epithets, and, but for me, he would have struck her. For three hours this state of things continued, and at midnight they withdrew, to retire to separate beds, and separate rooms. "'And all this,' said my mother as she closed her door--'all this for the sake of a paltry spoon!' Ah! poor woman, could she but have understood how guiltless of offence was that said spoon, she would have learnt the secret of her troubles; but we are not all physicians, sir, and we do not trouble ourselves concerning the _seat_ of our complaint, whilst its effects are killing us with pain. It was evident that every spark of affection was extinguished in my father's breast, that his disposition was soured, and that, cause or no cause, misery must be our daily bread. I could not sleep that night, and I rose from my bed in the morning, determined to speak boldly to my father on what had taken place. I loved him--child never loved parent better--and I knew I could speak respectfully-- affectionately--yes, and solemnly to him; for, God bless him--he was proud of me, and he listened with regard to my words--on account of my little education, already so superior to his own. I was better able to remonstrate with him, because I had taken no part in the contest which I had witnessed, further than placing myself between them when _his_ rage seemed to have robbed him of reason. "I stepped into his bed-room before he quitted it. "Father"--said I. "'What? Edgar,' he replied kindly, 'what can I do for you?' "I had arranged in my mind the words which I proposed to utter, but they vanished suddenly, and I could do nothing but weep. "My father, sir, was the strangest of men. Indeed, since his alienation from his wife, the most unaccountable. Rude and violent as he could be to her--he was the tenderest, the most anxious of fathers. He turned pale as death when he saw me in tears, and entreated me to tell him what I suffered. I gained confidence from his anxiety, and spoke. "'Father,' I said, 'you must not be angry with me for speaking boldly. Poor mother! you will kill her--you do not treat her well. I am sure nothing could justify all you said and did last night. You called her cruel names. It is not right. I am certain it is not.' "'Edgar,' said my father, frowning as he went on, 'be silent. You are a child, and I love you. I will do any thing for your happiness. I forbid you to speak to me of your mother.' "'But if you love me,' I answered quickly, 'you ought to love my mother, too. Oh! do, dear father--do be kind and loving to her.' "'Edgar,' exclaimed my parent passionately, 'you are very young now--you will be older if you live, and then I can speak to you as a friend. You cannot understand me now. She has broken your father's heart--she has rendered me the most miserable of men. I would I could speak to you, dear Edgar but this tongue will perhaps be cold and immovable before you can understand the tale. I am wretched, wretched, indeed!'