Ah! we may leave what we call our cares far behind; but we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that sin, and therefore sorrow, is all about us, as truly in the restful solitude of the little niche we for a few hours occupy, as in the weary round of busy life. Out of sight, but almost within reach of our hand, there is a sick child. We hear its feeble cry, and think, from the sound, it must be quite young, and nearly worn out with suffering. The mother, no doubt, tenderly loves her child, yet long days of watching and sleepless nights have taxed her strength to the utmost, and exhausted her patience. Sharp and irritable words are spoken, and as we hear the little one, through the slight partition that separates us, turn restlessly from side to side, unable to find an easy spot, yet constantly longing for change, we know that it is not gently placed on a cooler pillow, or taken to the mother’s arms,--gathered to her bosom, and soothed with loving words. But instead we hear, “O dear! what a torment! I am tired to death! Can’t you lie still one minute?” How these tones make our heart quiver! No doubt she is very weary, and perhaps full of pain herself; but with each peevish, complaining word uttered over that frail little blossom, she is planting “Thorns, _not_ roses, for her reaping, by and by.” If she knew that in a few days, perhaps, her babe would be forever hid from her eyes, would not the remaining hours of its short life be soothed, regardless of her own pain, by the tenderest love, and each word soft and sweet as the notes of the cushat-dove! And the father, in full health and vigor, why does he not relieve the weary, overtasked mother? Why does he not give her an hour’s rest, while the little one finds in his strong arms a grateful change? for there is no cradle so soft and soothing to a babe, sick or well, as a loving father’s arms. Instead of bearing this yoke with his wife, we hear cross, ungentlemanly, unsympathetic words of complaint addressed to her, and harsh and peevish commands to the baby. We long to step across the narrow passage that divides us, and, taking the little one into our own arms, kindly tell the parents what seeds they are sowing; to say to them, “If your child dies, each word will rise up in remembrance against you, filling your hearts with anguish. If it lives, you are sowing poisonous weeds, which will cause you life-long sorrow. The child will imitate your example, practise the lessons it is this day so early learning, and teach you how ‘the sins of the parents may be visited upon the children.’ Your own sins and failings will rise up and condemn you through your children.” Good-breeding and etiquette will not permit us to go to them with such warning; yet that this lesson may profit some one, we send it to the friends for whom we write,--the young _home-makers_ as well as the young housekeepers. In thus shaping your children’s future, we cannot but think that the father will be