Mrs. Elwyn, during this conversation, kept up a series of polite little bows, but could not altogether conceal an expression of weariness, and distaste at the turn the conversation had taken. She had a sincere respect, however, for Mr. Wharton, who always exercised over her the power which a strong mind exercises over a weak one, and she felt in her heart that he was a real friend to her, and one who had the interests of herself and her children at heart. As Mr. Wharton rose to go she said, laughingly: “I thank you for your kind advice with regard to Lewie, Mr. Wharton, but in spite of it, I do not think I shall put him in a straight-jacket before he is out of his frocks.” “No straight-jacket is needed, Harriet; you have often written in your copy-book at school, I suppose, ‘Just as the twig is bent the tree’s inclined.’ You remember that strange apple-tree in my orchard, which the children use for a seat, it rises about a foot from the ground, and then turns and runs along for several feet horizontally, and then shoots up again to the sky. When that was a twig, your thumb and finger could have bent it straight; but now, what force could do it. If sufficient strength could be applied it might be _broken_, but never bent again. Excuse my plain speaking, Harriet, but I see before you so much trouble, unless that little boy’s strong will is controlled, that my conscience would not let me rest, unless I spoke honestly to you what is in my mind.” “I must say you are not a prophesier of ‘_smooth things_’” said Mrs. Elwyn, “but still, I hope the dismal things you have hinted at may not come to pass.” “I hope not too, Harriet,” said Mr. Wharton, “but God has now mercifully spared your little boy’s life, and it rests with you whether he shall be trained for His service or not.” Then calling for Agnes and Lewie, Mr. Wharton kissed them for good-bye, telling Agnes that he would bring Emily over the next day. Mrs. Elwyn looked infinitely relieved when Mr. Wharton drove off, and returned to her novel with as much interest as ever, and in the very exciting scene into which her heroine was now introduced, she soon forgot the unpleasant nature of Mr. Wharton’s “lecture,” as she called it. Agnes was contriving in her mind all the morning, how she should present the needle-case to her mother, and wondering how it would be received. It was such a great affair to her, and had cost her so much time and labor, that she was quite sure it must be an acceptable gift, and yet natural timidity in approaching her mother, made her shrink from presenting it, and every time she thought of it her heart beat in her very throat. At length the novel was finished and thrown aside, and Mrs. Elwyn sat with her feet on the low fender gazing abstractedly into the fire. Now was the time Agnes thought, and approaching her gently, she said: “Mamma, here is a needle-case I made for you, all myself, for a Christmas present.”