went up to Andrew's room with a saucer of peaches and cream. The
moment she opened the door the lad sprung toward her, and while
tears gushed from his eyes, he said--

"Indeed, indeed, mother, I was not to blame! Bill Wilkins was going
to beat me--and you know, he's a large boy."

"But you might have killed him, Andrew," replied the mother, with a
gentle gravity that, in love, conveyed reproof. "It is dangerous to
throw stones."

"I had to defend myself, mother. I couldn't let him beat me half to
death. And I told him to keep off or I would strike him with the
stone. I'm sure I wasn't to blame."

"Why, was he going to beat you, Andrew? What did you do to him?"
asked Mrs. Howland.

"I'll tell you, mother," replied the boy. "He was pounding with his
fist a poor little fellow, not half his size, and I couldn't stand
and see it if he was a bigger boy than me. So I took the little
boy's part; and then he turned on me and said he'd beat the life out
of me. I ran from him and tried to get away, but he could run the
fastest, and so I took up a stone and told him to keep off. But he
was mad, and wouldn't keep off. So I struck him with it, and,
mother, I'd do it again (sic) to-moorow. No boy shall beat me if I
can defend myself."

"Why didn't you tell your father of this?" asked Mrs. Howland.