lly started in my profession, and has shown me a
thousand other kindnesses that I have not been able to repay. I have
been able to make up to her what she has spent in money, but a
lifetime would not be long enough to cancel my debt to her for all the
loving care she has given me. But even if she hadn't been so kind;
even if she were crabbed and cross and unreasonable, I couldn't let a
son of mine be rude to an old lady under my roof. One never knows what
troubles have whitened the hair and made the wrinkles come in the
temper as well as the face. Old age must be respected, no matter how
unlovely.

"As for Aunt Patricia,--if you would only remember how good she was to
you after your accident, how she nursed you, and waited on you, and
read to you hour after hour,--she has been tender and loving to all of
you, especially little Elsie, and is trying to help me bring up my
children as best we can, alone. And, Phil, my boy, sometimes it is as
hard for us as it is for you, to always know what is best to do
without the little mother's help."

Phil's arm stole around his father's neck. "I'll ask Aunt Patricia's
pardon in the morning, the very first thing," he said, in a low voice.
"I'll tell her that I didn't understand her, just like she didn't
understand me, and after this I'll be like the three wise monkeys of
Japan."

"How is that?" asked his father, smiling.

"Why, never say or hear or see more than I ought to. Keep my hands
over my eyes or ears or mouth, whenever I'm tempted to be rude.
Instead of thinking that she's fussy and particular, I'll only see the
wrinkles in her face that the trouble made, and I'll remember how good
she's been to you and all of us."

His father hugged him closer. "If you can always remember to do that,"
he said, "your part of the world will certainly be a happy place to
live in. If you can be blind and deaf to other people's faults and
speak only pleasant things."

"Papa," said Phil, in the pause that followed, hiding his face on his
father's shoulder and speaking with a tremble in his voice, "I'm
mighty sorry I did so many bad things to-day: broke the music-box, and
ran away with Elsie, and mortified the family name, begging on the
streets. That's what Aunt Patricia told Mrs. Driggs. I never want to
run away again as long as I live. Oh, if you'll only forgive me and
let me stay, I'd rather be your little boy than anybody else's in the
whole world!"

The doctor gathered him closer in