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“If ever you come to have children of your own, sister, you will be able to understand, better than you now do, a mother’s trials, doubts, and difficulties. At present, you think you know a great deal about managing children, but you know nothing.”

“I know,” replied Martha, “that I could manage my own children a great deal better than you manage yours.”

“If such should prove to be the case, no one will be more rejoiced at the result than I. But I look, rather, to see your children, if you should ever become a mother, worse governed than most people’s.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And why, pray?”

“Because my own observation tells me, that those persons who are most inclined to see defects in family government, and to find fault with other people’s management of their children, are apt to have the most unruly young scape-graces in their houses to be found anywhere.”

“That’s all nonsense. The fact that a person observes and reflects ought to make that person better qualified to act.”

“Right observation and reflection, no doubt, will. But right observation and reflection in regard to children will make any one modest and fearful on the subject of their right government, rather than bold and boastful. Those who, like you, think themselves so well qualified to manage children, usually make the worst managers.”

“It’s all very well for you to talk in that way,” said Martha, tossing her head. “But, if I ever have children of my own, I’ll show you whether I have the worst young scape-graces to be found anywhere.”

A low, fretful cry, or rather whine, had been heard from a child near the door of the room, for some time. It was one of those annoying, irritating cries, that proceed more from a fretful state of mind than from any adequate external exciting cause. Martha paused a moment, and then added–

“Do you think I would suffer a child to cry about the house half of its time, as Ellen does? No, indeed. I’d soon settle that.”

“How would you do it?”

“I’d make her stop crying.”

“Suppose you couldn’t?”

“Couldn’t! That’s not the way for a mother to talk.”

“Excuse me, Martha,” said Mrs. Fleetwood, rising. “I would rather not hear such remarks from you, and now repeat what I have before said, more than once, that I wish you to leave me free to do what I think right in my own family; as I undoubtedly will leave you free, if ever you should have one.”

And Mrs. Fleetwood left the room, and taking the little girl who was crying at the door by the hand, led her up stairs.

“What is the matter, Ellen?” she asked as calmly and as soothingly as the irritating nature of Ellen’s peculiar cry or whine would permit her.

“Earnest won’t play with me,” replied the child, still crying.

“Come up into my room, and see if there isn’t something pretty there to play with.”

“No–I don’t want to,” was the crying answer.

“Yes; come.” And Mrs. Fleetwood led along the resisting child.

“No–no–no–I don’t want to go. I want Earnest to play with me.”

“Humph! I’d stop that pretty quick!” remarked Miss Spencer to herself, as the petulant cry of the child grew louder. “I’d never allow a child of mine to go on like that.”

Mrs. Fleetwood felt disturbed. But experience had taught her that whenever she spoke from an irritated state, her words rather increased than allayed the evil she sought to correct. So she drew the child along with her, using some force in order to do it, until she reached her chamber. Her strongest impulse, on being alone with Ellen, who still continued crying, was to silence her instantly by the most summary process to which parental authority usually has resort in such cases; but her mother’s heart suggested the better plan of diverting Ellen’s mind, if possible, and thus getting it into a happier state. In order to do this, she tried various means, but without effect. The child still cried on, and in a manner so disturbing to the mother, that she found it almost impossible to keep from enforcing silence by a stern threat of instant punishment. But, she kept on, patiently doing what she thought to be right, and was finally successful in soothing the unhappy child. To her husband, with whom she was conversing on that evening about the state into which Ellen had fallen, she said–