"Thank you, Paul, I do not wish them: but you must give some to Bella." And away you go to find laughing, playful, cousin Isabel. And we sit down together on the grass, and I pour out my stores between us. "You shall take, Bella, what you wish in your apron, and then when study hours are over, we will have such a time down by the big rock in the meadow!" "But I do not know if papa will let me," says Isabel. "Bella," I say, "do you love your papa?" "Yes," says Bella, "why not?" "Because he is so cold; he does not kiss you, Bella, so often as my mother does; and besides, when he forbids your going away, he does not say, as mother does--my little girl will be tired, she had better not go--but he says only--Isabel must not go. I wonder what makes him talk so?" "Why Paul, he is a man, and doesn't--at any rate, I love him, Paul. Besides, my mother is sick, you know." "But Isabel, my mother will be your mother, too. Come, Bella, we will go ask her if we may go." And there I am, the happiest of boys, pleading with the kindest of mothers. And the young heart leans into that mother's heart--none of the void now that will overtake it in the years that are to come. It is joyous, full, and running over! "You may go," she says, "if your uncle is willing." "But mamma, I am afraid to ask him; I do not believe he loves me." "Don't say so, Paul," and she draws you to her side; as if she would supply by her own love the lacking love of a universe. "Go, with your cousin Isabel, and ask him kindly; and if he says no--make no reply." And with courage, we go hand in hand, and steal in at the library door. There he sits--I seem to see him now--in the old wainscoted room, covered over with books and pictures; and he wears his heavy-rimmed spectacles, and is poring over some big volume, full of hard words, that are not in any spelling-book. We step up softly; and Isabel lays her little hand upon his arm; and he turns, and says--"Well, my little daughter?" I ask if we may go down to the big rock in the meadow? He looks at Isabel, and says he is afraid--"we cannot go." "But why, uncle? It is only a little way, and we will be very careful." "I am afraid, my children; do not say any more: you can have the pony, and Tray, and play at home." "But, uncle----" "You need say no more, my child." I pinch the hand of little Isabel, and look in her eye--my own half filling with tears. I feel that my forehead is flushed, and I hide it behind Bella's tresses--whispering to her at the same time--"Let us go." "What, sir," says my uncle, mistaking my meaning--"do you persuade her to disobey?" Now I am angry, and say blindly--"No, sir, I didn't!" And then my rising pride will not let me say, that I wished only Isabel should go out with me.