others. You don't know how hard it was for him. Do you think Satan was
willing to leave him, and let him grow quietly into a good boy? Not a
bit of it. You see he had been born bubbling over with fun and frolic;
he had never learned to have them come in at the right place or the
right time.

Sometimes he felt willing to give up all trying to do right, for the sake
of having a grand frolic just when and where he wanted it,--no matter
what might be going on just then. Sometimes, when he failed, he felt
fierce and sullen, and told himself it was all humbug, this trying to be
good. Sometimes he felt so utterly sad and discouraged, that it seemed to
him he never could try again; yet through it all he _did_ try heartily.

His arithmetic was the hardest. He was still in the dunce class,--so the
boys called it, because it was made up of the drones from several
classes, and was constantly being put back to addition.

It was a sharp winter's morning. No more make-believe winter for a
while,--the snow lay white and crisp on the ground, and the frosty air
stung every nose and every finger it could reach.

Tip's study, at the foot of the hill under the elm, had been quite broken
up, and he found it very hard to study at home,--especially this
morning. His father's cough had been bad all night, and this made his
mother troubled and cross.

Kitty, these days, seemed trying to see just how cross and disagreeable
she could be; and the kitchen--at best a dismal place--was just now at
the worst. The wet wood in the stove sizzled and stewed and made a smoke;
and in the midst of Tip's fifth trial on an example which was puzzling