Front Cover
 Title Page
 Back Cover

Title: Fear and love
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00002147/00001
 Material Information
Title: Fear and love
Physical Description: 54 p., 1 leaf of plates : ill. ; 15 cm.
Language: English
Creator: American Sunday-School Union ( Publisher )
Publisher: American Sunday-School Union
Place of Publication: Philadelphia ;
New York
Publication Date: c1852
Subject: Christian life -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Truthfulness and falsehood -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Love -- Religious aspects -- Juvenile fiction   ( lcsh )
Embossed cloth bindings (Binding) -- 1852   ( rbbin )
Bldn -- 1852
Genre: Embossed cloth bindings (Binding)   ( rbbin )
novel   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia
United States -- New York -- New York
General Note: Title vignette.
Funding: Brittle Books Program
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00002147
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002226119
oclc - 31769840
notis - ALG6402
 Related Items
Other version: Alternate version (PALMM)
PALMM Version

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front page 1
        Front page 2
        Front page 3
        Front page 4
    Title Page
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
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        Page 31
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        Page 49
        Page 50
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        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
    Back Cover
        Page 56
        Page 57
Full Text

ftar mbn aorr.

"They stood at opposite ends of the room, and waved it to and fro, by
alternate pulls." p. 13.



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New York :
599 BnoADWAYr.

S Boston i

JIterld erondng to Ate Co Ombgrws in theA y 1M2, by t#e
in th Clerk' Offie q the Distric CaWrt V EZstern Dieride

4' No books are puwUietfly the AmmmcAx SuNtDAYoHOOL UNIo
without the sanction of the COmittee of PUicattn, conmsting of four-
teen members, from the following denominations of Christians, vis. Bap
ist, Methodist, OongregationaUt, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Lutheran, and
Reformed Dutch. Not more than three of the members can be of the sanw
denomination, and no book can be published to which any member of the
aC miatt shaU oeos.



HO does
not know
how op
pressive is
the heat of a sultry day in
July, when the suilmer's
sun is scarcely obscured
by a passing cloud, and
the stifling air is unre
1* 6


freshed by the lightest breeze? It was on
such a day, that a small party of young
people were assembled in the library of a
pleasant country-house. They seemed to
have been engaged in sports of bodily ac-
tivity, ill suited to the heat of the weather;
and now, with flushed faces, they lay or
lounged in different positions in all parts
of the room.
Robert Seymour, who appeared the
eldest of the party, was about eleven
years of age. He was sitting on a low
*stool in a corer of the room, and, with
the string which he held in his hand,
making a sort of noose, with which he pre-
sently attempted to entrap the leg of a
younger boy who lay near him on the
ground. The two lads were very differ-
ent: so that you could easily see that
they were not members of the same
family. Robert Seymour's firm and ro-
bust frame, and bold and hearty counte-
nance, told of a free and happy life, and
wholesome air; while the slight and de-
licate frame, and pallid countenance of


the younger boy were accounted for by
his residence in India.
Among the little girls who were re.
lining together on the sofa, another,In-
dian complexion could be easily detected.
William and Selina Maberly had not been
long in the country. They had been sent
from India to insure their better education
and improved health, and had found a
happy home with the affectionate cousins
around them. William was to accompany
Robert to school in a few days, and Selina
had already commenced her studies in
the school-room with her cousins, Ade-
laide and Maria Seymour.
The little girls were aroused from their
quiet chat on the sofa by a call from
William, as Robert's tightened loop drew
the little fellow toward him on the floor.
"Help!" he shouted with full voice, but
in vain.
"It is far too warm to help in any
romp now," said Adelaide Seymour.
"Do, pray, be quiet, boys, 'now," ex-
claimed Maria. "You have led us a


long chase over the garden, and we shall
not be cool again for the rest of the day,
How I do wish it would not be so hot as
thip in holiday time."
Selina. Oh! I do not know that you
should say that. We were very com-
fortable in the morning; and, by-and-by,
when it is cool again, we can have a
good game in the garden.
Adelaide. Yes, but that is only a part
of the day, and it is so disagreeable to
have a good half of it wasted in this way.
I am glad all the summer holidays are not
like this.
William. What would you say to the
heat of India? This is nothing to it.
Selina. No; there we are obliged to
stay indoors and be perfectly quiet al-
ways, throughout the day. Indeed, we
are so hot, that we never care to run
about as you do here.
Maria. How glad you must be to leave
WilWiah. Yes, for some things. But
then the houses there are better contrived


