would see in it his own--only higher, only better, and revere it. But I am
afraid I have wearied you, my children."

"O, no, papa!" said the elder ones, while the little ones gaped and said
nothing.

"I know I am in danger of doing so when I come to speak upon this subject:
it has such a hold of my heart and mind!--Now, Charlie, my boy, go to bed."

But Charlie was very comfortable before the fire, on the rug, and did not
want to go. First one shoulder went up, and then the other, and the corners
of his mouth went down, as if to keep the balance true. He did not move to
go. I gave him a few moments to recover himself, but as the black frost
still endured, I thought it was time to hold up a mirror to him. When he
was a very little boy, he was much in the habit of getting out of temper,
and then as now, he made a face that was hideous to behold; and to cure him
of this, I used to make him carry a little mirror about his neck, that the
means might be always at hand of showing himself to him: it was a sort of
artificial conscience which, by enabling him to see the picture of his own
condition, which the face always is, was not unfrequently operative in
rousing his real conscience, and making him ashamed of himself. But now the
mirror I wanted to hold up to him was a past mood, in the light of which
the present would show what it was.

"Charlie," I said, "a little while ago you were wishing that God would give
you something to do. And now when he does, you refuse at once, without even
thinking about it."

"How do you know that God wants me to go to bed?" said Charlie, with
something of surly impertinence, which I did not meet with reproof at once