still bore the weight of his father's
displeasure, Mr. Howland would have felt that he had made some
progress in the work of breaking the will of his child. But to see
him moving about and singing as gaily as a bird, discouraged him.

"Have I made no impression on the boy?" he asked himself.

"Father!" said Andrew, running up, with a happy smile upon his face,
as these thoughts were passing through the mind of Mr. Howland,