for coolness than yours. The blinds are
so shady and cool when they are wet
with water; and at dinner-time we have
such a delicious wind from the large
broad fan at the top of the room, which
waves backward and forward all the
time we are at table.
elina. Just imagine that a square
thing larger than that door, was fastened
to the ceiling and drawn backward and
forward by ropes. There is always a
servant above, or in the next room, who
pulls it.
Robert. Why do we not have such
comfortable contrivances here? I am
sure I should have liked such a fan wav-
ing over me at dinner-time to-day. Sup-
pose we try to make one.
Adelaide. How could we do it? We
have no hooks to fasten it to, and nothing
to make it of.
Robert. Just look here! This screen
seems meant on purpose. Pull this leaf
out of the case: it will be quite a good
use to put it to in this summer weather,


wten we do not have fires. Bring me;
some string, and I will show you how to
do it. Run, Maria, do!
Maria. Will a skipping-rope do? There
are two in the hall.
Robert. Yes, any thing, only make
haste. Bring them both. That's right,
there is a useful girl! Now bring that
high chair. Stay, we must clear the
table and put the chair on the top of
that. Here, Adelaide and Selina, take
away your paper and work, and all come
and help to push the table up to this
wall. There! That will do. Now 1
will get up and fasten this string across
from that hook to the bookcase opposite.
Adelaide. But you have nothing to
fasten the screen to the skipping-rope.
William. And nothing to pull it by,
when it is up.
Robert. All in gobd time,-only we
want a great deal more string. FetcL
in the string-box,-or-stay! Here is a
piece round the leg of this chair.


Wiiam. No, that is not half strong
enough. You must get some stout cord.
Maria. Would not our pocket-handker
chiefs do? Here is a piece of ribbon
which Gerald had to draw his horse along
with; I am sure we may have that; it
is very broad and strong.
Robert passed the ribbon all round
the screen, and tied it tightly. The
screen was made of crimson moreen
stretched upon a wooden frame, and it
had a border of wood on one side, which
projected a little; and, as the ribbon was
tied below this, the screen was kept from
slipping out of it. Then Robert took one
skipping-rope and tied it to the ribbon
:n one side of the screen, and the other
skipping-rope he tied just opposite on the
other side. Then he mounted the table,
and climbed from thence into a chair.
William and Adelaide got up after him
on the table, and held the screen for him
while he fastened one end of the skip
ping-rope to the hook upon which the
picture was hung.



And now half the work seemed .to be
done,-but not the most difficult half, as
the young people found presently; for
the bookcase was far away at the other
side of the room, and the table must tra,
vel across to help Robert up to the ceiling
there. The screen, too, must be held up
in its place until the second string was
After a few minutes' deliberation the
eager young people spied a small table,
which certainly looked too frail to bear
the weight of the chair with Robert upon
it; but, after shaking it and examining
it a little, they determined to run all
risks. The table was brought, and the
high chair placed upon it, and, with the
necessary help from the others, Robert
at last succeeded in stretching the skipl
ping-rope and fastening it to the corner of
the bookcase. But the fan of course
hung quite still, and the question was
how it should be moved backward and
Maria proposed taking a stick and

pushing it backward and forward, but
Robert said they must certainly have
strings by which to pull it. He asked
for the girls' handkerchiefs, and, tying
several together, fastened them with
stout pins to the bottom of the screen;
then, taking one himself, and giving the
other to William, they stood at opposite
ends of the room and waved it to and
fro by alternate pulls.
A shout of joy arose from the whole
party as the fan swung above their heads;
but before it had made many journeys,
the hook upon which the picture hung
gave way, and brought down, in one sud-
den fall, picture, fan and all. The picture
fell just below, and was not much injured;
but the fan,- with its many guides and
ropes, fell heavily against the glass-door
of one of the bookcases, and thence upon
the head of poor little Maria.
The child screamed with pain. Ade-
laide ran quickly to her and began to
soothe and comfort her. "What shall


we do? Poor Maria is so much hurt.
Call mother, do, as quick as you can."
William. Do not be so frightened. Stay
one moment and set things to rights a
little. Here is your handkerchief. Bind
her head while we put this by. Here, Ro-
bert, hang up the picture if you can. I do
not think it is the worse for its fall. Se.
lina, put this screen by, up in that cor-
ner, if you can get the cords off. I should
not like aunt to come and see the room
in this confusion.
Robert. But you cannot keep Maria
while you are doing all that, and what is
the use of it? You cannot make her
William. Oh, we may just as well put
these things by. I think Maria will be
better soon, if her head is bathed. Shall
I dip this handkerchief in water and try?
You do not want to get us all into trou-
ble, do you?
Maria. No, but I do not think mother
will be angry. I am not much hurt
William. Ah, well! there is mischief


