The Iron Rule; Or, Tyranny in the Household. Arthur Timothy Shay

feelings were so deeply interested. At length, Mrs. Howland turned to leave the room. Andrew followed her to the door, and looking up with a sad light in his large eyes, murmured—

      "I do love you, mother!"

      A tear fell upon his face as his mother stooped to kiss him. A little while after, and he was alone.

      "I'm afraid," said Mrs. Howland, joining her husband soon after, "that we have done wrong in prohibiting all intercourse between Andrew and little Emily Winters."

      "Why so?" was quickly asked, and in no very pleasant tone of voice.

      "The children are very much attached to each other."

      "That is no reason."

      "It would be no reason if there was anything bad about Emily. But there is not. She is a very good little girl."

      "I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. Howland.

      "I never saw anything out of the way in her."

      "It's more than I can say of her father, then," was replied. "There lies my chief objection. I want no intercourse between the families, and do not mean to have any. In this I am entirely in earnest. Andrew must seek another playfellow."

      "I'm afraid we will have a great deal of trouble," sighed Mrs. Howland.

      "I am not, then. Let me know whenever he disobeys in this matter, and I'll apply the remedy in a way to cure him. His will has to be broken, and the present occasion is as good as any other for effecting so all-important an object. The stronger he is tempted to disobey, the more effectual will be the subjugation of his will, when the conquest is made."

      It was useless for Mrs. Howland to argue with her husband. He never yielded the smallest assent to any reasons she might bring, nor to any position she might assume. So, with a pressure on her heart, and a clear perception in her mind that he was wrong, she heard these last words in silence.

      "Shall I call Andrew down?" asked the mother, as the tea-bell rung, soon after.

      "No," replied Mr. Howland, firmly; "I wish him to understand that I am in earnest."

      "Don't you think he has been punished sufficiently?" said Mrs. Howland, timidly.

      "Of course I do not, or I would remit the penalty of transgression," coldly returned her husband. "He's a stubborn, self-willed boy, and must be made to feel that he has a master."

      "Kindness and persuasion often does—"

      "I will hear no more of that!" quickly returned Mr. Howland; "and I wish you, once for all, to understand, Esther, that I will not consent to an interference on your part with what I believe to be my duty. Thousands of children have been ruined by this weak kindness and persuasion, but this shall never be the case with mine."

      Mr. Howland did not observe that his wife caught her breath, as he uttered the first few words of his harsh report. She made no further answer, but passed on with her husband to the tea-room. But she ate nothing. Dreamily rested her eyes on vacancy, as she sat at the table. Her mind took no note of images pictured on the retina, for her thoughts were in another place, and with her inner vision she saw the sad form of her wronged and suffering child shrinking in the lone chamber where he had been banished.

      "Shall I take Andrew some supper?" she asked, as she arose, at length, from the table.

      "He can have some bread and water," was coldly and briefly answered.

      Will any one blame the mother, that she went beyond this? A few minutes afterward she entered the room in which Andrew had been punished, bearing in her hands a small tray, on which was a cup of milk and water, some toast, and a piece of cake. The twilight had already fallen, and dusky shadows had gathered so thickly that the eyes of Mrs. Howland failed to see her child on first entering the room.

      "Andrew!" she called, in a low, tender voice.

      But there was no reply.

      "Andrew!"

      Still all remained silent.

      More accustomed to the feeble light that pervaded the chamber, Mrs. Howland now perceived her boy in a corner, sitting upon the floor, with his head reclining upon a low ottoman. He was asleep. Placing the tray she had brought upon a table, Mrs. Howland lifted the child in her arms, and as she did so, he murmured in a sad voice—

      "Don't, papa! oh, don't strike so hard!"

      Unable to repress her feelings, the mother's tears gushed over her cheeks, and her bosom heaved with emotions that spent themselves in sobs and moans.

      For many minutes she sat thus. But the child slept on. Once or twice she tried to awake him, that he might get the supper she had brought; but he slept on soundly, and she refrained, unwilling to call him back to the grief of mind she felt that consciousness would restore. Undressing him, at length, she laid him in his bed, and bending over his precious form in the deeper darkness that had now fallen, lifted her heart, and prayed that God would keep him from evil. For a long time did she bend thus over her boy, and longer still would she have remained near him, for her heart was affected with an unusual tenderness, had not the cries of her younger child summoned her from the room.

      CHAPTER II

      THE tears of childhood are soon dried. Grief is but as the summer rain. On the next morning, little Andrew's voice was heard singing over the house, as merrily as ever. But the sound did not affect, pleasantly, the mind of his father. He had not forgotten the scene of the previous evening, and was far from having forgiven the disobedience he had punished so severely. Had Andrew come forth from his chamber silent and with a sober, abashed, and fearful countenance, as if he still bore the weight of his father's displeasure, Mr. Howland would have felt that he had made some progress in the work of breaking the will of his child. But to see him moving about and singing as gaily as a bird, discouraged him.

      "Have I made no impression on the boy?" he asked himself.

      "Father!" said Andrew, running up, with a happy smile upon his face, as these thoughts were passing through the mind of Mr. Howland, "won't you buy me a pretty book? Oh! I want one—"

      "Naughty, disobedient boy!"

      These were the words, uttered sternly, and with a forbidding aspect of countenance, that met this affectionate state of mind, and threw the child rudely from his father.

      Andrew looked frightened for a moment or two, and then shrunk away. From that time until his father left the house, his voice was still. During the morning, he amused himself with his playthings and his little sister, and seemed well contented. But after dinner he became restless, and often exclaimed—

      "Oh! I wish I had somebody to play with!"

      At length, after sitting by the window and looking out for a long time, he turned to his mother, and said—

      "Mother, can't I go and see Emily Winters?"

      "No, Andrew, of course not," replied Mrs. Howland.

      "Why, mother? I like her, and she's good."

      "Because your father doesn't wish you go to her house. Didn't he punish you last evening for going there?"

      At this the child grew impatient, and threw himself about with angry gestures. Then he sat down and cried for a time bitterly, while his mother strove, but in vain, to soothe him. For hours his thoughts had been on his little friend, and now he cared for nothing but to see her. Denied this privilege from mere arbitrary authority, his mind had become fretted beyond his weak ability to control himself.

      It was, perhaps, an hour after this, that Mrs. Howland missed Andrew, and fearful that he might have been tempted to disobey the command laid upon him, raised the window and looked into the street. Just as she did so, she saw him running back toward his home from the house of Mr. Winters, on the steps of which sat Emily. Entering quickly, she heard him close the street-door with a slight jar, as if he designed making as little noise as possible.

      "Where have you been, Andrew?" asked Mrs. Howland as soon as he came up to her room, which he did soon after.

      "Down in the kitchen with Jane," was replied without hesitation.

      "Have