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“Come over to my room, Clarence,” she said, in a low voice; there was sadness in its tones, that made him feel sorry that he had given vent so freely to his ill-temper.

“What was the matter, my son?” Mrs. Hartley asked, as soon as they were alone, taking Clarence by the hand and looking steadily at him.

“Aunt Mary wouldn’t help me when I asked her.”

“Why not?”

“She would help Henry first.”

“No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you know her reason?”

“She said he was youngest.” Clarence pouted out his lips, and spoke in a very disagreeable tone.

“Don’t you think that was a very good reason?”

“I’ve as good a right to be helped first as he has.”

“Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and Henry came in from school, all hungry and anxious for your dinners. Marien is oldest–she, one would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest, would be better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing to see their wants supplied before her own. You are older than Henry, and should feel for him in the same way. No doubt this was Aunt Mary’s reason for helping Henry first. Had she helped Marien?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did Marien complain?”

“No, ma’am.”

“No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. Do you know why you complained? I can tell you, as I have often told you before; it is because you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, make themselves miserable. If, instead of wanting Aunt Mary to help you first, you had, from a love of your little brother, been willing to see him first attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure. If you had said–‘Aunt Mary, help Harry first,’ I am sure Henry would have said instantly–‘ No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence first.’ How pleasant this would have been! how happy would all of us have felt at thus seeing two little brothers generously preferring one another!”

There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even sadness in the voice of his mother, that affected Clarence; but he struggled with his feelings. When, however, she resumed, and said–“I have felt quite sick all the morning; my head has ached badly–so badly that I have had to lie down. I always give you your dinners when you come home, and try to make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt Mary do it, because I felt so sick; but I am sorry that I did not get up, sick as I was, and do it myself; then I might have prevented this unhappy outbreak of my boy’s unruly temper, that has made not only my head ache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart ache also”–

Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms ground his mother’s neck, wept bitterly.

“I will try and be good, dear mother,” he said. “I do try sometimes, but it seems that I can’t.”

“You must always try, my dear son. Now dry up your tears, and go out and get your dinner. Or, if you would rather I should go with you, I will do so.”

“No, dear mother,” replied the boy, affectionately, “you are sick; you must not go. I will be good.”

Clarence kissed his mother again, and then returned quietly to the dining-room.

“Naughty boy!” said Aunt Mary, as he entered, looking sternly at him.

A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of Clarence, but he checked himself with a strong effort, and took his place at the table. Instead of soothing the quick-tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafed him by her words and manner during the whole meal, and it was only the image of his mother’s tearful face, and the remembrance that she was sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper.

When Clarence left the table, he returned to his mother’s room, and laid his head upon the pillow where her’s was resting.

“I love you, mother,” he said, affectionately, “you are good. But I hate Aunt Mary.”