say, as mother does--my little girl will be tired, she had better not
go--but he says only--Isabel must not go. I wonder what makes him talk
so?"

"Why Paul, he is a man, and doesn't--at any rate, I love him, Paul.
Besides, my mother is sick, you know."

"But Isabel, my mother will be your mother, too. Come, Bella, we will go
ask her if we may go."

And there I am, the happiest of boys, pleading with the kindest of
mothers. And the young heart leans into that mother's heart--none of the
void now that will overtake it in the years that are to come. It is
joyous, full, and running over!

"You may go," she says, "if your uncle is willing."

"But mamma, I am afraid to ask him; I do not believe he loves me."

"Don't say so, Paul," and she draws you to her side; as if she would
supply by her own love the lacking love of a universe.

"Go, with your cousin Isabel, and ask him kindly; and if he says
no--make no reply."

And with courage, we go hand in hand, and steal in at the library door.
There he sits--I seem to see him now--in the old wainscoted room,
covered over with books and pictures; and he wears his heavy-rimmed
spectacles, and is poring over some big volume, full of hard words, that
are not in any spelling-book.

We step up softly; and Isabel lays her little hand upon his arm; and he
turns, and says--"Well, my little daughter?"

I ask if we may go down to the big rock in the meadow?

He looks at Isabel, and says he is afraid--"we cannot go."

"But why, uncle? It is only a little way, and we will be very careful."

"I am afraid, my children; do not say any more: you can have the pony,
and Tray, and play at home."

"But, uncle----"

"You need say no more, my child."

I pinch the hand of little Isabel, and look in her eye--my own half
filling with tears. I feel that my forehead is flushed, and I hide it
behind Bella's tresses--whispering to her at the same time--"Let us go."

"What, sir," says my uncle, mistaking my meaning--"do you persuade her
to disobey?"

Now I am angry, and say blindly--"No, sir, I didn't!" And then my rising
pride will not let me say, that I wished only Isabel should go out with
me.

Bella cries; and I shrink out; and am not easy until I have run to bury
my head in my mother's bosom. Alas! pride cannot always find such
covert! There will be times when it will harass you strangely; when it
will peril friendships--will sever old, standing intimacy; and then--no
resource but t