A shadow was ever on the brow of his father, and this threw a gloom over the entire household.  But, abroad, among his companions, he found a hundred things to interest him.  All license tends toward further extremes.  It was not long before Andrew found ten o’clock at night too early for him.  The theatre was a place positively interdicted by his parents; and, restrained by some lingering respect for his mother’s feelings, Andrew had, up to the age of seventeen, resisted the strong desire he felt to see a play.  At last, however, he yielded to temptation, and went to the theatre.  On returning home about eleven o’clock, he found his father sitting up for him.  To the stern interrogation as to where he had been so late, he replied with equivocation, and finally with direct falsehood.

“Andrew,” said Mr. Howland, at length, speaking with unusual severity of tone, and with a deliberation and emphasis that indicated a higher degree of earnestness than usual, “if you are out again until after ten o’clock, you remain out all night.  To this my mind is fully made up.  So act your own good pleasure.”

The father and son then separated.

Ten o’clock came on the next night, and Andrew had not returned.  For the half hour preceding the stroke of the clock, Mr. Howland had walked the floor uneasily, with his ear harkening anxiously for the sound of the bell that marked his son’s return; and, as the time drew nearer and nearer, he half repented the utterance of a law, that, if broken, could not, he feared, but result in injury to the disobedient boy.  At last the clock struck ten.  He paused and stood listening for over a minute; then he resumed his walk again, and continued his measured paces for over ten minutes longer, intending to give his erring son the benefit of that space of time.  But he yielded thus much in his favor in vain.  Anger at this deliberate disobedience of a positive order then displaced a portion of anxiety, and he closed, mentally, the door upon his child for that night.

Of his purpose, Mr. Howland said nothing to his wife.  He hoped that she would be asleep before Andrew returned, if he returned at all before morning.  But in this his hope was not realized.  The fact of Andrew’s having staid out so late on the night before had troubled her all day, and she had made up her mind to sit up for him now until he came home.

“Come, Esther, it is time to go to bed,” said Mr. Howland to his wife, seeing that she made no motion towards retiring.

“You go.  I will sit up for Andrew,” was replied.

“Andrew can’t come in, to-night,” said Mr. Howland.

The mother sprung to her feet instantly; her face flushing, and then becoming very pale.

“I told him, last night, that if he staid out again until after ten o’clock, there would be no admission for him until morning.  And I shall assuredly keep my word!”

“Oh, Andrew!  Don’t, don’t do this!” pleaded the unhappy mother, in a low, choking voice.  “Would you turn an erring son from your door, when danger is hovering around him?”