ng adventure, now. But misfortune overtook Susy on the very
morning of the important day. In a sudden outbreak of passion, she
corrected Clara--with a shovel, or stick, or something of the sort. At
any rate, the offence committed was of a gravity clearly beyond the
limit allowed in the nursery. In accordance with the rule and custom of
the house, Susy went to her mother to confess, and to help decide upon
the size and character of the punishment due. It was quite understood
that, as a punishment could have but one rational object and
function--to act as a reminder, and warn the transgressor against
transgressing in the same way again--the children would know about as
well as any how to choose a penalty which would be rememberable and
effective. Susy and her mother discussed various punishments, but none
of them seemed adequate. This fault was an unusually serious one, and
required the setting up of a danger-signal in the memory that would not
blow out nor burn out, but remain a fixture there and furnish its saving
warning indefinitely. Among the punishments mentioned was deprivation of
the hay-wagon ride. It was noticeable that this one hit Susy hard.
Finally, in the summing up, the mother named over the list and asked:

"Which one do you think it ought to be, Susy?"

Susy studied, shrank from her duty, and asked:

"Which do you think, mamma?"

"Well, Susy, I would rather leave it to you. _You_ make the choice
yourself."

It cost Susy a struggle, and much and deep thinking and weighing--but
she came out where any one who knew her could have foretold she would.

"Well, mamma, I'll make it the hay-wagon, because you know the other
things might not make me remember not to do it again, but if I don't get
to ride on the hay-wagon I can remember it easily."

In this world the real penalty, the sharp one, the lasting one, never
falls otherwise than on the wrong person. It was not _I_ that corrected
Clara, but the remembrance of poor Susy's lost hay-ride still brings
_me_ a pang--after twenty-six years.

Apparently, Susy was born with humane feelings for the animals, and
compassion for their troubles. This enabled her to see a new point in an
old story, once, when she was only six years old--a point which had been
overlooked by older, and perhaps duller, people for many ages. Her
mother told her the moving story of the sale of Joseph by his brethren,
the staining of his coat with the blood of the slaughtered kid, and th