e spot where
he fell into the river; and, as they missed him on the way, they supposed
he was drowned, and searched for his body half an hour or more, till they
learned he was safe at home."

"Well, what did his mother say to him, father?"

"She did not say much, poor woman. She was not well, as I said before, when
Charles left her; and as her servant had gone away for a week, and she had
no one but him to assist her in her work, she became very much fatigued;
and when she heard that Charles had fallen into the river, she fainted
immediately. She had hardly recovered when the boy reached the house."

"I think Charles was a very bad boy."

"Not so much worse than many others, perhaps, as you may suppose. You judge
of the boy's conduct by the consequences of it. If he had been successful
in his trout-fishing, and no accident had happened to his mother, you would
not have thought half as much of his guilt in acting contrary to his
mother's wishes."

"Certainly not."

"But the boy would have been just as bad, for all that."

"I can't see how, father."

"Why, the boy, when he was thinking what he would do about going on that
fishing excursion, could not have foreseen all that would happen if he
went. Do you think he could?"

"No, sir, not all, I suppose. But I am sure he was a very bad boy, whether
he knew what would happen or not."

"Yes, no doubt. But I want you to see exactly where his guilt lay. It was
simply in his not yielding to his mother's wish, when she so kindly left
him at liberty to do as he chose; especially as he knew she was ill, and
needed his assistance."

"Charley deserved a good whipping."

"Well, he _was_ punished severely."

"Did his mother punish him?"

"No, for weeks she was too ill for that; and if she had been well, probably
she would not have punished him."

"How did he get punished?"

"By his own conscience. He felt that he had done wrong, and that made him
very unhappy. He saw, then, that he had been very unkind to his mother, and
that his unkindness cost her pain and sorrow. He would rather have given
all his playthings--every one of his toys--than to feel as he did then.
Indeed, I think he would prefer the severest punishment from his mother, to
the wound which his conscience inflicted. Do you understand now, my son,
what is meant by conscience?"

"I think I do. When we are sorry for any thing we have done, it is the
conscience that makes us feel so."

"Not always. Charl