"NAB AVD LovN. 16

enough done. We shall be worse off than
you before the day is over. I would not
be sorry to be you faid escape punish
Robert. Here is a corer of the picture.
frame broken off. Now, William, you
must not put it up as it is.
William. Well, get the gum and mend
it. But do make haste! You do not
seem in any hurry, and there is no tell-
ing who may come in.
Adelaide. I really think it would be
better to go and tell mother exactly all
we have done, and how the accident
happened. Maria's head is sadly cut,
and I should like something to put on it.
William. Take her to Susan, then, and
ask her not to tell. Robert and I will
put up the picture again, while you are
gone. There is really no great harm
Bobert. Then why should you be in
such a hurry to get all away and hide it?
I would rather be punished than conceal
it like this Here, you have torn off the


corner of my handkerchief in getting it
off the screen. We must attend to Maria
first. See how much she is hurt, poor
child! She is quite pale, and I am sure
she is in great pain, though she does bear
it so patiently.
Robert ran out of the room without
further question, and made his way into
the drawing-room where his mother was
sitting. His terrified and eager look pre-
pared her for the news of the accident,
and she was soon in the midst of the
scene of confusion.
Before asking any questions, she took
Maria to her room, and bathed her head.
Then having carefully bound up the
wound, she returned to the other chil-
dren and commenced the examination.
William, during her absence, had dis-
entangled the screen from its trappings,
and put it by in its case, and now he
stood forward eagerly to tell his tale.
William. We hung a string on that
hook, aunt, and the hook came out and
the picture fell. I am afraid the corer

aZAR AND Lov. 1U

of the frame is broken, but some glue
will woon set that to rights. Shall I call
John to drive in the nail?
Mrs. eymowr. Np, stay a moment.
Pow could the picture break this book-
case door?
Robert. Let me tell you all, mother.
We were talking of the punkahs or fans
they have in India, and at last we re-
solved to make one, and we took the leaf
of the folding-screen and tied it across
the room by ropes, and as William and I
were pulling it backward and forward,
the hook gave way, as you see, and the
picture fell.
Mrs. Seymour. You know well you
should not have touched the screen, as it
is not one of your toys; nor should you
have attempted any thing so dangerous
with the younger children below. I be-
lieve that the hurt Maria has received
will lead you to more consideration for
her in future, but I must also teach you
more care of my property. I cannot
allow you to play in this room for the


remainder of the week, and I shall ex-
pect you to pay for mending the broken
glass from your pocket-money. William,
I want to speak to you in my room.
William followed with quailing hear
and took the seat which his aunt pointed
to beside her; but when he looked into
her face he saw no severe anger there,
(but a calm and settled grief as she first
broke the silence.
Mrs. Seymour. I am pained, my dear
boy, with the evident attempt you have
been making to conceal from me what
you had done this afternoon. You have
been led by your fear of me and anxiety
to avoid punishment, into a fault much
more serious than the careless use of my
furniture. Do you know what I mean?
William. I did not tell a lie, aunt.
Mrs. Seymour. Perhaps all you said
was strictly and exactly true, but it was
not all the truth. Part was concealed,
as you well know, to serve a purpose of
your own. This is as much deception as
an actual lie. But I want to speak to you


of the cause of this; for, indeed, dear
William, it grieves me to see that your
feelings toward me are those of fear,
rather than of love. Your dear parents
are far away in India, and you have no
one to take their place but your uncle
and me. We wish to guide and correct
you in your conduct, and to prepare you
to be hereafter a happy and useful man;
but if you do not help us, by giving us
your love and confidence, we can do but
William. I do love you, aunt, I am
sure. Indeed I do!
Mrs. Seymour. But you seem to fear
me still more, and you will teach Selina
to do the same. She was with you just
now, and young as she is, was quite able
to perceive your unwillingness to let me
know about your proceedings. Will not
the dear child be led to think (as you seem
to do) that we punish you, not to keep
you from a repetition of the fault, but
from unkindness or revenge? I should
have hoped that the loss of your pocket


money and of the liberty to use the
library for your play, would teach you,
better than any thing else, the impoit-
ance of using carefully the property of
others, and not taking for your own ser-
vice that to which you have po right.
But you will deprive yourself of this les-
son by your hard thoughts of me and
want of confidence in my love.
W liam. I am very sorry I have
grieved you, aunt. Do forgive me this
Mrs. &eymour. I will certainly forgive
you, dear; but take care you do not for-
get how much pain you have given me.
Oh! .be truthful and sincere in all you
do, whether you have reason to expect
punishment or not, and remember that
you are not really gaining a benefit in
escaping reproof or punishment if you de-
serve it. I shall be very sorry to insure
obedience to Pay commands only by
working on your fears. But you have
forgiveness to.ask of another besides ms.
Have you thought of this?


