The Nursery was in a most deplorable state of commotion. Bob, with a mask on his face, was playing fiddle with the shovel and poker.-p. 37.

ery; plain sewing she could not endure. It was so pleasant to embroider a pair of slippers, or a watchcase for a friend (provided that friend was rich)! A pretty work-basket of goodly dimensions lined with rose-colored satin was filled with every-colored silk and worsted, and a portfolio filled with designs was laid upon the table. Mrs. Weatherall was fond of writing (that is, billet-doux of her health); near the sofa was a table upon which was placed every kind of writing material. A bunch of fresh-blown flowers placed upon the mantel perfumed the air. Nothing seemed to have been forgotten for the comfort of the invalid. When they had examined every thing in the room, Mrs. Weatherall expressed her satisfaction-to be sure not with much enthusiasm. The other rooms were gone through and commented upon. The nursery was in a most deplorable state of commotion and topsyturviness, and seemed more like a prison for wild animals than for children. Every pane of glass was stuck with bits of chewed paper; the table was upside down on the floor with the legs curtained around for a menagerie; inside were two dogs fastened by a rope attached to the bedstead. Bob was playing fiddle with the shovel and tongs, with a mask upon his face, while, strange to say, baby lay sleeping in the cradle through the whole, after having, as Lizzie said, "cried herself sick with

fright." Willie lay curled in a corner, reading Peter Parley's Tales, now and then disturbed by a "whack" from Bob. Fanny was stuffing her little pocket with peanuts and candy, which she was stealing from Lizzie's basket during her absence to the parlor.

What a school for these poor children! At an age, too, when impressions for good or evil are so easily made. What a precious season of their existence lost, irretrievably lost!

As soon as the parents entered the door, the children threw down their playthings and flew to Mr. Weatherall, begging him to sit down awhile with them or release them from their bondage and permit them to go down to the parlor, "from which mamma thrust us," muttered Bob, sullenly.

"Oh! Bob," said Willie, "mamma felt sick, and sent us away because we made too much noise." "I don't care," continued Bob, "we are always in the way; I wish I was dead."

The last part of the sentence Mr. Weatherall did not hear, for little Fanny was climbing up upon her mother's lap (she had seated herself upon the bed in the room), and was urging her mamma to let Lizzie go with her to buy a new doll. Mrs. Weatherall had refused, and Fanny's screams on the denial prevented the unfortunate mother from hearing the dreadful wish of the sullen boy, which to a pa

rent of wisdom would have been prophetic of much evil to come, unless the seed which the enemy was sowing could be rooted out in time.

Mr. Weatherall would gladly have spent a little time with the children, and could have restored peace and happiness to their little hearts; but it did not occur to him that he could do so, and Lizzie was left to fight it out with them as best she could, and to put the younger ones to bed as soon as their supper was taken, which would be sent to the nursery to them. As may be supposed, they went to bed discontented and irritable, and dreamed of wolves and giants who stood ready to devour them.

Mrs. Weatherall sank into her chair when she reached her room, quite overcome with the excitement which the children had caused her, and bursting into tears, "wondered why her children should have been born so much worse than any other persons whom she knew. She believed Lizzie made them so; she had often seen her out of patience with them." Poor patient Lizzie !

"Now, my love," said Mr. Weatherall, "do not distress yourself; you have no reason to be unhappy; we will try to mend matters; come, cheer up-why, you have spoiled your eyes with crying."

Mrs. Weatherall had been told and believed that tears were Cupid's weapons, and that no man could resist their power; consequently they were

used on all occasions without rhyme or reason.

A fatal mistake, good reader. "There is a time to cry," says the wise man; and it's only in that time that tears are interesting.

Mr. Weatherall tried in vain to cheer his wife, and it was determined during their evening confab that Willie and Bob should be sent to boardingschool, and that Mr. W. would take Fanny to his mother, to remain during the winter. This was a hard decision for poor Mr. Weatherall: but he had made it, and he would abide by it. That night he went to the nursery after the children had gone to sleep, and stood by the bedside where Willie and Bob were sleeping. Willie's fine and handsome countenance expressed even in sleep the nobility of his soul, and his father gazed upon him with a father's pride. In a second, thought travelled in the future over years to come, and Mr. Weatherall saw his child a man. "God bless him," he whispered, and imprinted a kiss upon his forehead. Bob, poor Bob, seemed restless, and muttered in his sleep strange threats. They must leave me, thought Mr. Weatherall, as he left the room. It can't be helped.

Did he blame his wife? or was he blind to the causes which were undermining his heart's peace and slowly eating away its love?

He felt a change, he knew not what. It was so