er ideas and calm the incessant beating of her heart, said,
timidly and abruptly, with her eyes fixed on the carpet--"Do you think,
ma'am, that if Ellen had ever been very, _very_ naughty and saucy to _you_,
who are so good to _her_, that you could ever really in your heart forgive
her?"

"I certainly should consider it my duty to punish her for her
disobedience, by withholding my usual expressions of love and my general
indulgences from her; but I should undoubtedly forgive her, because, in the
first place, God has commanded me to forgive all trespasses, and in the
second, my heart would be drawn naturally towards my own child."

"But surely, dear Mrs. Harewood, it is worse for an _own_ child to behave
ill to a parent than any other person?"

"Undoubtedly, my dear, for it unites the crime of ingratitude to that of
disobedience; besides, it is cruel and unnatural to be guilty of insolence
and hard-heartedness towards the hand which has reared and fostered us all
our lives--which has loved us in despite of our faults--watched over our
infancy--instructed our childhood--nursed us in sickness, and prayed for
us before we could pray for ourselves."

"My mamma has done all this for me a thousand times," cried Matilda,
bursting into tears of bitter contrition, which, for some time, Mrs.
Harewood suffered to flow unrestrained; at length she checked herself, but
it was only to vent her sorrow by self-accusation--"Oh, ma'am! you cannot
think how very ill I have behaved to my dear, dear mother--I have been
saucy to her, and bad to every body about me; many a time have I vexed her
on purpose; and when she scolded me, I was so pert and disobedient--you can
form no idea how bad I was. If she spoke ever so gently to me, I used to
tell my papa she had been scolding me, and then he would blame her and
justify me; and many a time I have heard deep sighs, that seemed to come
from the very bottom of her heart, and the tears would stand in her sweet
eyes as she looked at me. Oh, wicked, wicked child that I was, to grieve
such a good mamma! and now we are parted such a long, long way, and I
cannot beg her pardon--I cannot show her that I am trying to be good;
perhaps she may die, as poor papa did, and I shall never, _never_ see her
more."

The agonies of the repentant girl, as this afflictive thought came over
her mind, arose to desperation; and Mrs. Harewood, who felt much for her,
endeavoured to bestow some comfort upon her; but poor