William looked up in surprise amn
"Oh! you mean Maria, aunt; yes, I
am very sorry I have hurt her."
"No," said his aunt solemnly, "I
meant 'God. You have not been accus-
tomed, I see, to remember how constantly
his eye is upon you, and how easily he
can discern the lying thought as well.as
the uttered falsehood. You have sinned
grievously against him. Do you know
William. Yes, but I did not think of it
just now. I will not do so again.
Mrs. Seymour. You cannot promise
that, my dear. I believe that just now
you hope and intend to be'more truthful,
but your heart is far worse and more de-
ceitful than you imagine. While you
ask forgiveness for the past, you must
also pray for the grace of the Holy Spirit
to renew and sanctify your heart. It
will be only by this divine help that you
will be enabled to overcome these bad


inclinations. Try to join me with all
your heart, while I ask this for you.
Mrs. Seymour then took William's
hand, and* kneeling down with him, she
asked God to pardon him for the sake of
Christ, who died on the cross- fb make
atonement for his sin, and also to take
away the sin from his heart and give to
him the Holy Spirit to dwell with him,
that he might be led to truth and holi-
ness. When she rose from her knees she
kissed him affectionately and went with
him down-stairs.



THE evening came, but it was not so
cool and refreshing as the little girls had
anticipated. The long shadows had en-
veloped the lawn, but the air was still
sultry and oppressive. The sun set in
unusual beauty, throwing his bright gold-
en rays across the sky, and colouring
, the surrounding clouds with purple and
orange. Adelaide lingered at her cham-
ber-window to admire the beautiful sight,
and to watch the gradual disappearance
of the sun behind the clouds which, as
they rose and spread over the sky, seem-
ed to rejoice in his departure.
After a little while, Adelaide was in
bed. Maria had been asleep for some
time, but the uneasiness and pain in her
head made her more restless than usual,
and she moaned in her sleep. Adelaide


tried to compose herself; but the heat
was oppressive, and she turned from
side to side and closed her eyes in vain.
Darkness gradually stole over the room,
until at last very little could be distin-
guished, except the dressing-table and
glass which stood beside the window.
Suddenly a gleam of bright light flashed
across the room, and the roll of thunder
following quickly after, told Adelaide
that it was no passing candle or lantern.
Another flash,-and little Maria, com-
pletely roused from her uneasy slumber,
turned and nestled beside her sister, who
gladly clapsed her in her arms.
Maria. I wish we were asleep, Ade-
laide. I wonder how long this storm
will hlst? Oh dear, that thunder! It
Seems as if it would never end. Are you
not frightened?
Adelaide. Not much, dear. I remem
ber two thunder-storms last summer, but
I do not like them' so well at night as in
the day. The lightning seems so very
bright when it is so dark.



Maria. Do you not think we might
have a candle? Charlotte would get us
one if we were to call her.
Adelaide. We should not really be
safer, you know, dear, and it would be
difficult to make her hear; however, I
will try, if you like. Wait till after the
next thunder-clap, for I would rather go
between the flashes than be startled by
them when I am in the passage. Now
then, quickly.
Adelaide got out of bed and groped
her way to the door, which was open;
then, feeling by the wall, she reached
the edge of the staircase, and called
Charlotte with a tremulous voice.
before she could call twice, Charlotte
appeared with a candle in her hand.
Adelaide. Please, Charlotte, will you
bring us a light? '
Charlotte. Certainly, ift it will make
you feel any safer.
Maria. Oh, thank you, Charlotte.
How I wish this storm would be over!
Do you think it is very near?


Chtarlote. I think it is not quite 'so
near now as it was. That clap of thun-
der did not come so soon after the light-
nidg. I hope the storm will cool the air
& little.
Mrfia. There is a terrible flash! Do
come away from the window and sit down
by me, Charlotte. You do not like the
thunder-storm, do you?
COhrlotte. I think it is very grand and
beautiful. It always makes me feel, more
than any thing else does, how very great
and powerful God must be.
Maria. Yes; but it makes me feel as
if he were coming near us in terrible an-
ger, and I fear lest he should send the
lightning to strike me dead. That might
happen, might it not?
Charlotte. Certainly it might; but then
you should remember that God is as kind
as he is powerful. He has preserved you,
by his power, through many long days and
weeks and years, and each breath you
draw is drawn by his permission alone.
Hle could, without the help of the thunder


storm, take away the lifb he gave you at
first, All silently and :without a:yny I-
cident he might stop itiat any moment
Adeaide. Oh, Chavlot&, do not talk
so! It makes me shudder. I wonder ou
can go to sleep when ysu think efit. :
Charlotte. Why should e ,hrinkfsaem
thinking of what is so certainly, tte?
Surely the best and happiest thing is o
accustom ourselves to the thought of it,
that it may not come upon us and startle
us in the thunder-storm.
Adelaide. Ah, Charlotte! I think of it
on other nights, when there is no thunder-
storm. I often try to quiet myself 'with
the thought that it is very unlikely I
should die just on the night I am think-
ing about it.
Charlotte. I never do any thing like
that, Adelaide; but then I suppose you
do not think of God as I do. I love him
because of his great goodness to me, and
I rejoice to believe that he has forgiven
all my sins against him for the sake of
his dear Son. And so I trust that when-


