With me, at her age, or under, neglect and disgrace were the most dreadful of punishments; but on her they made no impression. Sometimes, exasperated to the utmost pitch, I would shake her violently by the shoulder, or pull her long hair, or put her in the corner; for which she punished me with loud, shrill, piercing screams, that went through my head like a knife. She knew I hated this, and when she had shrieked her utmost, would look into my face with an air of vindictive satisfaction, exclaiming,—“_Now_, then! _that’s_ for you!” and then shriek again and again, till I was forced to stop my ears. Often these dreadful cries would bring Mrs. Bloomfield up to inquire what was the matter? “Mary Ann is a naughty girl, ma’am.” “But what are these shocking screams?” “She is screaming in a passion.” “I never heard such a dreadful noise! You might be killing her. Why is she not out with her brother?” “I cannot get her to finish her lessons.” “But Mary Ann must be a _good_ girl, and finish her lessons.” This was blandly spoken to the child. “And I hope I shall _never_ hear such terrible cries again!” And fixing her cold, stony eyes upon me with a look that could not be mistaken, she would shut the door, and walk away. Sometimes I would try to take the little obstinate creature by surprise, and casually ask her the word while she was thinking of something else; frequently she would begin to say it, and then suddenly check herself, with a provoking look that seemed to say, “Ah! I’m too sharp for you; you shan’t trick it out of me, either.” On another occasion, I pretended to forget the whole affair; and talked and played with her as usual, till night, when I put her to bed; then bending over her, while she lay all smiles and good humour, just before departing, I said, as cheerfully and kindly as before—“Now, Mary Ann, just tell me that word before I kiss you good-night. You are a good girl now, and, of course, you will say it.” “No, I won’t.” “Then I can’t kiss you.” “Well, I don’t care.” In vain I expressed my sorrow; in vain I lingered for some symptom of contrition; she really “didn’t care,” and I left her alone, and in darkness, wondering most of all at this last proof of insensate stubbornness. In _my_ childhood I could not imagine a more afflictive punishment than for my mother to refuse to kiss me at night: the very idea was terrible. More than the idea I never felt, for, happily, I never committed a fault that was deemed worthy of such penalty; but once I remember, for some transgression of my sister’s, our mother thought proper to inflict it upon her: what _she_ felt, I cannot tell; but my sympathetic tears and suffering for her sake I shall not soon forget.