“Wait, father, and I will show you,” replied the boy, as he slid down from his father’s knee; and running to the corner from whence he had come at Raymond’s call, he returned almost immediately with two or three half-sheets of paper in his hand.  “I have been drawing,” said the little boy, as his father took the sketches and examined them with a grave look.  “Please do not be angry, for I did not take your pencils.”

“And how did you draw without pencils?” asked his father.  “Let me see what you have here;—­a table, a chair, ah yes, and a house with trees!  Very good, William; but I would rather you did not draw any more.”

The boy would have asked why, but taught that the parental wish was to be regarded as a law, he tried to conquer the emotion which would arise in spite of all efforts to restrain it.  It seemed hard to be so disappointed:  he expected praise, and now, if he had not received censure, certainly not the slightest approval was accorded.  Accustomed, however, not to question, but submit, the little fellow threw his arms embracingly round his father’s neck and bade him good 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 sacrificed at the shrine of what he regarded as a father’s duty; and he experienced