ever he calls me to die, whether sudden-
ly or not, he will, for the sake of Christ,
receive me into the mansions which the
Saviour says he is gone to prepare for
those who love him. And it seems to
me to matter little when and how the
summons shall come.
A silence of some minutes followed.
At last Adelaide said in a low voice, I
quite envy you, Charlotte; but I hope 1
shall some day feel as happy and confi-
dent as you do."
Charlotte. And why not now, Ade-.
laide? You know all that is required
to give you the boldness you wish for is,
to know that your sins are forgiven
through Christ, and thus to be able to look
upon God as your Father and your Friend.
I see that Maria is falling asleep. I will
draw this curtain, and put the light be-
hind it, that you may try to sleep too,
for it is very late."
Adelaide. Thank you, Charlotte!
Good night.

frat anb ~opt.

"They carried their materials to the arbor, and seating themselves there
amongst the garden tools commenced their work." P. 31.

]aMA AND LovY. 81


ON the next monring, after -bteakI t.
Robert and William repaired to the gar
den, carrying with them a ball of string
and some sheets of paper. The 'string,
and paper were to make a tail and imes-
sengers for the large kite which they had
made the morning before. They carried
their materialsto the arbour, and, seating
themselves there among the garden-tools,
commenced their work. George Rey-
nolds, the gardener's son, a lad of eleven
or twelve years of age, waa sweeping the
gravel'walk close ,by, and looked with
eagerness at the new kite.
Robert. Ah, George, wouldn't you like
such a kite as that? Wouln't you like
to help us fly it?
Ge6rge. Y~e indeed; but there is no
thanoe for that.


Robert. I suppose you could go in the
evening, when you have done your work ?
George. Oh, I have never done my
work till I go to bed. I have to dig fa
their's garden when I leave here. I shall
be glad when Dick is old enough to take
that off my hands. Shall I find you a
stout stick, and wind some of that string
on it for you?
Robert. Ay, do, for we have a great
deal to do here, and it takes a long
George went away and soon returned
with a stick which he had found in the
wood-house, and taking his knife from his
pocket, he polished off the ends ahd gave
it a tidy appearance. He then began to,
wind the string slantwise across the
stick, that it might be let off easily as
the kite mounted in the air. While do-
ing so, he heard footsteps approaching,
and throwing down the string in haste,
he ran out of the arbour and began
sweeping with considerable bustle. It
was only Selinawho came to ask Wil-


liam where he had left the book he had
been using tne day before. As soon as
she was gone, George returned, took up
the stick and began winding the string.
William. What made you run off in
such a hurry? Were you frightened at
my little sister?
George. No, but I did not know it was
Robert. Well, and who did you think
it was-your father or mine?
George. I should not much like either
of them to see me now. I should get
into a fine scrape for wasting my time, if
my father came.
SRobert. I should not have thought he
would mind it; but you should not do it
if he will be angry.
George. Oh, never mind, he will not
find it out. Do not say any thing about
it if he comes by.
Robert. No; but he will find your woik
is undone.
George. Oh, I will work fast enough
and make it up; but I am obliged to be


very careful. Once when I was picking
beans in the kitchen garden, Sam Pear-
son called me, and I went down and
talked to him for a little time, and father
came and found the basket only half full
and saw. me talking to Sam, and he gave
me such a beating that I could feel it for
some days. That was when mother was
Williaum. Is your mother dead?
George. Yes. She died last winter.
We all miss her very much. She was
always kind to us.
Robert. Perhaps' you did not try to de-
ceive her as you do your father? I should
not like to deceive my father so much. I
fear he would leave off loving me.
George. You cannot tell, Master Robert,
because your father is not so sharp with
you. I am sure you would do the best
you could for yourself if he were. This
will be as much string as you will let out
for your kite, I should think. That tail
seems to be rather long and. heavy.


Robert. No, the paper is very thin and
George. Why do you not make a great
star on your kite, of two or three differ-
ent colours? It looks so handsome as it
is mounting up.
William. Yes, to be sure. Let us try,
Robert. Oh, I am almost tired of it.
It cannot be seen, either, when it is high
in the air. Let us put it by now. Those
tassels will do very well, I think.
They collected their things, and carried
them toward the house. George watched
them till they were out of sight, and then
went slowly back to his work. Robert
put by the kite in the play-room, and
was going into the dining-room. As he
passed through the hall, he met his fa-
ther with his hat on and his stick in his
hand, preparing to leave the house.
Robert. Father, are you g'ng out
alone?, I should so much like to go
with you, if you want company.
Mr. Seymour. Thank you, my boy;


but I am afraid you would find it rather
dull. I am going to make a business-
call on Mr. Brentford, and shall not re-
turn till dinner-time. Besides, William
will want you to play with him-will he
not 2
Robert. Oh, I shall not think it dull to
walk with you. It may be my last chance
for a long time. I think William would
be very glad to go too, if you can take us
Mr. Seymour consented, and Robert
ran into the parlour to make the offer to
William; but he found him by no means
so anxious to accompany him. It was
rather warm walking, he.said, and, be-
sides, he disliked business. They should
just have to sit still and yawn all the
time it was going on.
Robert half thought of giving up his
plans for William's sake; but his mother,
perceivmig his disappointment, interfered,
and promised to entertain William until
the school-hours were over, and he could
have other companions. Thus relieved,


