Thoughts somewhat like these may have passed through the mind of Andrew Gordon, for there was a cloud upon his brow, as he watched his wife while she undressed the playful child, and smoothed his dark curls preparatory to the night’s repose. Then kneeling by her side, and folding his little hands together, Frederick repeated after her a simple prayer—a child’s prayer of love and faith, asking God’s blessing upon those dearest to him—his father, mother, and little sister, and His care and protection through the night. “Now I must kiss papa good-night,” said the little boy; “and then, mamma, wont you please to sit by me, and tell me a pretty little story? I will shut my eyes up, and go right to sleep _so quick_ if you will.” The good-night kisses were exchanged; Frederick soon nestled closely in his soft, warm pillow, and true to his promise, closed his eyes, while his mother, in a low, soothing voice, told him a story of the birds and lambs and flowers. Presently he was fast asleep, and pressing the tenderest of kisses upon his rosy cheek, Amy returned to her seat by the fireside. “Dear little fellow! how sweetly he sleeps,” said she, moving her chair as she spoke nearer to her husband. “I wonder what the future hath laid up in store for him,” she continued, musingly, with her eyes fixed upon the bright blaze that went roaring and crackling up the broad chimney. “And yet if the book of fate were laid open before me, I should fear to turn to the page on which his destiny is inscribed.” “I hope, at any rate, that the word _wealth_ is written there,” said Andrew Gordon, speaking for the first time since he had taken his wonted seat by the fire that evening. “I am not a very great believer in books of fate or in irrevocable destiny. Man makes his own destiny, with some little help from others—and Frederick shall be a rich man before he dies, if my exertions are of any avail.” “He may be taken from us, even in childhood, Andrew;” and the mother’s eye turned anxiously toward the little bed, as if the bare thought of death was enough to awaken her solicitude. “I would rather he would be _great_ than _rich_—and _good_ than either.” “He will be great if he is rich—that is, he will have influence, and be looked up to; and as for goodness—pshaw! who ever heard of a rich man’s doing wrong?” he continued, with that bitter smile, of which we have before spoken, curling his thin lip. “If a man possesses wealth, he may oppress the poor, strip the widow and the fatherless of their last penny, cheat his neighbors, and rob his own brother—but it is all _right_!” “Then may God grant that our boy may never be a rich man, Andrew,” said his wife, solemnly. “But you speak too bitterly, dearest. Your own misfortunes have made you unreasonable upon this point.” And Amy lifted, caressingly, the dark locks that fell over her husband’s high forehead.