I arose and took my seat. "Pauline," said I, "if you do not come to mamma, she will have to punish you." She looked at me earnestly, attracted by the tone of my voice, which was very decided; but she did not seem to know what punishing meant. "Will you come?" I repeated. She shook her head decidedly. I went to her and taking her hand struck it with mine. Oh, dear, how it made my heart ache! Her lip quivered, and then she burst out afresh. Both the command and the punishment, I had to repeat five or six times; but at length, when I resumed my seat and asked, "Now will my little Pauline come to mamma?" She ran and threw herself into my arms. The contest was over. I carried her back two or three times, and then called her, when she readily obeyed. Now I could act out the impulses of my heart; I kissed her, and wept over her. Then I pressed her tightly in my arms, while I told her mamma was sorry, her little girl had been so naughty. She took her apron to wipe away my tears, and seeing me still weep, she sobbed aloud. When she became composed, I carried her to mother, where, though her lip still quivered, she was Pauline again. She kissed them all, and told them, "mamma sorry," which she repeated to papa, and Ann. My grief made a great impression upon her tender heart. I know, dear mother, you will sympathize with me in this trial. I think, however, it will do the child good. Frank remarked at dinner, that I looked very pale, and I certainly felt worse for the excitement; but he, and all the rest, rejoiced with me in the happy termination. Pauline sobbed a long time after she was asleep; but this afternoon she has been like a little lamb, coming every time she looked up from her play and met my eye, to give me a sweet kiss. _Saturday, June 20th._ This morning I went to the village, and though I trembled for my daughter, lest the scene of yesterday should be repeated, she behaved well; and I promised her a ride this afternoon with papa. Did I tell you, I had taught her to say "Papa?" I had no idea of being her _only_ parent. During the forenoon, I received a very pleasant call from Lucy Lee, the daughter of Squire Lee, our richest citizen, who made his money, as I have told you, by his distillery. She is a beautiful girl, modest and sweet in her manners, but looked to-day very pale and careworn. My thoughts recurred to what I had heard of her domestic trials. I was glad she was unaccompanied by her brother, who is very disagreeable to me with his talk of "_our_ place, _our_ horses, _our_ store." It seems hardly possible that he can be her _own_ brother. Lucy is said to be like her mother, now deceased. Joseph is like his father, and has been so much indulged, especially since his mother's death, that he is now the master. Emily says the whole family are afraid of him; and that Lucy, with whom she is intimate, lives a very sad life in the midst of all their splendor.