Robert ran off to join his father, who
was waiting for him in the hall.
After taking down his hat from the
hook on which it hung, he put his hand
in his pocket for his gloves, and drew
out one-and only one. He searched a
second time in vain. Then he turned out
the contents of both pockets-knife,
pocket-handkerchief, three marbles, and
one penny-but no glove. Poor Robert
was in great consternation. He begged
his father to wait one moment longer,
that he might ask William if he had
seen it, or taken it by mistake for either
of his.
Just then George appeared at the door,
holding in his hand the stray glove. He
said he had found it in the arbour where
the boysehad been sitting, under one of
the seats. Robert thanked him for the
trouble he had taken in bringing it;
and then hastily putting on his hat and
gloves, he bounded down the steps, and
ran forward to open the gate for his father.
".Do you know, father," said he, after.


they had entered on the high road, "I
am quite sorry for poor George; I think
he must be very unhappy."
Mr. Seymour. Indeed! I should have
guessed quite otherwise. He always
looks happy and good-tempered, and I
think he has a very'comfortable situation.
Robert. Yes, as far as that goes, he
might be happy; but his father makes
him work so hard, and he never gives
him time to play, and then he is so
harsh with him when he has done wrong.
Mr. Seymour. Do you think, my dear,
you can judge rightly of this? When
you see George, he is always at work, of
course. It is part of his duty, and I pay
him for it.
Robert. Yes; but when he has done
your garden he has to werk in his fa-
ther's: he told me so. And if he gets to
play instead of doing his work'in the
day, his father whips him so severely.
Mr. Seymow. He certainly deserves
punishment for that; but I do not think
a severe whipping the best correction.


Robtet. No; it only makes George
anxious to prevent his father from know-
ing it when he has done so; and thus he
is tempted to deceive him.
Mr. Seymour. Yes, and the evil in-
creases itself. Whenever George deceives
his father, he creates a distance between
his father and himself, and lessens their
mutual love and confidence. It is not
only on the father's side-not only that
his feelings are justly wounded-but on
George's side, too, the thought that he
has wronged his father increases -his own
dislike; for people generally hate those
whom they have injured.
At this moment, the conversation was
interrupted by the appearance of a young
school-fellow of Robert's, who was riding
past on a pretty little gray pony, and
stopped as if he wished to speak to Robert.
His name was James Weston: he was not
much younger than Robert, and lived
only three miles distant, so that they
could meet now and then in the holidays.
James seemed very glad to see Robert;


he asked him to look at his pony, and
say if he did not think it very pretty. It
had been given him on his last birthday.
Then he told Robert that he had been
fishing that morning, and had caught five
fishes, which were to be cooked for his
supper. He asked Robert if he would
not come and see him in the afternoon,
and fish with him.
"Thank you," said Robert, "I should
not like to go out this afternoon. There
will be only one more day after this, you
know, before we go to school."
James. That is, if we go on Monday.
I do not think I shall, though. Do come
this afternoon. I will come to meet you,
and you shall ride part of the way home
on my pony.
"You may decide for yourself, my
dear," said his father,-as Robert looked
inquiringly at him. Your sisters will, no
doubt, be sorry to lose you, but we do
not wish to deprive you of an evening's
Robert. Thank you, father, I would



rather spend this last. evening at home.
I am very much obliged to you James;
I will come another time. Good-by."
"Good-by till next week," said James,
as he rode off.
Robert. I am glad he did not ask me
earlier. I never enjoyed visiting him
much, and yet I do not like to refuse a
Mr. Seymour. And James is so kind,
and so anxious you should enjoy your-
Robert. Yes, on the whole, I suppose
he is, but we are not friends at school;
we are so different, and we like such dif-
ferent employment. I dare say I should
like him better if we did not live so near
to each other. Every time I visit him,
I think my dislike is increased, because.
I am so vexed and unwilling to go. We
get on very well at school, because we
are not in the same class, and we have
so little to do with each other.
Mr. Seymour. See how many things
are necessary to make a friend, Robert;

we must have one who loves us, I sup-
pose, and is therefore free from selfish-
ness in his conduct toward us, as well as
one in whose tastes we can sympathize.
Is that it? Did you ever find a friend
who united all these qualities?
Robert. Well, I scarcely know; I have
had a great many friends, one after an-
other. Johnston is my friend now. He
is very kind, but he is much older than I
am, and he is often so very busy that I do
not like to interrupt him when I want to
talk to him. I shall enjoy having Wil-
liam at school, because he will be always
pleased to talk with me about home, and
we shall both be glad together when we
have letters from you all. Oh, see here!
we have reached the sign-post. How
quickly we have walked!



"How I wish we could have a game
at cricket!" said William to his cousin
Robert. Do not you think we could get
enough to play?"
Robert. As to numbers, we might get
up a game at single wicket, but there
would be no fun in it.
William. Perhaps uncle would play.
Robert. If he did, we should only have
four good players, and I know the girls
do not like it much. Don't you think
we ought to choose a game in which they
can all join, on this last evening ?
William. Well, what can you think
Robert. Let us call them, and see what
they would like? Adelaide, Maria, Se-
lina, said he, raising his voice.
The little girls answered from their


encampment beneath the trees on the
lawn, and ran up to see what was
.wanted. After due deliberation, the in-
teresting question was decided in favour
of "Hide-and-Seek," and for a long and
happy hour the garden resounded with
the merry shouts of jpy and triumph,
and screams of startled surprise. At last,
the exuberant enjoyment seemed to wear
itself out, and the children, tired and
heated, were returning slowly to the
"Our last evening gone !" said Robert.
"Think, William, how different it will
be to find yourself at school next week."
William. Oh, I dare say I shall like it
well enough. You get some good games
at cricket, don't you?
Robert. Yes, we do, certainly. We go
out twice a week, when it is fine, into the
large meadow near. How quick the holi-
days pass!
"They are not quite gone," said his
mother, who was coming down the lawn
to meet them. "One more day remains."


Robert. Only Sunday, mother. We
must start before breakfast on Monday
morning, I suppose.
Mrs. Seymour. Yes. Remember, if the
holiday weeks have passed quickly, so
will the weeks of study. I came to tell
you to collect your school-books, that I
may cover and pack them. You must
be quick, or you will not get it all done
to-night. It is scarcely wise to leave it
thus to the last.
Robert. I am sure one is fit for nothing
else on the last evening, and I always like
the sight of any other books better than
school-books, in the holidays. Now,
William, come and collect your things.
See what you want to take in the play-
The task was soon completed; and
three boxes, nailed and labelled, were
put in the corer of the hall. The night
passed, and another morning brought the
day of rest. The dim prospect of the
morrow gave a pensiveness to its hours
beyond the usual seriousness of the day.


The evening was serene and beautiful,
and, Robert, bringing a shawl in nis
hand, pleaded with his mother for one
last walk in the garden with her. Mrs.
Seymour cheerfully consented; and wrap-
ping the shawl round her, a signal as it
seemed for a long and late stroll, she
drew her son's arm within her own, and
led him toward the shrubbery.
Robert. Do you remember this time
last year, mother? The evening was so
cold and wet that we lost our walk in
the garden.
Mrs. Seymour. I remember it well. It
does not seem so long ago. Well, Robert,
another year has passed; its pleasures
and its privileges have been abundant,
have they not?
Robert. Yes, indeed, dear mother, I
think I never enjoyed a year more than
the last, and these holidays are the best I
ever had.
Mrs. Seymour. What has been the re-
turn, dear ? Do you ever ask yourself,
" How much owest thou uvto thy Lord ?"


Are you taking all these giftN so eagerly
and joyfully, and forgetting the kind
Father who bestows them?
Robert. I hope not quite now, mother.
Last April I heard a sermon upon the
words, We must all appear before the
judgment-seat of Christ," and it made me
feel very anxious not to forget God as I
* had done, and I did try for some time to
pray night and morning, and I often
thought of God in the day, and avoided
many things which I knew to be wrong
and displeasing to him. But after a
time I thought less of the judgment-day,
and it seemed difficult and troublesome to
watchh myself so strictly. Sometimes I
begin again, but then some thing inter-
feres. I often feel afraid lest I should
die in this state.
Mrs. Seymour. And do you want reli-
gion only to prepare you to meet God at
the judgment-seat. Think whether it is
not necessary for your safety and happi-
ness here.
Robert. On the contrary, mother, I am


most happy when I forget religion the
most. I often wish I could dare to leave
it for a year or two; it would be more
easy to serve God when I am older.
Mrs. Seymour. What makes the dif-
ficulty now? Is it that God's require-
ments are unsuited to your age ? Or is it
rather that you want that love to God
which will make them pleasant to you ?
"The carnal (or unrenewed) mind is en-
mity against God; for it is not subject
to the law of God." Did you ever feel
the meaning of that text?
Robert. I suppose it means that we all
hate God until our hearts are changed;
and yet I hope I do not quite--I thinkJ
do not.
Mrs. Seymour. Do you love him? Just
examine yourself, and see whether your
conduct shows most love or hatred. Let
us compare it with your conduct to us.
You spoke of prayer just now. Is it the
intercourse of a child with a parent ?-
You know how you value every hour with


your father and with me. Is the time of
prayer thus eagerly watched for?
Robert. No; but when I begin to pray
it is always to confess my sins, and I feel
more than ever how angry God must be
with me.
Mrs. Seymour. When you have dis-
pleased me, do you thus shrink from
confessing your faults to me?
Robert. No, because I know you will
be willing to forgive me..
Mrs. Seymour. And may you not have
the same confidence when you go in
prayer to God? 0 my dear boy, this is
just it; you do not love God, partly be-
cause you do not believe in the love he
has to us. This is one feature of the
alienation of the heart from him; "Per-
fect love casteth out fear." Now look
again. How precious your home is to
you! Is it not?' How difficult it is
to break away from it! Why is this? Is
it only or chiefly for the sake of the
liberty anl holiday amusement?
Robert. No indeed, mother, I should


be glad to stay at home and learn les
sons every day, as my sisters do. If you
would try us, I think William and I
could get on as well as at school.
Mrs. Seymour. We will not discuss
that now, dear; but just see what I
mean by these questions. See how dear
your home is, because you love us all so
much: remember how eagerly you read
the letters from home; and then think if
all, or any ofthese indications of love,
are shown in reference to your Heavenly
Father. Is the knowledge of his pre-
sence welcome to your mind? Are the
messages he sends you by his word valued
as the letters from home are ? I fancy,
if they were, there would not have been
such a listless manner at the house of
God "this morning. Was there any af
fection exhibited in that ?
Robert. No, mother; I certainly do not
love God as I do you and my father.
Mrs. Seymour. And yet he has claims
on your love far stronger than we have.
For every moment of happiness you are

indebted to him; every good gift you en-
joy has come from that Father of light
and love. But you are shrinking from
this kind Father with fear and hatred, as
if he were a cruel and tyrannical master.
His commands are not grievous to those
who love him; but you feel them bur-
densome, for this reason, as well as others,
that they are the commands of one whom
you do not love.
Robert. 0 mother, I see,-I fear it is so;
but what shall I do ?
Mrs. Seymour. I read lately of a kind
and loving father, who had a son who
very illy requited his love. The youth
altogether disliked his home, and felt his
father's presence a tiresome restraint, in-
stead of a delight. At last, he collected
the property which his father had given
him, and went and settled in a foreign
country far away. There he sought out
some very bad companions, and spent all
his time and money very wastefully and
wickedly with them, in foolish and bois-
terous merriment. His amusements were


all provided for by the money which his
father had given him, but he tried not to
think of him at all. He had gone away
so far, on purpose that he might not have
to meet his father's reproving eye, and
he wished that he could altogether for-
get him. Every day's disobedience made
the estrangement more complete. What
hope, think you, was there of the aliena-
tion of heart being removed ? None at
all while this continued; but he found
himself at last extremely poor and mise-
rable. He turned toward home, resolved
to ask his father's forgiveness; and as he
journeyed, every step that brought him
nearer that affectionate home, made him
realize more distinctly its privileges and
advantages; and when at last he was
welcomed as a forgiven child by his ten-
der parent, his heart overflowed with love
and gratitude. Fond and indulgent as
his father had always been, he had never
been so much beloved as now, when he
freely forgave the wanderings of his son.
Robert. 0 mother, I have often read


that parable. How beautifully it does
show God's love to us!
AMr. Seymour. Yes, dear; and now will
you not, ungrateful and unloving child as
you have been, come back in penitence to
him? Come with a full persuasion of his
love, and you cannot fail to love him in
return. None can love so earnestly and
devotedly as a forgiven child. Do you
remember little Gerald in his passion last
Thursday, how he even seemed to hate
us during the paroxysm of temper, and
melted in gentle love when restored to
favour ?
Robert. Yes, he seemed as if he could
not forgive himself for having grieved
you so much.
Mrs. Seymouwr. If you were thus recon-
ciled to your Heavenly Father and for-
given by his love, you would fear to dis-
please him again. But remember that you
are meanwhile in a dangerous position.
The alienation of heart is fast increasing,
and when you reach the age you have
marked out as the time to begin serving


God, you will find it even more difficult
than it is now. You may continue to
harrow up your feelings with the fears
suggested by the knowledge of the power
God has over you, but you will not learn
to love him except as you feel his love
through Christ Jesus. Go to your Hea-
venly Father with a humble confession
of your sins. Cast your soul upon his
infinite mercy in Christ Jesus. Ask him
to bestow on you a spirit of filial love,
that obedience to him may become your
chief delight.


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